#and not just that but it also says that the 'embraced' design itself completely ignores the fact that her love is like this

[v-iv-rusty]

as much as I never post about it I kind of genuinely am fascinated by the evil cheese grater man

#misc.txt #(lautrec) #he's terrible. I'm rotating him in my mind #the dynamic of him and fina is really interesting to me #sure fina is a character that does not actually appear. being a background god only mentioned by name and all. but like #the implications of the ring of favor breaking permanently if you EVER take it off even just once #(I am ignoring that it doesn't do that in 3 because I do what I want and I think it's a stupid change) #and #'adrift on a sea of isolation only his faith in the love of his goddess remained true and so the knight forsook all else' hello??? #^arms+legs of favor set desc in 3 #and in the very same set it describes her love he desires SO badly - above all else - as 'fickle as the weather' (chest) #and not just that but it also says that the 'embraced' design itself completely ignores the fact that her love is like this #his own armor is literally formed in the shape of the love he has total faith in but it's heavily implied to be a futile desire and I just. #there's so much left unsaid yet so much implied and YET we still get to know so little about lautrec himself #and like this is just his armor set this isn't even touching on what we actually see him DO. or say #basically I want to take his whole.. situation put in a petri dish for a few days let it fester and then study it under a microscope. #I just. hhg *throws him against the wall like a wet paper towel*

[leviathan-supersystem]

why dont you like the church of satan? im not a satan simp i promise i'm just genuinely curious because idk anything about them

i'm glad you asked! during my debate with the CoS simps on twitter i dug up a bunch of evidence of the Church of Satan's right-wing leanings, which was wasted on those losers because obviously they're not going to concede anything ever, but i'm glad to have a more receptive audience here.

so, to start with, the most well-known pieces of evidence relating to this are A: Anton Lavey said at one point that the CoS gives people "Ayn Rand with trappings" and B: there's a segment in the satanic bible called "the book of satan" which is outright copied from the proto-fascist philosophical tract "Might is Right", written by Ragnar Redbeard.

now, apparently CoS simps have taken it upon themselves to go around bothering anyone who brings this up, arguing that Anton Lavey only said that thing about Ayn Rand once so it probably doesn't mean anything (i am skeptical that he did only say this once but i haven't been able to find smoking gun evidence of him saying it other times) and the parts which copy from Ragnar Redbeard directly are only a few pages out of the satanic bible so, again, it probably doesn't mean anything. (ignoring that the influence of "Might it Right" is woven throughout the entirety of Anton's work, hardly limited to the direct quotes.)

so, to prepare my readers for if they get hassled by some CoS loser for stating the obviously correct fact that the CoS is right-wing, here's some more evidence to that effect, under a cut because i am merciful and this is going to get very long and very ugly.

here's Boyd Rice, then a major figure in the Church of Satan, saying that the principle of satanism is "let the master be the master and the slave be the slave, and never the two shall meet." this was in the documentary "Speak of the Devil", created by Nick Bougas, also a prominent figure in the CoS at the time. Nick Bougas is more well known by his nom de plume "A Wyatt Mann", aka the guy who drew those old nazi comics that became memes ("le happy merchant" etc).

here's some quotes from the official website of the CoS:

Satanists see the social structure of humanity as being stratified, thus each person reaches a level commensurate with the development (or lack thereof) of their natural talents. The principle of the survival of the strong is advocated on all levels of society, from allowing an individual to stand or fall, to even letting those nations that cannot handle themselves take the consequences of this inability. Any assistance on all levels will be on a “quid pro quo” basis. There would be a concommitant reduction in the world’s population as the weak are allowed to experience the consequences of social Darwinism. Thus has nature always acted to cleanse and strengthen her children. This is harsh, but that is the way of the world. We embrace reality and do not try to transform it into some utopia that is contrary to the very fabric of existence. Practical application of this doctrine would see the complete cessation of the welfare system, an end to no-strings attached foreign aid and new programs to award and encourage gifted individuals in all fields to pursue personal excellence. A meritocracy will replace the practice of such injustices as affirmative action and other programs designed to punish the able and reward the undeserving.

Satanists also seek to enhance the laws of nature by concentrating on fostering the practice of eugenics.

but if you REALLY want to get into the ugly shit that the CoS has been promoting, here's some excerpts from the magazine "The Black Flame", which the CoS published throughout the late 80's and through the 90's:

^that last one's from an interview with Lavey himself

and to bring things back around, here's another interview with Boyd Rice:

on the whole, while the CoS may present itself as an opponent of right-wing christianity, it's ultimately just controlled opposition, pushing largely the same right-wing agenda that the christian right was. it's funny that people never seemed to ask why christian conservatives like Bob Larson were always spending time interviewing, or being interviewed by, the Church of Satan if they were supposedly such mortal enemies.

[dilfdoctordoom]

On Tom Taylor, the Current Nightwing Run & Ableism

I did mention I was gonna do a post about it, so here we are. There are some things I want to make clear before we begin: the issue exploded on Twitter on the very first day of disabled Pride month; disabled people have been discussing the ableism in Taylor’s Nightwing run since it began; nobody has blamed Taylor for what happened to Barbara in 2011. We are, however, blaming him for the way she is written in his series during 2021. 

I am also going to be discussing the ableism in the fandom in this post. The reactions I have seen, from here to Twitter to TikTok, are showing not only a great misunderstanding of the situation, but a purposeful misunderstanding. The very real reasons disabled people are angry right now have been twisted to make us seem ridiculous and overly sensitive and I cannot help but feel that is very intentional.

Another quick addition: disabled people are not a monolith. Barbara Gordon spent over 20 years as a paralyzed wheelchair user. Stating (and I would like to note, never truly showing) that she is a part time cane user now is still erasing her disability. These things are not interchangeable.

So, with that out of the way, let’s begin.

Tom Taylor’s run is ableist. That is a fact of this situation. He made the active choice to include a version of Barbara Gordon that is ableist caricature. Story wise, the role that Barbara plays could have easily been filled by anyone else. There is no real season, within the narrative and outside of it, for Taylor to include this version of Barbara Gordon, who has received a decade of criticism from disabled people. It’s very well known that this iteration is problematic, to put it kindly, and Taylor is aware of that. 

He made the active decision to include her, anyway, showing, at the very least, that he is passively, if not actively, ableist. Passive ableism is still ableism and disabled people are allowed to take issue with that.

That alone is reason enough for disabled people to be angry. But that’s not why things exploded on Twitter.

On July 1st, the very first day of disabled pride month, the new design for Barbara was dropped. After months of teasing Barbara’s return to a wheelchair using Oracle (see: Last Days of The DC Universe, Batgirl (2016), etc), they debuted... a new Batgirl costume that the artist has openly said draws inspiration from the Burnside suit.

There’s a lot of issues to unpack here, so let’s start small: the issue with consciously calling back to Burnside. The Burnside era of Batgirl stories was... beyond awful. The villain of the series’ first arc, was an AI based on Barbara’s brain patterns when she was disabled. It was evil because of all the rage and pain Barbara felt. The actual Barbara, on the other hand, was good -- because she was able bodied. Because her PTSD had been tossed aside. It was a horrifically ableist era that drove the idea that Barbara’s life was terrible when she was disabled; that it was some horrible, twisted secret.

Comics have kept that narrative going. Barbara is seen hiding books on chronic pain; she reacts aggressively to the mere idea that she could be in a wheelchair again, acting like it would be weakness. Whereas Barbara had once been Oracle not because of, but in spite of, her disability, who was fantastic representation for the disabled community, she now acts like it is the most shameful thing in her life.

To call back to Burnside is to call back to that ableism and make no critique of it. If anything, it’s to embrace the ideas of that era.

There is also the design itself to consider. Many people have pointed out the inclusion of a back brace, as if that saves it from ableism -- it does not. Any person who has ever worn a back brace can take one look at this design and know that they did not consult a disabled person. Hell, by how impractical that thing is, I doubt they even Googled a picture of a back brace.

It’s a superficial acknowledgement that Barbara is supposed to be disabled. Something that was apparently thrown in to appease the numerous complaints of Barbara being able bodied; something that no one working on it put any effort into.

When it comes to aids, this is not a new thing for Barbara in Infinite Frontier. She’s said to be using a cane occasionally, that we got a better look at in Batman: Urban Legends, and as any cane user can tell you... that is not a cane that could feasibly be used. It’s another pathetic attempt to acknowledge that Barbara is supposed to be disabled, without actually doing anything of importance.

[IMAGE ID:  A segmented cane with a tri-pointed handle with a wrist strap. There is a stripe across the sections to connection them, labelled “solar battery charger buttons”. The text reads: “telescoping antenna doubles as cane or weapon if needed”. END ID]

Dropping this design (which we have now established to be problematic) on the very first day of disabled pride month is a sickening move. The very first day, and DC has doubled down on their disability erasure, thrown in superficial things like a back brace to act like it’s fine.

Tom Taylor is definitely involved in this, whether you like it not. No, he is not in anyway responsible for the events of the New 52 and what they did to Barbara Gordon, but that does not absolve him of blame for what is currently being done to her in his run.

When the design dropped, it started trending due to disabled fans reactions. To be clear: we were directly calling out the ableism in this design. This was Tom Taylor’s response:

[IMAGE ID: A tweet from TomTaylorMade that says: “Hey, @Bruna_Redono_F I think our new Batgirl suit is getting some attention.” He then adds a winky face emoji and tags @jesswchen and @drinkpinkkink. Attached are a screenshot showing that Batgirl is trending in the United States and a picture of the design itself. END ID]

This is him, bragging about how the disabled community reacted. Perhaps before this tweet, you could’ve made an argument that he was not ableist, but after he flaunted the fact that disabled people were rightly furious over this, like it was something to be proud of? No. If you are defending him, you are a part of the problem.

Taylor has included ableist writing in his Nightwing run, beyond the inherent ableism that comes with the current iteration of Barbara Gordon (whose inclusion, yet again, is his decision).

[IMAGE ID: A panel from Nightwing #79. Barbara and Dick are standing in his apartment. Barbara is saying: “I have some pretty new technology holding my spine together. I’m happy to do most things -- eat pizza in the park, take down low-level thugs -- but leaping from rooftops seems... unwise.” END ID]

What Barbara says in the panel above has bothered a lot of disabled people. The implication that she couldn’t “eat pizza in the park’ and “take down low-level thugs” without a spinal implant that conveniently erases her disability is... fucked up, to put it mildly. Those are both things that Barbara has done in a wheelchair. The first one is something wheelchair users can do and the implication that it’s not is beyond offensive.

But, let’s leave Barbara behind for a moment. I have previously mentioned that disabled people have been discussing the ableism present in this run long before July -- and that ableism is not only centred on Barbara. Dick is also a player in all this.

Dick Grayson was shot in the head. I don’t believe I need to retread the story, but just in case: Dick was shot in the head by KGBeast, developed amnesia from the event, and went by Ric Grayson for a long enough period in comics. If you have been active within the DC fandom for the past year or so, you know all about this controversial storyline and its fallout.

The Ric Grayson arc concluded itself the issue before Taylor became the writer for the series and ever since his tenure has begun, Taylor has completely ignored the reality of Dick being a disabled man. We understand this is comics, that things do not function the way they do in our world, but still -- it is clear that this gunshot wound to the head has affected Dick massively. We had an entire arc dedicated to how he struggled to find himself in the aftermath.

Taylor is choosing to write Dick as an able-bodied man, despite his canonical injuries and how they would impact his life.

This man is choosing to give empty gestures towards Barbara being a disabled woman (as discussed above, the completely dysfunctional back brace, etc) whilst writing her as able-bodied as possible. He writes both Dick and Barbara as able bodied as humanly possible. That is ableist. He is ableist. This is the same man that said he made a dog disabled ‘in honour of Barbara’. I do not think I need to elaborate on why that is bad.

The least he could’ve done, was get a sensitivity reader. We know that Taylor is not beyond getting people from marginalized communities to consult on his work (see: Suicide Squad), so why, when writing two characters that should be disabled, one that the disabled community have been criticising for a decade, does he not reach out to a single disabled person? A mere Google search could’ve improved the situation massively. In both the new design and the current writing, it is beyond clear that this is not just an able-bodied person writing it -- it’s an ableist person.

He could have listened to the numerous disabled fans that spoke out. Instead, he chose not only to refuse to do that, but to describe justifiable anger as ‘raging’. He treated us like we were crazy for daring to speak out about blatant ableism being parading around of us in our pride month.

Tom Taylor has failed to do the bare minimum and in doing so, he is, at very, very least, guilty of complicity. Again: passive ableism is still ableism.

The argument at hand is not just about Barbara Gordon and the continuing ableism that shines out from her current writing. The argument is about the treatment of disabled characters in his run. It has also become about the way he treats physically disabled people.

We also can’t have this conversation without acknowledging the fandom’s role in it all. I waited a day to write this up, to allow all the reactions to flood in... and I am sickened.

We have everything across the board. Able-bodied people that have actually listened to disabled people, who have supported us (which is deeply appreciated). Able-bodied people who may have had good intentions, but a skewed sense of the situation and perpetuating some of the more insidious lies being spread around (IE. that this is only about the new costume).

There are, obviously, the ableist reactions, though, that we will be discussing here. People deeming the current issues as ‘crazy’, calling disabled people ‘overly sensitive’ and ‘delusional’. Many people have completely glossed over the examples given for why Taylor, specifically, is ableist, and instead have resorted to telling disabled people that we are wrong and should be mad at DC instead.

It’s important to note that Tom Taylor is an adult man. He doesn’t need a fandom to attack disabled people for daring to call him out. He is not the victim in this situation; he has, for quite a few disabled people, been the aggressor.

I have seen claims that Infinite Frontier is a ‘slow burn’, implying that disabled people need to patient... as if we have not waited a decade for less ableist writing. There is a complete refusal from able-bodied fans to actually listen to what disabled people are saying. They would much rather rush to the defence of the (honestly rather mediocre) current Nightwing run. 

Disabled fans know that comic book spaces are ableist. We know that both DC and Marvel and many of their writers are ableist. We are still allowed to be pissed as hell about it and acting like the current reaction being had right now is disabled people being ‘overdramatic’ is yet another example of how the able-bodied side of the fandom both refuses to listen to and undermine disabled people when we call out ableism.

We know it when we see it. We always do and we always will and we will always be able to recognize it far faster than an able-bodied person. If this many disabled fans are coming out and talking about an issue, calling it ableism, then it’s time for you shut up and listen.

Stop being a part of the problem and start supporting disabled fans for once.

#barbara gordon #dick grayson #nightwing #batgirl #tom taylor #tw ableism #okay to rb

[yamayuandadu]

The Two (or more) Ishtars or A Certain Scandalous Easter Claim Proved to be The Worship of Reverend Alexander Hislop

Once upon a time the official facebook page of Richard Dawkins' foundation posted a graphic according to which the holiday of Easter is just a rebranded celebration of the Mesopotamian mythology superstar Ishtar, arguing that the evidence is contained in its very name. As everyone knows, Dawkins is an online talking head notable for discussing his non-belief in such an euphoric way that it might turn off even the most staunch secularists and for appearing in some reasonably funny memes about half a decade ago. Bizarrely enough, however, the same claim can be often found among the crowds dedicated to crystal healing, Robert Graves' mythology fanfiction, indigo children and similar dubiously esoteric content. What's yet more surprising is that once in a while it shows up among a certain subset of fundamentalist Christians, chiefly the types who believe giants are real (and, of course, satanic), the world  is ruled by a secret group of Moloch worshipers and fossils were planted by the devil to led the sheeple astray from the truth about earth being 6000 years old, tops. Of course, to anyone even just vaguely familiar with Christianity whose primary language isn't English this claim rightfully seems completely baffling – after all it's evident in most languages that the name of the holiday celebrating Jesus' resurrection, and many associated customs, are derived from the earlier Jewish Pascha (Passover) which has nothing to do with Ishtar other than having its origin in the Middle East. Why would the purported association only be evident  in English and not in Aramaic, Greek, Latin, Spanish, virtually any language other than English and its close relatives – languages which generally didn't have anything to do with Mesopotamia or early christianity? Read on to find out what sort of sources let this eclectic selection of characters arrive to the same baffling conclusion, why are they hilariously wrong, and – most importantly – where you can actually find a variety of Ishtars (or at least reasonably Ishtar-like figures) under different names instead.

The story of baffling Easter claims begins in Scotland in the 19th century. A core activity of theologians in many faiths through history was (and sometimes still is) finding alleged proof of purported “idolatry” or other “impure” practices among ideological opponents, even these from within the same religion – and a certain Presbyterian minister, Alexander Hislop, was no stranger to this traditional pastime. Like many Protestants in this period, he had an axe to grind with the catholic church  - though not for the reasons many people are not particularly fond of this institution nowadays. What Hislop wanted to prove was much more esoteric – he believed that it's the Babylon known from the Book of Revelations. Complete with the beast with seven heads, blasphemous names and other such paraphernalia, of course. This wasn't a new claim – catholicism was equated with the New Testament Babylon for as long as Protestantism was a thing (and earlier catholicism itself regarded other religions as representing it). What set Hislop apart from dozens of other similar attempts like that was that he fancied himself a scholar of history and relied on the brand new accounts of excavations in what was once the core sphere of influence of the Assyrian empire (present day Iraq and Syria), supplemented by various Greek and Roman classics – though also by his own ideas, generally varying from baseless to completely unhinged. Hislop compiled his claims in the book The Two Babylons or The Papal Worship Proved to be the Worship of Nimrod and His Wife. You can find it on archive.org if you want to torment yourself and read the entire thing – please do not give clicks directly to any fundie sites hosting it though. How does the history of Easter and Ishtar look like according to Hislop? Everything started with Semiramis, who according to his vision was a historical figure and a contemporary of Noah's sons, here also entirely historical. Semiramis is either entirely fictional or a distorted Greek and Roman account of the 9th century BC Assyrian queen Shammuramat, who ruled as a regent for a few years after the death of her husband Shamshi Adad V – an interesting piece of historical trivia, but arguably not really a historical milestone, and by the standards of Mesopotamian history she's hardly a truly ancient figure. Hislop didn't even rely on the primary sources dealing with the legend of Semiramis though, but with their medieval christian interpretations, which cast her in the role of an adulterer first and foremost due to association of ancient Mesopotamia with any and all vices.

Hislop claims that Semiramis was both the Whore of Babylon from the Book of Revelations and the first idolater, instituting worship of herself as a goddess. This goddess, he argues, was Astarte (a combination of two flimsy claims – Roman claim that Semiramis' name means “dove” and now generally distrusted assumption that Phoenician Astarte had the same symbols as Greek Aphrodite) and thus Ishtar, but he also denotes her as a mother goddess – which goes against everything modern research has to say about Ishtar, of course. However, shoddy scholarship relying on few sources was the norm at the time, and Hislop on top of that was driven by religious zeal. In further passages, he identified this “universal mother” with Phrygian Cybele, Greek Rhea and Athena, Egyptian Isis, Taoist Xi Wangmu (sic) and many more, pretty much at random, arguing all of them were aspects of nefarious Semiramis cult which infected all corners of the globe. He believed that she was venerated alongside a son-consort, derived from Semiramis' even more fictional husband Ninus (a mythical founder of Assyria according to Greek authors, absent from any Mesopotamian sources; his name was derived from Nineveh, not from any word for son like Hislop claims), who he identifies with biblical Nimrod (likewise not a historical figure, probably a distorted reflection of the god Ninurta). Note the similarity with certain ideas perpetrated by Frazer's Golden Bough and his later fans like Jung, Graves and many neopagan authors – pseudohistory, regardless of ideological background, has a very small canon of genuinely original claims. Ishtar was finally introduced to Britain by “druids” (note once again the similarity to the baffling integration of random Greek, Egyptian or Mesopotamian deities into Graves-derived systems of fraudulent trivia about “universal mother goddesses” often using an inaccurate version of Celtic myths as framework). This eventually lead to the creation of the holiday of Easter. Pascha doesn't come up in the book at all, as far as I can tell. All of this is basically just buildup for the book's core shocking reveal: catholic veneration of Mary and depictions of Mary with infant Jesus in particular are actually the worship of Semiramis and her son-consort Ninus, and only the truly faithful can reveal this evil purpose of religious art. At least so claims Hislop. This bizarre idea is laughable, but it remains disturbingly persistent – do you remember the Chick Tracts memes from a few years ago, for example? These comics were in part inspired by Hislop's work. Many fundamentalist christian communities appear to hold his confabulations in high esteem up to this day – and many people who by design see themselves as a countercultural opposition to christianity independently gleefully embrace them, seemingly ignorant of their origin. While there are many articles debunking Hislop's claim about Easter, few of them try to show how truly incomprehensibly bad his book is as a whole – hopefully the following examples will be sufficient to illustrate this point: -Zoroaster is connected to Moloch because of the Zoroastrian holy fire - and Moloch is, of course Ninus. Note that while a few Greek authors believed Zoroaster to be the “king of Bactria” mythical accounts presented as a contemporary of Ninus, the two were regarded as enemies – Hislop doesn't even follow the pseudohistory he uses as proof! -Zoroaster is also Tammuz. Tammuz is, of course, yet another aspect of Ninus. -demonic character is ascribed to relics of the historical Buddha; also he's Osiris. And Ninus. -an incredibly racist passage explains why the biblical Nimrod (identified with – you guessed it - Ninus) might be regarded as “ugly and deformed” like Haephestus and thus identical to him (no, it makes no sense in context either) - Hislop thinks he was black (that's not the word he uses, naturally) which to him is the same thing. -Attis is a deification of sin itself -the pope represents Dagon (incorrectly interpreted as a fish god in the 19th century) -Baal and Bel are two unrelated words – this is meant to justify the historicity of the Tower of Babel by asserting it was built by Ninus, who was identical to Bel (in reality a title of Marduk); Bel, according to Hislop, means “the confounder (of languages)” rather than “lord” -the term “cannibal” comes from a made up term for priests of Baal (Ninus) who according to Hislop ate children. In reality it's a Spanish corruption of the endonym of one of the first tribes encountered by the Spanish conquerors in America, and was not a word used in antiquity – also, as I discussed in my Baal post, the worship of Baal did not involve cannibalism. This specific claim of Hislop's is popular with the adherents of prophetic doomsday cult slash wannabe terrorist group QAnon today, and shows up on their “redpilling” graphics. -Ninus was also Cronos; Cronos' name therefore meant “horned one” in reference to Mesopotamian bull/horned crown iconography and many superficially similar gods from all over the world were the same as him - note the similarity to Margaret Murray's obsession with her made up idea of worldwide worship of a “horned god” (later incorporated into Wicca). -Phaeton, Orpheus and Aesculapius are the same figure and analogous to Lucifer (and in turn to Ninus) -giants are real and they're satanists (or were, I think Hislop argues they're dead already). They are (were?) also servants of Ninus. -as an all around charming individual Hislop made sure to include a plethora of comments decrying the practices of various groups at random as digressions while presenting his ridiculous theories – so, while learning about the forbidden history of Easter, one can also learn why the author thinks Yezidi are satanists, for example -last but not least, the very sign of the cross is not truly christian but constitutes the worship of Tammuz, aka Ninus (slowly losing track of how many figures were regarded as one and the same as him by Hislop). Based on the summary above it's safe to say that Hislop's claim is incorrect – and, arguably, malevolent (and as such deserves scrutiny, not further possibilities for spreading). However, this doesn't answer the question where does the name of Easter actually come from? As I noted in the beginning, in English (and also German) it's a bit of an oddity – it  actually was derived from a preexisting pagan term, at least if we are to believe the word of the monk Bede, who in the 8th century wrote that the term is a derivative of “Eosturmonath,” eg. “month of Eostre” - according to him a goddess. There are no known inscriptions mentioning such a goddess from the British Isles or beyond, though researchers involved in reconstructing proto-indo-european language assume that “Eostre” would logically be a derivative of the same term as  the name of the Greek Eos and of the vedic Ushas, and the Austriahenae goddesses from Roman inscriptions from present day Germany  – eg.  a word simply referring to dawn, and by extension to a goddess embodying it. This is a sound, well researched theory, so while early medieval chroniclers sometimes cannot be trusted, I see no reason to doubt Bede's account.

While Ushas is a prominent goddess in the Vedas, Eos was rather marginal in Greek religion (see her Theoi entry for details), and it's hard to tell to what degree Bede's Eostre was similar to either of them beyond plausibly being a personification of dawn. Of course, the hypothetical proto-indo-european dawn goddess all of these could be derived from would have next to nothing to do with Ishtar. While the history of the name of Easter (though not the celebration itself) is undeniably interesting, I suppose it lacks the elements which make the fake Ishtar claim a viral hit – the connection is indirect, and an equivalent of the Greek Eos isn't exactly exciting (Eos herself is, let be honest, remembered at best as an obscure part of the Odyssey), while Ishtar is understood by many as “wicked” sex goddess (a simplification, to put it very lightly) which adds a scandalous, sacrilegious dimension to the baffling lie, explaining its appeal to Dawkins' fans, arguably. As demonstrated above, Hislop's theories are false and adapting them for any new context – be it christian, atheist or neopagan – won't change that, but are there any genuine examples of, well, “hidden Ishtars”? If that's the part of the summary which caught your attention, rejoice – there is a plenty of these to be found in Bronze Age texts. I'd go as far as saying that most of ancient middle eastern cultures from that era felt compelled to include an Ishtar ersatz in their pantheons. Due to the popularity of the original Ishtar, she was almost a class of figures rather than a single figure – a situation almost comparable to modern franchising, when you think about it. The following figures can be undeniably regarded as “Ishtar-like” in some capacity or even as outright analogs:

Astarte (or Ashtart, to go with a more accurate transcription of the oldest recorded version of the name) – the most direct counterpart of Ishtar there is: a cognate of her own name. Simply, put Astarte is the “Levantine”equivalent of the “Mesopotamian” Ishtar. In the city of Mari, the names were pretty much used interchangeably, and some god lists equate them, though Astarte had a fair share of distinct traits. In Ugaritic mythology, which forms the core of our understanding of the western Semitic deities, she was a warrior and hunter (though it's possible that in addition to conventional weapons she was also skilled at wielding curses), and was usually grouped with Anat. Both of them were regarded as the allies of Baal, and assist him against his enemies in various myth. They also were envisioned to spend a lot of time together – one ritual calls them upon as a pair from distant lands where they're hunting together, while a fragmentary myth depicts both of them arriving in the household of the head god El and taking pity on Yarikh, the moon god, seemingly treated as a pariah. Astarte's close relation to Baal is illustrated by her epithet, “face of Baal” or “of the name of Baal.” They were often regarde as a couple and even late, Hellenic sources preserve a traditional belief that Astarte and “Adados” (Baal) ruled together as a pair. In some documents from Ugarit concerned with what we would call foreign policy today they were invoked together as the most prominent deities. It's therefore possible that she had some role related to human politics. She was regarded as exceptionally beautiful and some texts favorably describe mortal women's appearance by comparing them to Astarte. In later times she was regarded as a goddess of love, but it's unclear if that was a significant aspect of her in the Bronze Age. It's equally unclear if she shared Ishtar's astral character – in Canaan there were seemingly entirely separate dawn and dusk deities. Despite clamis you might see online, Astarte was not the same as the mother goddess Asherah. In the Baal cycle they actually belong to the opposing camps. Additionally, the names are only superficially similar (one starts with an aleph, the other with an ayin) and have different etymology. Also, that famous sculpture of a very blatantly Minoan potnia theron? Ugaritic in origin but not a depiction of either Astarte or Asherah.

The Egyptians, due to extensive contact with Canaan and various Syrian states in the second half of the Bronze Age, adapted Astarte (and by extension Anat) into their own pantheon. Like in Ugarit, her warrior character was emphasized. An Egyptian innovation was depicting her as a cavalry goddess of sorts – associated with mounted combat and chariots. In Egypt, Ptah, the head god of Memphis and divine craftsman, was regarded as her father. In most texts, Astarte is part of Seth's inner circle of associates – however, in this context Seth wasn't the slayer of Osiris, but a heroic storm god similar to Baal. The so-called Astarte papyrus presents an account of a myth eerily similar to the Ugaritic battle between Baal and Yam – starring Seth as the hero, with Astarte in a supporting role resembling that played by Shaushka, another Ishtar analog, in the Hittite song of Hedammu, which will be discussed below.

Shaushka – a Hurrian and Hittite goddess whose name means “the magnificent one” in the Hurrian language. Hurrian was widely spoken in ancient Mesopotamia and Anatolia (and in northernmost parts of the Levant – up to one fifth of personal names from Ugaritic documents were Hurrian iirc), but has no descendants today and its relation to any extant languages is uncertain. In Hittite texts she was often referred to with an “akkadogram” denoting Ishtar's name (or its Sumerian equivalent) instead of a phonetic  spelling of her own (there was an analogous practice regarding the sun gods), while in Egyptian and Syrian texts there are a few references to “Ishtar Hurri” - “Ishtar of the Hurrians” - who is argued by researchers to be one and the same as Shaushka. Despite Shaushka's Hurrian name and her prominence in myths popular both among Hittites and Hurrians, her main cult center was the Assyrian city of Nineveh, associated with Ishtar herself as well, and there were relatively few temples dedicated to her in the core Hittite sphere of influence in Anatolia. Curiously, both the oldest reference to Shaushka and to the city of Nineveh come from the same text, stating that a sheep was sacrificed to her there. While most of her roles overlap with Ishtar's (she too was associated with sex, warfare and fertility), here are two distinct features of Shaushka that set her apart as unique: one is the fact she was perceived in part as a masculine deity, despite being consistently described as a woman – in the famous Yazılıkaya reliefs she appears twice, both among gods and goddesses. In Alalakh she was depicted in outfits combining elements of male and female clothing. Similar fashion preferences were at times attributed to Ninshubur, the attendant of Ishtar's Sumerian forerunner Inanna – though in that case they were likely the result of conflation of Ninshubur with the male messenger deity Papsukkal, while in the case of Shaushka the dual nature seems to be inherent to her (I haven't seen any in depth study of this matter yet, sadly, so I can't really tell confidently which modern term in my opinion describes Shaushka's character the best). Her two attendants, musician goddesses Ninatta and Kulitta, do not share it. Shaushka's other unique niche is her role in exorcisms and incantations, and by extension with curing various diseases – this role outlived her cult itself, as late Assyrian inscriptions still associated the “Ishtar of Nineveh” (at times viewed as separate from the regular Ishtar) with healing. It can be argued that even her sexual aspect was connected to healing, as she was invoked to cure impotence. The most significant myth in which she appears is the cycle dedicated to documenting the storm god's (Teshub for the Hurrians, Tarhunna for the Hittites) rise to power. Shaushka is depicted as his sister and arguably most reliable ally, and plays a prominent role in two sections in particular – the Song of Hedammu and the Song of Ullikummi. In the former, she seemingly comes up with an elaborate plan to defeat a new enemy of her brother - the sea monster Hedammu - by performing a seductive dance and song montage (with her attendants as a support act) and offering an elixir to him. The exact result is uncertain, but Hedammu evidently ends up vanquished. In the latter, she attempts to use the same gambit against yet another new foe, the “diorite man” Ullikummi – however, since he is unfeeling like a rock, she fails; some translators see this passage as comedic. However, elsewhere in the Song, the storm god's main enemy Kumarbi and his minions view Shaushka as a formidable warrior, and in the early installment of the cycle, Song of LAMMA, she seemingly partakes in a fight. In another myth, known only from a few fragments and compared to the Sumerian text “Inanna and the huluppu tree,” Shaushka takes care of “Ḫašarri” -  a personification of olive oil, or a sentient olive tree. It seems that she has to protect this bizarre entity from various threats. While Shaushka lived on in Mesopotamia as “Ishtar of Nineveh,” this was far from the only “variant”of Ishtar in her homeland.

Nanaya was another such goddess. A few Sumerian hymns mention her alongside Inanna, the Sumerian equivalent of Ishtar, by the time of Sargon of Akkad virtually impossible to separate from her. As one composition puts it, Nanaya was “properly educated by holy Inana” and “counselled by holy Inana.” Initially she was most likely a part of Inanna's circle of deities in her cult center, Uruk, though due to shared character they eventually blurred together to a large degree. Just like Inanna/Ishtar, Nanaya was a goddess of love, described as beautiful and romantically and sexually active, and she too had an astral character. She was even celebrated during the same holidays as Inanna. Some researchers go as far as suggest Nanaya was only ever Inanna/Ishtar in her astral aspect alone and not a separate goddess. However, there is also evidence of her, Inanna and the sky god An being regarded as a trinity of distinct tutelary deities in Uruk. Additionally, king Melishipak's kudurru shown above shows both Nanaya (seated) and Ishtar/Inanna (as a star). Something peculiar to Nanaya was her later association with the scribe god Nabu. Sometimes Nabu's consort was the the goddess Tashmetu instead, but I can't find any summary explaining potential differences between them – it seems just like Nanaya, she was a goddess of love, including its physical aspects. Regardless of the name used to describe Nabu's wife, she was regarded as a sage and scribe like him – this arguably gives her a distinct identity she lacked in her early role as part of Inanna's circle. As the above examples demonstrate, the popularity of the “Ishtar type” was exceptional in the Bronze Age – but is it odd from a modern perspective? The myths dedicated to her are still quite fun to read today – much like any hero of ancient imagination she has a plethora of adversaries, a complex love life (not to mention many figures not intended to be read as her lovers originally but described in such terms that it's easy to see them this way today – including other women), a penchant for reckless behavior – and most importantly a consistent, easy to summarize character. She shouldn't be a part of modern mass consciousness only because of false 19th century claims detached from her actual character (both these from Hislop's works and “secular”claims about her purported “real”character based on flimsy reasoning and shoddy sources) – isn't a female character who is allowed to act about the same way as male mythical figures do without being condemned for it pretty much what many modern mythology retellings try to create? Further reading: On Astarte: -entry in the Iconography of Deities and Demons in Ancient Near East database by Izak Cornelius -‛Athtart in Late Bronze Age Syrian Texts by Mark S. Smith -ʿAthtartu’s Incantations and the Use of Divine Names as Weapons by Theodore J. Lewis -The Other Version of the Story of the Storm-god’s Combat with the Sea in the Light of Egyptian, Ugaritic, and Hurro-Hittite Texts by Noga Ayali-Darshan -for a summary of evidence that Astarte has nothing to do with Asherah see A Reassessment of Asherah With Further Considerations of the Goddess by Steve A. Wiggins On Shaushka: -Adapting Mesopotamian Myth in Hurro-Hittite Rituals at Hattuša: IŠTAR, the Underworld, and the Legendary Kings by Mary R. Bacharova -Ishtar seduces the Sea-serpent. A new join in the epic of Ḫedammu (KUB 36, 56 + 95) and its meaning for the battle between Baal and Yam in Ugaritic tradition by Meindert Dijkstra -Ištar of Nineveh Reconsidered by Gary Beckman -Shaushka, the Traveling Goddess by Graciela Gestoso Singer -Hittite Myths by Harry A. Hoffner jr. -The Hurritic Myth about Šaušga of Nineveh and Ḫašarri (CTH 776.2) by Meindert Dijkstra -The West Hurian Pantheon and its Background by Alfonso Archi On Nanaya: -entry in Brill’s New Pauly by Thomas Richter -entry from the Ancient Mesopotamian Gods and Goddesses project by Ruth Horry -A tigi to Nanaya for Ishbi-Erra from The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature -A balbale to Inana as Nanaya from The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature -More Light on Nanaya by Michael P. Streck and Nathan Wasserman -More on the Nature and History of the Goddess Nanaya by Piotr Steinkeller A few introductory Ishtar/Inanna myths: -Inanna's descent to the netherworld -Inanna and the huluppu tree -Inanna and Enki -Enki and the world order -Inanna and Ebih -Dumuzid and Enkimdu

#mesopotamian mythology #sumerian mythology #inanna #ishtar #astarte

[periminkle]

blazes of deceit

this fic is a part of the disney collab hosted by @btswritingcafe​!! please go check out all the other talented writers and their works 💕

+ summary. When the opportunity to finally venture past the stone walls you’ve grown up in presents itself, you jump at the chance to discover the origin of those mysterious lights—even if the trip comes with a harsh truth and a suspicious, yet undoubtedly attractive, tour guide.

+ pairing. jungkook x reader

+ genre. fluff, angst. tangled!au.

+ word count. 26.052

+ rating. 18+

+ warnings. threats against a baby’s life, unwarranted death, mom problems, trespassing, pan violence, hiding a (not dead) body, tying people up with hair, curse words, drinking, thievery, deadly chase, sword/pan fight, recklessly jumping from a great height, graphic descriptions of wounds and blood, general violence, dark family matters (it’s pretty twisted!), orchestrated infidelity.

+ author’s note. happy early birthday to golden baby jungkook!! this fic took me wAY too long to write but she’s finally here! HUGE thank you to my big brain frenemy @guklvr​ for beta reading and hyping me up by boosting my confidence level +2000 even tho she’s on vacation and should be relaxing LMAO i would’ve postponed this until next year if u didn’t push me so TY ILY LOADS CARL 💘 i also wanted to shoutout #1 jk ryder supporter @dewykth​ and wofe @yeojaa​ for encouraging me every step along the way, y’all are the best n ily both to pieces 💝💕

You are positively ravenous.

Flurries of people scurry past the towering bars of your crib, yet none spare a glance in your direction despite your boisterous wailing. Like moths to a flame, they’re all huddled in one corner, surrounding a panting woman that clutches her rotund abdomen in one hand while tightly clasping onto a bejewelled crown in the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she spits out, hardened orbs narrowed in on your pathetic form.

“Your Royal Majesty, it’s only been an hour since you have given birth, please reconsider—”

Her glower is redirected onto the younger woman’s trembling form. “Are you questioning your Queen? Shall we reconsider your life as well?”

“No,” she begs, her tone quivering with anguish, “please spare my ignorant self.”

Your facial muscles begin to cramp and the walls of your throat feel like sandpaper, which only serves to exacerbate your violent sobs. The insistent suckling on your thumb is doing nothing to quell your raging stomach.

Her lips peel back to reveal two rows of pearly white, dazzling teeth framed by a nasty snarl. “Somebody slit that brat’s throat!”

Another midwife adorned in the bloody rags of childbirth darts across the cramped space with a weeping bundle of rough canvas in her arms. As she scrambles to deliver the shuddering newborn into his counterfeit mother’s arms, the clumsy woman trips over thin air, flying across her enraged Queen’s lap. Without a second thought, her backside is pierced by a shiny steel sword, sullied in a crimson liquid when it reappears.

The introduction of another babe deters your cries for attention. Instead, you distract yourself with a dull glimmer that you catch in your peripheral. Your chubby fingers hopelessly extend toward the dingy stars dangling above your head, just out of reach, reflecting the bright orange tiger lily printed onto the high ceiling of your cage.

“Not a soul shall speak of today's treachery.”

You’re well aware that your short arms could never stretch the distance required to satiate your unending curiosity; but they stay aloft, searching for the reassuring warmth of your mother’s embrace.

“Our blood will remain on the throne.”

Screams of agony overwhelm your developing eardrums as your tiny hands come to cradle your head, willing the pain to end.

Every inch of your walls is covered with abstract paintings, doodles of twisting branches snaking around the edges, dainty birds in every colour under the sun, and a joyous little girl dancing in her own brilliant freedom. No matter where you look, bespeckled tiger lilies are buried within the intricate linework like easter eggs, waiting to be found.

Your favourite by far is the uncanny depiction of the image stashed deep inside the crevices of your memory, a sight your heart desires to view most from up close. The miniature illustration captures your longing gaze pinned on the multitudinous lights ascending from a foreign location, golden hair streaming down your back and flowing over the fireplace in your determination to capture its vast length.

You attempt to steel your nerves for the umpteenth time, but you can’t help your nervous pacing across the minuscule length of your room. The entire tower is spotless as a result of your mindless cleaning—floors scrubbed twice, nonexistent dust wiped away, and trinkets set at the perfect angle to encourage your mother to comply with your outrageous request.

Today is the day, after all. The day that you’ll finally convince the stubborn woman to bring you out to watch the masses of floating lanterns disappear into the night sky.

The pitter-patter of your bare feet scuttling against the concrete floors nearly drown out the melodic appellations from outside your window.

“—down your hair!”

You dash over to the aperture, hastily gathering the ends of your mane to fling down while fixing the bulk of it onto the hook above your head. When the figure enshrouded in a black cloak snatches up your tresses, looping it around to create a foothold and carefully wedges one leg inside, you haul them up through the makeshift pulley.

By the time both of their feet are safely planted on the ground next to yours, sweat is beginning to form by your temples and the perpetual ache in your arms flares from consistently being forced to heave another grown adult up the stretch of the colossal tower.

“Welcome home, Mother.” You pull the rest of your hair inside and turn to face the stunning woman who lowers her excessively long hood, the extra length of fabric intentionally stitched on to keep her identity obscure as she travels.

Your mother sweeps you up into her comforting embrace and you allow yourself to relax in her arms, resting your cheek on her chest while your digits tightly clasp on to one another around her middle. Her chin settles onto the crown of your head.

“You would think that lifting me up all these years would give you some more upper body strength,” she says, her disappointment practically tangible. Placing both manicured hands upon each of your shoulders with a light squeeze, she pushes you back to examine your body from head to toe. “But look at you! My poor, delicate, little flower.”

Your forehead creases from your raised brows as a tense smile completes your agitated countenance.

“Oh, darling, what’s wrong? Come, come with Mother.” The adamant woman latches onto your forearm, dragging you over to the rustic fireplace and pressing down on your shoulders. Ever the obedient child, you kneel down onto the thick rug below.

Your mother delicately takes a seat on the antique chair beside you, a weary sigh slipping past her lips before she starts sweeping a brush through your golden strands. As per tradition, you sing the incantation that’s essentially engraved in the back of your mind at this point.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

A gleaming shimmer races across your tresses at the verse and from the corner of your vision you watch the light creases marring your mother’s features fade in rapt attention. She hums along to the tune with a detached, distant look in her eyes.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

You allow your lids to slide closed, gathering all the courage you can muster for the following conversation.

“What once was mine.”

Once the last note fades and a deafening silence reigns, she gently urges, “Tell Mother everything.”

This is it, it’s now or never.

“Uh, well, as you know,” you mumble, clearing your throat, “my eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.”

“Mhm, and I’ve already gotten your present as well,” she hums, steadily working her way down your mass of hair.

You falter at the information she casually reveals, guilt eating away at your conscience for preparing to ruin her good mood. “Yes, I know you’re always thinking of me, but, uh, well—”

“You can tell me, darling.” You register your mother’s heavy palm stroking your head, coaxing the words to tumble out of your mouth.

So you lay it on her. “I was just wondering if you would take me to see the lanterns this year.”

“What was that?” she questions, rightfully so when the garbled words blurt out quicker than you can process.

Before you can second guess yourself, you stammer, “C-can we please go see the lanterns?”

The brush suddenly halts in its path, suspended within the waves and dips of your many strands. Although you can’t see her, you know your mother well enough to feel her stiffen up, peeved at the topic you’ve brought up many times before.

“Petal—”

You interrupt, desperate to plead your case, “Mother, please, I’ve been waiting for—”

“Zip it.” You instantly clamp up at her hissing.

Your mother takes her time to stand, stalking over to halt directly in front of your hunched form. Her daunting figure looms above you, fierce orbs evoking a filthy shame that sinks its claws into your spine, and you lower your stare to her ankles from its intense weight. “Enough. I don’t understand why you keep asking this idiotic question when you already know what my answer is going to be.”

Her spontaneous refusal dampens your spirit, but you press on. “I just, uh, thought that I could see them once for my birthday a-and then I’d never ask to leave the tower again.”  

With a scowl as cold as an executioner’s axe, her arms come to cross beneath her bust. “I’ve already told you time and time again that they’re to celebrate the healthy birth of the Prince, any special ‘connection’ you feel to these lights is simply misguided and naive.”

You scramble to gather the scraps of bravery she shredded in order to sputter out, “But it’s my b-birthday too. Even if it’s just a coincidence, I wanna see them with my own two eyes.”

“How many times do I have to explain to you how dangerous the world is outside these walls? Do you know how many people are jumping at the chance to use your magic for themselves?” She rolls her eyes, chiding at you as if you’re a petulant child who disobeyed their elders one too many times. “If your little heart wants some adventure, you can go downstairs and explore the living room, besides darling, you should be thankful that nothing has happened all these years.”

“How am I supposed to be thankful for anything when you keep coddling me like this!” you lash out, frustration bubbling over at her usual response and refusing to toe the line any longer. Any notion of gently swaying her judgement or prompting her to consider your point of view is thrown out the window.

But your mother is nothing if not resolute.

“What?” Her words turn to ice—syllables forming razor-sharp blades that figuratively line your throat, poised to strike the second you step out of place. “Do you want to repeat that?”

Your breaths quicken, deathly afraid of the repercussions that will follow if you decide to continue your rebellious act. It wouldn’t be the first time that she punished you for begging to leave the tower.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, head hanging low and voice laced with resignation, “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Aw, my precious petal,” she coos, her mood drastically flipping one hundred and eighty degrees as the edges of her lips subtly point upwards at your obedience. “That’s why Mother is here, to guide you in the right direction. You know that I’m only looking out for you, right?”

“Of course, Mother.”

Evidently content with the outcome of the conversation, she turns back to continue brushing through your tresses.

By the time her ebony cloak rests upon her thin shoulders, hood draping over her face, your hair is already hanging by the hook above the window and she hops through the opening to lower herself to the ground below. You watch as her figure shrinks with the increasing distance, only turning back once to give a short wave before disappearing through the lush greenery.

And then you’re alone once again.

In the hours that pass after your mother’s departure, you become well acquainted with the five stages of grief. Of course, your requests to leave have been denied more times than you can count on both hands, but you foolishly believed that mentioning the eighteen years you spent cooped up in one place, fending off boredom, would hit a soft spot.

You forgot that your mother doesn’t have any of those.

Obviously, she anticipated your attempt to convince her by throwing yourself a pity party, as she deliberately mentioned purchasing a gift in advance. Out of all your celebrations, you couldn’t recall a single time where she prepared—much less remembered—your birthday.

Utterly absorbed within your final stage of acceptance, you lose yourself within your thoughts. That’s why the steady, rhythmic tapping on the cobblestone metres below makes you jump, mind wiped clean of everything except questioning the origin of the sound. Goosebumps manifest across the length of your arms, already slick with cold sweat.

Initially, you believe that your mother may have misplaced something, but your doubt accumulates when you don’t hear her usual jingle follow the rapping. You wonder if she is harbouring acrimony at your earlier outburst—even though she seemed quite pleased as she left.

Thus, like the loving daughter you are, you gather the ends of your hair, about to throw the lump over the aperture when you take notice of the stranger’s bulky frame and lack of disguise. Last time you checked, Mother certainly hadn’t chopped all her curls off either.

You can feel your heart thumping in your head, chest rising and falling expeditiously to compensate for the sudden rush of adrenaline surging through your veins. In your distress, her words come back to bite you, echoing within your mind that he must be after your magic.

Mother knows best, after all.

Discreetly glancing back down, you spot the man scaling the wall using two arrows, a feat which you’re sure he wouldn’t be capable of performing without those well-defined muscles, attractively outlined through his thin clothing. Realizing that you’re wasting time ogling at the intruder, you spin back to survey your room, scanning the area for any weapons you can use to defend yourself.

You disregard any prospect of overpowering him and decide to approach the confrontation by taking advantage of your ability to startle him. Before long, the sounds of the rigid arrowheads wedging into the spaces between the stones are no more than a couple of metres away, and you grab the nearest object in a blind panic.

All too soon, his large hands are gripping the window sill, and you scurry to press your body against the wall directly next to the opening. You grip the handle of metal tighter, struggling to keep your heavy breaths silent as you watch his fit form effortlessly raise himself up past the open window.

When he lands inside, you’re transfixed by the way his shirt hangs on his brawny body, the veins in his arms enlarged from the physical exertion of carrying his weight up the tower. Just for that moment, you let your eyes roam his lean figure in unadulterated fascination.

“Hah! Stupid guards, thinking they could catch me after—”

And then that moment ends.

A loud clang resounds throughout the cramped space as a result of the pan in your hand bashing into the back of his head. For a split second, you worry if the force behind your swing is enough to knock him out cold, but then he meets the floor headfirst. You wince for him.

With the substitute weapon in hand, you circle around his seemingly unconscious form up to his head, which is turned away from your prying stare. In order to decipher his level of cognizance, you crouch down and bow over him to get a better look at his face.

Long, dark locks that were perfectly mussed before his fall now cover nearly half his countenance, so you push them to the side to reveal his closed lids and strong brows. Following the curve of his cheekbones, you pass his cupid’s bow to gaze upon his thin lips, a tiny beauty mark laying directly underneath—an intimate detail that you feel uncomfortable knowing.

A faint blush colours your cheeks as you comprehend how utterly breathtaking the stranger is, drastically disparate to the stories your mother told you as a child, where men resembled ogres that lived under bridges, grotesque and unkempt.

He is nothing like that. Not at all.

He reminds you of the princes you read about in picture books—dashing and strong, willing to go to extreme lengths to find their Princess, their one true love. You know you’re taking it too far when you begin to fantasize about his personality purely based on his, admittedly, strikingly handsome appearance. With a vigorous shake of your head, you force yourself out of your reverie and get back to your task.

You stretch two fingers out to rest just beneath his nostrils, feeling the warm air that leaves his body at constant intervals, a good sign that he was not only alive but knocked out cold.

You prod at his shoulder, whispering, “Are you awake?”

No reaction.

With this confirmation, you take hold of one of his wrists with both hands and clench your jaw while leaning back, trying to use your body weight to help drag him. He proves to be much heavier than you initially believed, though you feel him moving inch by inch. Rather than another human being, you simply think of him as a heavy sack of potatoes for the sake of your conscience as you shuffle backwards, heading for the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

By the time you reach said armoire, you collapse on the ground next to him, gulping in as much air as you can. Now, there was simply the problem of shoving him inside. You turn your head to face the stranger, pouting at the prospect of having to lift his bulky self.

After much pushing and rearranging, the doors finally close behind him, although, as you predicted, stuffing him in there took much longer than you would like to admit. You aren’t sure how comfortable he is in the disfigured pretzel position you left him in, but his contentment is not at the top of your list of priorities right now.

Rubbing your palms together, you go to pick up the frying pan that lay discarded on the floor near the window when you take notice of the brown satchel that sat next to it. You have no use for any kind of travelling equipment, obviously, what with your whole life existing in this tall building, and your mother only carries a quaint, woven basket around. She is insistent on living as modestly as possible, and that includes whatever goodies she brings back from her adventures.

That rules out everyone but the stranger. The bag does look more masculine, anyway. Grabbing the strap, you raise the object in question up to have a closer inspection and find the leather to be heavier than expected. There are odd bumps protruding from its exterior, filling you with a tenuous curiosity.

Carefully, you lift the flap open to expose a heavily jewelled crown. Perplexity is written within the creases of your brows as you reach to grab the item within and drop the empty satchel. From your inexperienced eyes, the thing is as real as it gets, a shimmering gold decorated with the finest jewels in the kingdom. The different colours of each gem catch the light, reflecting the brilliant rays onto the walls of your room.

Your impromptu analysis concludes with an inexplicable pull towards the diadem, which you’re uncertain how to act upon until you involuntarily place the crown on your head. You turn to face the mirror leaning against the wall and it feels so right, as though two matching puzzle pieces have finally been brought together. The reflection staring back at you seems complete in ways you have never been before.

Yet, you can’t begin to fathom the reasoning behind all these strange epiphanies, unfamiliar with the tranquillity that quiets the constant buzzing in your head. Overwhelmed, you remove the crown and not a moment too soon, for a familiar, shrill shriek meets your ears.

“Petal!”

Your stomach lurches. Eyes darting to the wardrobe, you’re reminded of the man inside. You know if Mother saw him, she would definitely freak out, maybe even refuse to visit for the next week to drive you insane with solitude. But, then again, you could use him as an example to show that you could handle yourself out in that dangerous world she was always going on and on about.

“Let down your hair!”

You stuff the diadem back in the bag and stow it in an empty flower pot.

Giddy at the prospect of having a legitimate argument to reinforce your reasoning to leave the tower, you dash to the window sill and fling your hair over without a second glance outside. The rush of excitement blinds you from the sensitivity of your sore muscles as you haul her up.

“Petal,” your mother grits out, staggering inside due to your rushed actions, “what did I tell you about checking who’s calling before letting your hair down?”

“Hello, Mother!” you brush off her question, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I have something really important to show you!”

“Don’t change the subject.” She squints her eyes at you, lips pursed with frustration. “You're getting more and more reckless. One of these days, a crook will make their way up here and you’ll be foolish enough to invite them inside, maybe pour them a cup of tea while you’re at it?”

“I’m truly sorry.” You decide to humour her to prevent her temperament from flaring, throwing out a meaningless apology—one you’re used to blurting out left and right.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she says, as smug and haughty as always. Your mother removes her coat, handing it off to you. “But today’s your lucky day! Just as I was about to visit, I remembered to bring your present!”

Your heart warms at your mother’s unusual thoughtfulness, although you’re much too eager to prove your strength first. “Ah, thank you, Mother. But I really want to show you—”

“Something more important than your mother’s present?”

“Of course not! I just wanted to get it out of the way so that I could enjoy your present later.” She seems unconvinced, so you add, “Y’know how they always say to leave the best for last?”

The older woman heaves an exasperated sigh, shoving you out of the way as she heads for the armchair in the corner. She slumps her tired form on the rickety seat as it creaks its refusal, then waves her hand, gesticulating that you get on with whatever it is you have up your sleeves.

Perspiration gathers within your palms and you fight to ward off the minuscule smile that plays on your lips while you gradually make your way back to the wooden armoire, “So, you’re always going on about how weak and fragile I am…”

“Yes.” She rests her chin in her hand, scrutinizing every hair on your head as though the answers to your ridiculous behaviour are buried within the multitudinous strands. “And what of it?”

“Well, I just thought that I should show you,” you start as your back hits the old furniture and your fingertips graze its rough texture. “That I’m more than capable of handling myself when we go out to—”

“When we go out?” she interrupts, irritation hardening her sharp features as she fixes you with an enraged scowl. “And where do you suppose we’re going exactly?”

You hesitate as your earlier confidence slips and you scramble to correct your word choice before she completely blows you off. “Uh, I just meant that this will show you how strong I am, and, uh…”

An eerie silence occupies the room when you find yourself at a loss for words. You know that your blabbering will get you absolutely nowhere, so you tighten your grip on the handles of the wardrobe, counting on your actions to speak louder than your words ever could.

“How old are you turning again, Y/N? It was eighteen, was it not?”

You shrink under her abrupt question, choosing to play along to pacify the shreds of annoyance flickering in her orbs. “Yes, Mother.”

“And for how long are we going to play this game?” she asks, standing with her basket in tow. Your mother rounds closer to you and your gaze automatically flies to the floor.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“What’re you hiding this time? Did you find another mouse? A rat?” she mocks, resting one hand on her hip. “Ooh, did a raccoon find its way inside?” Once her face is a mere couple of inches from your nose, you allow your eyes to meet her own, dreadfully empty ones. The sight sends a chill down your spine.

You release your hold on the furniture, dejection seeping from your tone. “Two mice this time.”

Her boisterous cackle echoes off the stone walls and she clutches her stomach in an attempt to quell the onslaught of laughter. The gesture reminds you of the countless other times you tried to ‘prove yourself’ through similar methods when you were younger, catching rodents that occasionally found their way into the nooks and crannies of the tower.

The first time you caught a mouse, you’d been ecstatic, rushing to show it off to the only person you knew. Although at that age, rather than a ticket to freedom, you were simply seeking your mother’s approval and perhaps a few praises here and there. You wanted to prove that despite your lonely upbringing—with your mother lounging around the tower for only a few hours every other day—you could handle yourself. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Evidently, you were too young to understand your mother’s rash nature, and she immediately assumed the worst—that you had somehow managed to sneak outside and wanted to prove your calibre by hunting down a nearby animal. The harsh scolding you received that day still lingers as a scar on your wrist, a painful reminder to never cross your mother.

“The outside world is not a simple matter of ‘two mice’ darling. You should know better than to think I’ll ever be impressed by these foolish displays of strength.” She swoops you up into her arms and you automatically bring your hands to circle her lithe waist. “That’s why you’ll always need Mother to protect you.”

Your chin rests on her shoulder, stare unfocused as you dismally state, “Yes, Mother.”

“Now, onto more exciting matters.” A couple of light, successive pats strike your back and you’re released from her hold. She is quick to open her wooden basket and rummage through the contents, reaching inside for what you assume to be your birthday present. The vegetables in her hand don’t excite you, but you put on a fake grin for her anyway. “I’m making your favourite soup!”

She scurries away from your static form to head past the doorway, but you stop her in her tracks with a low voice. “I’m not really feeling up for soup today.”

“You know how far the journey is to get some of these vegetables, let alone how expensive each one is!” she exclaims, waving said produce in her hand as she spins to face you.

“I’m really sorry, Mother,” you mumble, flashing her your best puppy-dog eyes. “But I ran out of paint recently and I’m feeling kind of down about it.”

She tuts. “That’s a three-day journey, Petal.”

“I know, it’s just that when I can’t distract myself with painting, I get these horrible thoughts of leaving the tower.” Doing your best to reason with her, you shift your weight to the other foot and fiddle around with your fingernails, attempting to appear as innocent as possible. “And I think those paints are a much better idea than going out to see the lights.”

A few seconds pass before a groan escapes your mother’s lips. “You’re lucky Mother loves you dearly.”

You stumble into her torso, grateful that she is unintentionally following along with your plan—a tedious scheme that you were saving as a last resort. She strokes the crown of your head, allowing you to nuzzle your cheek into the comfort of your mother’s embrace before her immediate departure.

Goodbyes are exchanged with some more reprimands sprinkled into the conversation, then she scales down the building and is no longer in your line of sight. You rub the nape of your neck, inching towards the armoire as you ponder whether a trip to indulge in your greatest desires is worth it when weighed against the lifelong bond you have with your own blood.

While navigating through your moral dilemma, you twist open the knob and watch as the scruffy man’s body slumps down to the floor without the support of the door to hold him upright. You refrain from cringing at his reddened nose.

Prioritizing your safety first, you retrieve your trusty pan and manhandle his body onto a chair, the seat still warm from your mother’s presence. This time around, you won’t be able to attain the upper hand by catching him off guard, so you settle on tying him up.

The question is: with what? You have no reason to keep ropes casually lying around the tower and one glance at his bulging biceps assures you that sewing thread will not be enough either.

As you’re thinking about stuffing him back into the wardrobe until you come up with a better idea, the blond strands at the edge of your peripheral catch your eye. For the first time in your life, your excessively long hair proves to be of use.

When he is tightly restrained to the armchair, your tresses acting like a straitjacket around his torso and snaking around his legs, you step back to appreciate your work. Your eyes drift over his corded muscles and roam over his face once again.

Before you let yourself get lost in his model-like features, your free hand reaches out, palm outstretched, to slap him across the face.

You nurse the stinging pain ebbing atop your outermost layer of skin, cradling the appendage to your chest as you hiss out a low whine, although the sound is masked by the low timbre of a groan. Your body stiffens while you gawk at the stranger, watching him gather his surroundings, whipping his head back and forth before his chestnut orbs land on you.

Your grip on the handle of the pot tightens.

“Wha—”

“No! Uh, I mean, hush!” you exclaim, deepening your voice for a rather weak, intimidating effect. “I’m doing the talking here.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat before you can utter another word. His doe eyes bore into yours and you step back, instantly feeling threatened by the intensity of his gaze. He wriggles around in his restraints, testing his extremely limited range of motion.

A prolonged, slightly awkward, silence stretches in the air as you attempt to recall the interrogation questions you practiced while tying him up. Regrettably, you come up blank.

He rolls his eyes at your lack of speech, raising a single brow.

“Well?” he questions, seemingly accepting his lack of free movement and slouching comfortably against the back of the chair. “I thought you said you were gonna do the talking?”

You grit your teeth at his impertinence, shaking off the nerves of talking to another human being that was not your mother as you adorn a superficial, bold facade. Striving to exude the same persuading tone that all those mystery books depicted, you mimic the slow strides you’ve read detectives take around their suspects.

“How did you find me?” You round the corner to escape his unimpressed glare, circling around him.

In turn, he cranes his neck to peer over at you, bewilderment written in the slack of his jaw. “Find you? Who says I was looking for you?” He whistles lowly catching sight of your mane, “That’s some hair you got there. Is that what’ve you tied me up with?”

A scoff escapes your lips, unconvinced at his act.

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, marching back to the front of the chair to dramatically slam your hands down onto his bound wrists, effectively halting his faint wriggling. “Then why did you come all the way up here, huh?”

The dashingly handsome stranger’s tongue prods at his cheek, serving to rile you up further. Taking his sweet time, he inspects the space around him before his focus comes back to you, and he leans in, smirking devilishly. “Sure as hell wasn’t for you, Princess.”

At the odd nickname combined with the close proximity, a flush tints your cheeks and you take a few steps back. He chuckles at his small victory—a deep, melodic sound that sends your flustered state into a muddled craze of butterflies, threatening to burst from within. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at the man, more so to collect yourself than to unnerve him.

“Got something in your eye?”

You tilt your head back and grumble, exasperated at his lack of cooperation followed by his audacity to tease you further. “For your information, my eyes are working perfectly fine.”

“Good for you. Now, if you’ll just untangle me and give me back my bag, I’ll be out of your hair. Literally.” He grins at his joke, which you don’t find quite as funny.

“Like I’ll believe that.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll ask you again. How exactly did you find me?”

“As I said, Princess,” he jeers, his impatience made visible by the bulging veins lining his neck, “why would anybody be after your poor ass? I mean, just looking at the place, doesn’t look like you’ve got much else other than a bunch of hidden property and a shitty old tower.”

“Shitty?” You repeat, accosted at the stranger’s portrayal of the place you grew up.

He takes another look around the place as if to confirm his accusations before curtly nodding his head.

You glower at his blunt words, taking personal offence for the many hours you spent decorating, cleaning and doting over the building. “Well, I didn’t know we were expecting a rude guest. Then again, guests are invited inside, aren’t they?”

“Listen, you seem like the ditzy type, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. I got into a bit of a scuffle with some scoundrels and before I knew it, I was outnumbered!” he recounts slowly and melodramatically as if he is presenting a bedtime story to a child. “Then I stumble through some vines and find this gigantic tower!

“And to my surprise, rather than hidden treasure, this place has some naive, pan-wielding maniac at the top,” he concludes with a sigh, soundlessly implying that you should pity the unfortunate situation he stumbled upon—the unfortunate bit caused by your interference. All you feel is a burning itch to sock him across the face again, although that wouldn’t be too helpful in discovering his real objective.

His whole story sounds like pure bologna to you, but you feed into his obvious lies with a hum of acknowledgement. “Must’ve been so hard for you.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whines, a pout forming on his pink lips.

You flash a close-lipped smile and thrust the metal weapon centimetres from his nose with more force than intended, though it seems to do the job when you catch his eyes widen slightly before reverting to the same relaxed stare as before. His posture is evidently tenser than a few seconds ago, which builds your pliant determination.

“Either some truths are gonna come out of that smart mouth or you’re gonna take another nap,” You threaten, waving the pan back and forth.

“Okay, easy now.” The stranger bends his hands upwards by the wrists, waving his fingers down slowly, as though he were calming a raging bull. “There’s no violence needed in this okay? We can make a deal.”

The sound of his cooperation piques your interest, so you inquire, “What kind of deal?”

“First of all, can you lower that?” You comply with his request, although you keep the skillet in the air, ready to strike at a moment's notice if he tries anything funny. “Okay, Princess, how about you give me the satchel, let me go without any trouble and I won’t tell anyone about your little hideout here, hm?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m the one with the upper hand here.” If you two are to come to a compromise, you’re going to need more from the stranger than his word to keep quiet. “And I need you to take me to see the lanterns at the capital.”

A hacking cough morphs into a distorted chuckle in his throat. “Hm, you see, that would be a bit difficult considering the rocky relationship I have with the royals.”

You cock your head to the side, raising the metal menacingly.

His fists curl into balls as a strained grin stretches across his face. “But I guess we could make it work.”

Pleased with his compliance, you continue with your conditions, “You take me to see the lanterns tomorrow night, bring me back home in one piece and I’ll give your bag back. Then you can jump out of the window for all I care, just keep your mouth shut about this place.”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“Nope.” His lack of protest makes you giddy, and you allow yourself to credulously overestimate your influence over the man. It has to be that or your frightening frying pan, right?

“Then what’re we waiting for?”

A childlike wonder brightens your countenance as you speedily unravel your locks from around the stranger, whipping the bulk of it over the hook and out the window. With his newfound freedom, you catch him combing through miscellaneous trinkets and in fear of him identifying the location of his bag, you call out, “There’s no use, you could ransack the whole tower and never find your precious satchel. You’re better off fulfilling our agreement.”

Fitting your trusty skillet under your arm, you don’t spare him another glance and hope that your bluff is enough to deter his scouring. Thankfully, the clattering of objects ceases and he saunters past the vase with his dear bag inside. Your attention flits to the verdant scenery below.

You allow an exuberant screech to rip through your vocal cords while you effortlessly fly down, your body wrapped around your hair as though the strands have solidified into a firepole and land on the plush, vibrant grass with a bounce. The prickly sensation on your bare skin is not what you imagined the spindly plant to feel like, yet you revel in its oddities nonetheless.

Your companion follows along with less flair, steadily climbing down using the two arrows that were left between the stones. By the time he reaches the ground, you’re already feeling the consequences of sticking your bare feet in the mud by a river.

He rolls his eyes at your antics and darts off while you tread toward the water to wash off the muck between your toes. You swish your foot back and forth, watching the current run off with the dirt and avoiding the miniature fish that gather around you. Their bright orange bodies are stark against the rocks underneath, easy to spot due to the clear, crystalline stream that you’re splashing around in.

When one of them decides to start nipping at your ankles and the rest of his posse tag along, you wade deeper—searching for a grassy area to withdraw from their persistent suckling. As you’re scouring the landscape, enjoying the slight breeze blowing through your hair, you find yourself alone.

This doesn’t bother you at first, used to the notion of having only your own inner thoughts as company. You’re preoccupied with rinsing the brown stains that mark one section of your tresses and gather the clean, soaked mass into your arms before you realize that the tour guide you recruited has gone missing.

At first, you can’t believe he abandoned the precious crown that he appeared to cherish so greatly, but before you can think too deeply about it, a light smack meets the nape of your neck.

“Looking for me, Princess?”

“Stop calling me that,” you whip around, a glare directed at his triumphant smirk. “And where were you anyway? Not trying to run off already, are we?”

He raises his hands up as though he has been caught red-handed, although his digits are curled around what looks to be strips of tree bark and long strands of weeds. Just as you’re about to question him further, he crouches down and grabs one of your ankles, lifting your leg out of the water and closer to him. You yelp and shift your weight to rest on your other foot.

“What?” He secures a few layers of the rough wood to the sole of your foot, wrapping the flexible plants around the bark and expertly tying it at the top. “This is what I get for being considerate isn’t it?”

“Is considerate even part of your vocabulary?” you tease, the relief at his presence causing you to lower your guard.

He freezes halfway through fastening the second makeshift shoe onto your other foot when the orbs staring up at you light up with mischief. Changing position, he folds forwards then rocks back to stand up to his full height. “Ah, I see how it is. Then I would never do something so thoughtful, right?”

“I take it back! I take it back, just finish it up,” you beseech.

“That’s what I thought, Princess.” He bends over to complete the second knot then scampers off to the forest as soon as the job is complete.

As you test out the peculiar slippers—inwardly marvelling at the barrier they provide against the elements of nature—you vocalize your displeasure with the nickname he has taken to calling you, “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

His strides ease up from his hurried pace, shortening to compensate for your smaller steps. “Aw, does Princess dislike being reminded of who she is?”

“I’ve never heard of a Princess living outside of a castle before.”

He hums, tilting his head in wonder. “Is your tower not considered a castle?”

“Not when I’m the only one living there,” you mutter under your breath, although you’re not sure if he catches it or not based on his silence. Regardless, you change the subject before he has a chance to respond. “So are you gonna tell me your name or what?”

Sneaking a peek at his side profile, you catch the endearing crinkle that appears by his eyes when he grins. “What’s with the sudden interest? I mean, I understand the enthusiasm but—”

You strike his elbow with the bottom of the skillet and he whines like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just thought we should be on a first-name basis if we’re going to be travelling all this way together.” You amuse yourself by twirling the skillet around in your grip, acting as though there’s a gigantic pancake that you professionally flip onto its other side. “I would prefer my name over ‘Princess.’”

“I kinda like the ring of it though.” He winks at you, but you’re too invested in your cooking charades to notice. “You can call me Geum.”

“Geum? Like ‘gold’? What kind of name is that?”

“Ooh, someone’s judgemental.” Snatching the pan, he brandishes it around like a deadly cutlass in a seasoned pirate’s hand, bounding around you. He ends his show with the tip aimed straight at your heart.

“Just saying. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit… unique.” You halfheartedly brush him off, fighting to keep your grin from showing. As a side note, you announce your name.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

Before he can prance off, you pluck the skillet out of his grasp and tear through the dense bushes with your treasure. His war cry echoes throughout the expansive woodlands as he rushes after you, untangling your hair from lone branches as he goes.

To claim that your feet are about to fall off is a gross understatement.

You have been travelling alongside Geum for hours now without a single break. Despite the high spirits that you two kicked your trip off with, the elation from brushing against the silky plants, cooing at the wildlife that crossed your path, and inhaling the fresh scent of damp moss and wet tree trunks from yesterday’s showers wore off quickly.

You’re inclined to believe that your enthusiasm began to subside when Geum yanked you away from running your finger along one set of rich emerald leaves—narrowly avoiding what he explained to be poison ivy. Your curious hands have been cemented to your sides ever since that close encounter.

After your lively bickering dies down, rather than a peaceful, quiet walk, listening to the whispers of the wind and the pleasant chirping of the birds, the antsy man beside you puts you on edge. He can’t stop looking from side to side, trying to peer past the endless birches and elms that obscure your view.

Is Geum expecting someone?

Perhaps some parts of his story are true. Perhaps having a ruffian with other delinquents hunting him is not the best partner to accompany you on this journey—not that you have much of a choice in the matter, it’s either him or no one. You’re unsure which option is worse.

Any conversation you strike is met with teasing remarks, so you give up on prodding him for any substantial information. But with the sky darkening and the breeze turning brisk, you’re about to mention camping out somewhere when Geum says, “We should settle down for the night.”

“I never thought I would agree with something that came out of your mouth.”

“That’s why you’re wrong most of the time.” And there it was, another snotty retort that practically begs you to deck him with the pan you keep tucked in your underarm.

The quibble ignites a fire under your skin, the flames licking at your sides and providing some warmth amidst the chill in the air. “Most of the time? So you’re saying that you’re wrong sometimes?”

“Yeah, nobody can always be right.” He flashes a lazy smirk your way, adjusting the bundle of your locks in his arms. “Like when I said that your hair isn’t an inconvenience.”

You take a second to process his snarky words. With your mind occupied, stuck in a whirlwind of potential reprisals, you unintentionally head towards the distant outline of the castle when you approach a crossroad branching in two opposite directions.

Just as you’re about to let loose a nasty quip, his warm hand wraps itself around your wrist, dragging you away from the faraway mansion. You overheat at the source of the touch, thoughts going haywire.

“Hey, hey!” In hopes of snapping him out of his reverie, you raise your voice. “You can’t blow off our deal now, don’t you want your precious satchel back?”

When he offers no explanation for his cryptic actions, you attempt to pry off his fingers with your other hand—making sure not to trip over your own two feet while you’re at it. Your wriggling is all for nought because Geum’s iron grip is too durable to be outmatched by your fumbling digits.

“Geum, please just,” you plead, ceasing your struggle when the delicate skin in his grasp begins to sting from his strength, “let’s talk about this, okay?”

You’re so preoccupied with regaining your freedom that you don’t notice the dingy sign you two pass; a rubber duck with the words The Snuggly Duckling etched onto the wood. “Shut up and hurry.”

Your jaw drops at his insolent tone, astounded at his change in demeanour. There’s no playful spirit behind his words this time, only a sharp annoyance accompanied by his sudden haste that you feel all too strongly in your wrist. You stumble after him and duck your head through a small doorway, your mind caught up in formulating a coherent response that consists of sounds other than your outraged sputtering.

“Don’t tell me to—”

You’re cut off by the ruckus inside the establishment. Burly men surround the two of you, drinking, howling in laughter, practicing their aim with throwing knives—there’s even a large group of people fighting in one corner. The amount of blood streaked across the walls, their clothes, and pouring out of their open wounds is concerning. You can smell the metallic tang from the entrance.

When the hand around your wrist disappears, you find yourself yearning for the physical connection, serving as some kind of reassurance that he is not leaving you to the metaphorical, and sort of literal, wolves before you. In order not to lose Geum as he wades through the crowds, you latch on to the thin hem of his shirt. He pays you no mind and continues onward.

Skillfully slipping through the giants while you bumble behind him, you two arrive at a row of vacant barstools. You loosen your grip at the unexpectedly tranquil space, such a drastic contrast to the commotion in the background that it’s like you’ve been transported to another place altogether.

You’re brought back to reality from the loud grunt that booms throughout the joint, although you tune out again when you hear a punch being thrown, then a crack that you can only hope isn’t a bone. Or two.

“Uh, Geum?” you ask, although he pays your appellation no mind. His attention is focused on the intimidating, tattooed man behind the counter.

“Joon.” Your unofficial tour guide takes a seat. “A mead?”

Determined to stick close to the only familiar face in the building, you slide onto the seat next to Geum. The overwhelming scent of liquor hits you hard, causing you to crinkle your nose the exact moment that your narrowed eyes spot the bartender, Joon, awkwardly cough into his fist, trying to stifle his snickers for your sake.

“Just a water for her.”

While Joon confirms Geum’s order with a slight nod, you cast your head down to stare at your twiddling fingers. Your mind is still reeling from the abrupt change in scenery, unsure how to carry yourself in this new setting. It was no problem in the dense forest, with only Geum to judge you—but it isn’t like you’re trying to impress him anyway.

In here where hordes of broad men are gathered, drunk out of their minds with crimson staining their attire, you’re scared. Everything is too raucous, too rancid, too overwhelming. You’re uncertain whether the trip to the capital will play out as you’ve imagined and you turn towards Geum to tell him as much when—

“Was this from me?” You instinctively flinch at his tug on your elbow, although regret rushes down your back, clawing against your spine like ice-cold water when hurt flashes across his shadowed orbs. Before you can blink, it’s gone.

As a feeble apology, you offer a tightlipped smile. Referring back to his words, you examine your arm and grimace when you spot the blooming scarlet streaks encircling your wrist, taking the shape of Geum’s slender digits. “Oh, uh, don’t worry. It’ll fade.”

It’s not a lie since the marks will eventually fade. You hope it doesn’t turn black and blue before that though.

A clear glass is thrust your way, which you’re overjoyed to snatch from Joon’s hand, noting Geum’s copper liquor from the corner of your eye. Hours of travelling without any form of hydration definitely took its toll on you, evident by your severely chapped lips that you can’t help but swipe your tongue over every minute—not that the dried saliva is doing you any favours.

Before you have a chance to sip from heaven in liquid form, you’re halted by a gentle finger tracing the length of your forearm. Thankfully, you’re not as skittish this time around, remaining frozen until Geums pulls back; the pale, discoloured scar he was following having tapered off into your natural skin. “Where’s that one from?”

His strange inquiry confuses you with its unusually intrusive nature considering his inability to chat seriously five minutes ago. You pause for a second to debate on revealing the truth or constructing a comical narrative for the sake of avoiding a sombre turn to the light conversation. Despite your decision, your lips rebel, taking on a mind of their own. “A punishment.”

Bronze orbs snap up to yours, boring into the deepest parts of your soul and uncovering each of your secrets one by one as if they’re gems, buried within the layers of your lonely childhood. You’re transfixed. “Mother said it would remind me to never leave the tower.”

The condensation running down the side of the chilled cup meets the edge of your palm, sliding down your index finger and becoming a stark reminder of your parched mouth. You lift the glass to take a sip, but a taste renders your control inoperative as you guzzle down the rest, leaving not a single drop inside.

Your famished stomach makes itself known with a growl when your thirst is quenched. Attracting the attention of the bartender with a small wave, you ask, “Is there any chance you’ve got some food here?”

“We’ve got anything as long as you’ve got the coin for it, blondie.”

You shudder in alarm at the introduction of another patron in the bar. Leaning away from the repulsive drawl to your left, you shift over to position yourself as far away as possible. Seeing your discomfort, the stranger takes a few steps forward to invade your personal space once more and you recoil back with a jerk of your torso.

The abrupt motion messes with your centre of gravity, tipping you over the edge of the barstool. Just as you’re about to have an unpleasant meeting with the floor, a palm darts out to the small of your waist and steadies you. You follow the arm up to Geum’s clenched jaw.

“She’s not looking for anything that you guys can offer.”

Your throat tightens at your companion’s harsh answer, wary of how the other men will react. The burly man to your other side bursts out in obnoxious laughter and a glint of light reflecting off of his silver teeth catches your eye, which you recognize from earlier. He’s one of the goons that was involved in the fistfight near the entrance.

“As if you’re packing anything better.” He nudges his lackeys behind them and they chuckle along like they’re all in on one big joke.

“It’s not hard to top a baby carrot.”

Panicked at his provocation, you glimpse at the challenging smirk plastered across Geum’s lips. You aren’t sure why he’s trying to pick a fight or if there’s any logical reasoning behind his actions at all, but you tap on the arm still attached to your torso, conveying your opinion on his moronic pride with your widened eyes.

Of course, men will be men, and the little posse arranged behind the silver toothed boss riles their leader up, encouraging him with disgruntled yells and unintelligible speech to prove their dominance. With you in between the two blockheads, you’re sure that you’re not going to like how this plays out.

Dismissing your distress, Geum takes a sip of his drink. He seems unbothered by the commotion surrounding him and you envy his nonchalant demeanour.

“You got any bite behind your bark, pretty boy?” His lackeys change tactics, switching over to goading Geum on. You assume their greater numbers spark their courage, reassured that they could overpower one man. “Or are we just trying to impress this little miss right here?”

“I’m not sure if it’ll be very fair for you guys,” Geum says cockily, scrutinizing each member from head to toe then returning to his sweet mead. “I mean, just looking at you boys, doesn’t look too impressive if you ask me.”

If the atmosphere didn’t thicken with a fatal tension, you would have giggled at his smart mouth. But the other man’s nostrils flare in resentment, beginning to surge forward before he’s interrupted by a spindly boy who thrusts a paper below his nose. “Boss, you were right, it’s him.”

His unsightly features twist upwards in joy, displaying his horrendous set of chompers once more as he chuckles. That’s when you realize that a sinister smile can be much more frightening than any bellow of rage. “Looks like you’ve got quite the bounty on your head there, Geum.”

At the snarl of his name, your eyes dart to the wrinkled sheet in his hand which he graciously flips to face your direction. An uncanny depiction of Geum’s face is drawn, a sum containing many zeroes painted underneath his name. What appalls you the most is the red, bolded letters at the very top, distinctly spelling out wanted.

Geum is a wanted criminal.

While your mind is reeling, sight blurring and breath quickening from the influx of information, the man in question unabashedly finishes off the last of his alcoholic beverage and proceeds to slam the glass onto the counter. Through all of the clamour, you pick up Joon’s exasperated sigh in the background.

The door to the establishment flings open, hinges creaking as the wood bounces back from the sheer force of the blow. While everyone is distracted by the bustle, Geum stealthily hops off his seat, slipping an arm around your waist to soundlessly lead you to the other side of the counter. Although you’re reluctant to follow, you refrain from squabbling with him in order not to attract any unwanted attention.

“We’ve received a report that a well-known thief has been spotted in the premises—”

Geum kneels in front of the shelves lined with drinks of all shapes and colours, fiddling with something you can’t see from your position behind him. Following his lead, you crouch behind him, softly muttering in disbelief, “You really think they won’t find us hiding here?”

A click is heard as a few of the racks cave in on themselves, revealing a concealed passageway. Geum shakes his head towards the opening, silently directing you to enter first. You’re hesitant to accompany him any farther but you’re pushed forwards by Joon’s calf on your back and you understand that you don’t have much of a choice in the matter anymore.

If you’re caught now, you’ll be accused of being an accomplice to whatever crimes Geum committed.

You spare a thankful nod to Joon, stealing a glance at the guards blocking the entrance while you’re at it. Their white uniforms are decorated with accents of bright oranges and reds, a familiar flower fastened to the right side of their chest. One of them holds another copy of Geum’s wanted poster which you tear your gaze from, willing yourself to escape from this mess before thinking about anything else.

Geum shoves you through the opening, and you crawl through the underground passage as fast as you can in order to keep his pinching fingers away from your ankles. You two are far enough to safely whisper short phrases to one another, but he insists on being a nuisance as he urges you to pick up the pace.

It’s pitch black when the trapdoor shuts behind Geum, and you’re unable to make out your own hands in front of your face; with no other path in sight, you blindly head forward. As you continue, you pass torches burning with a bright fire that provide light, illuminating the stones around you and the shadows following you. You wonder how often this underground system is used to have fire running at all times.

Eventually, the tunnel’s height expands enough for the two of you to comfortably tread through on your feet. If you weren’t tired enough from walking for hours on end, the brutal jog which Geum sets is more than enough to tire you out within mere minutes.

“Geum,” you heave, unable to catch your breath with your chest fruitlessly rising and falling, never passing enough air for you to gather your senses. He’s too far to catch, effortlessly sprinting ahead, yet you still uselessly reach out to capture his attention. “Geum.”

You push yourself to the limit, another few minutes passing by before your powerless body can no longer handle the stress of the strenuous activity, and you slow down, coming to a full stop. One hand on the rocky wall steadies your dizzying sight as you hunch over, throat burning and stomach aching. Even though you try to remain standing, your legs involuntarily give out and you end up on the floor.

As you try to regain your breath, hands grasp your shoulders and gently shake you back to reality. Geum’s intense gaze is only centimetres away, torso bent to level with you. “You can do this, come on. We have to lose them.”

“I,” you huff, “I can’t… It’s… too much.”

Geum’s arms return to his sides, his brows furrowing as you watch the gears whirring in his head through your blurry vision. When he spins around to face the exit, you cry out in a hoarse voice, believing that he’s leaving your pathetic, crumpled form to fend for yourself—but instead of running off, he crouches to the ground with his backside to you. “Get on.”

In spite of your resolute will to arise from your folded position, your legs can’t seem to extend outwards in order to climb onto his back, which you convey by tapping his shoulder and pitifully shaking your head. Geum’s lips pry apart to respond, but his words are drowned out by the pounding footsteps that echo throughout the tunnel walls. He curses under his breath as he turns and scoops your fetal form into his arms.

All you can register is his natural woody scent enveloped in the sweaty musk that drenches his frame, your body clutched tightly to his torso as he races to the end of the tunnel. You grip his thin shirt in one fist, unfamiliar with the warmth fluttering in your chest, so you brush it off as another side effect from the arduous sprinting.

A bright light can be seen at the very end, but your eyes are locked on the well-defined jaw of the man carrying you as if you were as light as a feather, running as if your lives depended on it—which they kind of do.

You couldn’t differentiate the pounding of Geum’s shoes from the mob of guards pursuing you two. As you slowly recover from your exhausted state, the guilt of becoming a burden settles into the creases of your face, worrying lines etching onto your features from thinking about your impending fate.

Your thoughts wander to the reasoning behind this violent chase. By the fancier uniforms they sport, you suspect their position to be rather high, perhaps palace guards or ones belonging to the royal family. Reminded of the wanted poster clutched within one of their hands, the image stirs unease within the depths of your stomach that’s already stinging from the massive amounts of cardio you’ve done today.

Before you can connect any dots, you’re out in the wilderness again, although instead of the sun’s blazing rays on your face, the moon’s tender beams spill over your surroundings. The sort of serenity that accompanies the stillness of the later hours are interrupted by your rapidly beating heart, which is amplified by the pulse felt on your left side.

After a few more strides, Geum comes to a sudden halt.

“What’s wrong?” You tilt your neck to look at his face in curiosity. Although he doesn’t appear fatigued, his cheeks only slightly flushed from exertion and a few sweat droplets racing down his temples, you ask anyway, “Are you tired?”

The grip under your legs lower you to the ground and you stand in front of Geum, beginning to worry about losing your advantage over your pursuers. He doesn’t provide a verbal response to your questions, simply shaking his head and causing the tips of his hair to sway back and forth with the motion. The strands cover his eyes when he stops, but he doesn’t bother to brush them aside.

Geum’s shoulders slouch, heavy from the weight of defeat. You’re unnerved at his strange actions, turning to look ahead at the obstacle that’s forcing him to give up all hope.

You two are standing at the edge of a cliff.

Your knees buckle at the length of the drop, which seems never ending from your viewpoint. The tenebrous shadows of the night obscure the bottom, painting the jagged walls with uncertainty at any chance for survival. Your heart constricts as the despondency emanating off of Geum slithers its way into your rapidly diminishing resolution.

“When they get here,” he announces, bravery shining through his firm tone, “I need you to run as fast as you can. I’ll distract them, just focus on getting back to the bar. Tell Joon to take you somewhere safe and trust no one but him.”

You’re baffled at his complete change in attitude as well as his idiotic plan. There’s no trace of humour in his piercing orbs though, simply an obstinate determination that implores you to obey his orders. But you aren’t about to abandon the first friend you’ve ever made. “Are you insane? What do you think you can do against trained soldiers?”

“There’s no other choice.” He nudges your torso to position yourself behind him, both your backs to the cliff, watching the guards get closer and closer. Dread weighs ponderously on your limbs, the adrenaline pumping in your veins with every footstep marching to surround you two. You’re cornered.

The soldier closest to Geum unsheathes his sword and steadily approaches. You slip the rusty pan into his hand and he inconspicuously reaches back to pat your thigh, reminding you of his reckless scheme.

Seeing your defensive stance, the guard rushes forward, thrusting his sword forward to slice through layers of skin. Instead, the clang of metal against metal resounds throughout the empty cliff and your apprehension increases tenfold with your front row seat to Geum’s doomed duel, fending off a glinting sword with your rickety skillet.

Although he’s fighting well considering his enormous handicap, you spot more soldiers creeping their way into the skirmish, unable to stand and watch one of their own be bested in battle. Overall, the odds weren’t looking too great for your pan-wielding knight.

You have to do something. With Geum’s plan off the table, you can’t think of anything other than taking your chances with the cliff. You gather all your faith in the landscape, Geum, and yourself while taking a deep breath. Waiting for an opening within the clash, you cautiously inch towards Geum and when one particularly hard blow jolts both men back a few steps, you snatch up the opportunity.

Before another guard can take his ally’s place, you rush over to snake an arm around Geum’s lithe waist, tugging his back to meet your chest. During this process, he nearly elbows you in the face, writhing around in your tight hold until he recognizes your delicate hands on his stomach.

With the enemy frozen in confusion at your ostensibly desultory actions, you take advantage of their shock to stumble backwards, proving harder than necessary due to Geum’s long legs tangling with your own as you head towards the edge. You’re nearly there when one of the guards pick up on your plan to escape, jumping into action with his razor-sharp sword and waving it in a deadly arc that nearly slices both of your heads off clean.

Thankfully, you lose your footing on a slippery rock and tip over.

While airborne, any air is momentarily robbed from the heavy drop in your gut and a terrified shriek rips past your mouth as you lose your tight grip on Geum, utterly absorbed in your fear. The distance between you two grows, but because of his quick reflexes, Geum is able to fist a clump of your clothes in his hands and pull you into his chest with one hand resting on the nape of your neck.

You don’t have enough time to react to the new position before both your bodies are enveloped in gelid water. All of your nerves fire off, enraged at the sudden change in temperature. A violent shiver overtakes your limbs in a weak attempt to warm yourself up.

Although Geum’s palm on your neck withdraws to wade your bodies back up to surface, the grip around your middle only tightens.

The stream parts as you two float back up to meet the chilly air, greedily filling your lungs as you unravel from one another in order to paddle your way to shore. The current sweeps you along, aiding your furious efforts to reach the ground again.

Geum arrives at the muddy grass before you, swiftly lifting himself out and turning to fish for your soaked form. White puffs of your breath escape your mouths because of the low temperature, yet they dissipate as quickly as they’re formed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close your eyes and nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

The fire crackles alongside the chirping crickets, forming a peculiar orchestra with the breeze blowing through the rustling leaves. You extend your frigid digits as close to the flames as you dare, desperate for its warmth, yet recoiling from the sting of its heat all the same.

“Might as well stick your whole hand in there while you’re at it.” Geum emerges from the tenebrous thickets of the forest, making his way into the dull glow of the bonfire with a bundle of skinny twigs in his arms.

You’re drained from the day’s events, but you flash him a smile brimming with gratitude, appreciative that he’s intent on keeping the fire alive despite his inevitably numb appendages. You insisted on swapping turns, allowing his body to warm up a bit while you scavenged for wood, although he dismissed your offer multiple times, claiming that moving around was much more effective for him than any flames.

You’d have to disagree with him there. The burning fire feels incredible heating up your skin from the outside in.  

“If you take a second to come and enjoy the warmth, then maybe you wouldn’t be so moody,” You jest, rotating the fish skewers that Geum expertly caught in the river with a sharpened branch. By the slightly burnt edges, you suppose it’s ready. “C’mon, let’s eat before you head off again.”

He grunts his affirmation, depositing his findings on top of the ever-growing pile of wood and taking a seat on a fallen log located a couple of feet away from you. You allow the meat to cool down before separating the fish from the stick it’s impaled on and passing it to him.

“Is your hair dry yet?” He’s too preoccupied with forcibly ripping the fish in half to avoid scaling it, so he doesn’t catch your affectionate, lingering gaze.

You hum, grabbing a lock of your wet strands. “Not quite.”

He places his meal next to him on the log and leans over to take the bulk of your tresses in his grasp. You watch as he lays the blonde strands near the fire, quietly giggling at his strange logic.

“You think the heat is going to make it dry faster?” The appearance of his wide grin elicits the return of the bizarre tightening in your chest, a crushing pain that makes it difficult to breathe. You haven’t had a bite of the fish but nausea swirls in your stomach as your hands turn clammy and you rip your eyes away from Geum in hopes of collecting yourself.

Seeing your doubt towards his surely infallible rationale, his brows scrunch together and he pauses his movements in his perplexity, a distant look swirling in his eyes. He should be completely unaware of the turmoil raging within you, yet all your previous worries dissipate with the smoke of the fire as his face becomes increasingly wrinkled, flashing an expression more ludicrous than the last.

After you beg and plead with him to stop, cheeks aching from smiles and belly throbbing from laughter, he breaks out into his own set of snickers. More than satisfied, Geum grabs his fish again and begins to nibble on the meat inside. “You never considered getting a trim?” he asks between bites.

A few seconds pass as you calm yourself down from your hysterical state. “Never allowed to,” you answer, short and vague to keep the pleasant atmosphere.

“Allowed to?” His voice is laced with his astonishment. “Who’s telling you what to do at your age?”

Fidgeting with your own skewer, you ponder over an answer that’s precise enough to satisfy his curiosity, yet obscure enough to conceal your identity at the same time. Your eyes dart from side to side, following the light of the fire as it illuminates a wet, crimson stain on the sleeve of Geum’s jacket.

“What’s that?” you question, scuttling over to his log and sitting down next to him. To get a better look, you grab his elbow and pull it towards you.

“Nothing. Don’t change the subject.” He tries to shrug off both your concern and your hand that’s clutching onto his arm, which only makes you tighten your grip. At the increase in pressure, a low groan slips past his lips and you instantly release your hold at the sound.

“Does it hurt?” The memory of the guard wildly slashing his sword in the air comes to mind and you realize that although the blow didn’t cost either of your lives, his upper arm must have borne the brunt of the force instead.

“It’s fine.” He attempts to brush you off again, but you’re as clingy as a leech and refuse to budge from his side.

You latch on to the lapel of his jacket and tug. “Take it off.”

Despite your solemnity, his low chuckle sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Already asking me to strip? I’m not that easy, Princess. How about you take me on a date first and I’ll think about your offer?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, exasperated that he persists on maintaining his incessant teasing while injured.

When he finishes cleaning off one half of his meal, about to reach for the other, you move to stand in front of him. You dismiss the wild pounding of your heart to focus on slipping his jacket off of his opposite arm.

He puts forth no effort to stop you, although he’s definitely not helping much with his limp, bulky appendages that are a lot heavier than expected. Slowly but surely, you tenderly thread his injured arm out of his sleeve with careful hands.

The white, short-sleeved shirt he’s sporting underneath makes it easy to spot the splotches of crimson dyeing the hem of his sleeve through the dim, orange light. You approach his laceration delicately, treating him like a frightened animal. He snorts at your earnest actions.

Lifting the fabric covering the entirety of the gash, you gasp softly at the depth of the wound, grimacing as though it’s your own limb that’s been hurt. “You shouldn’t be moving around with this, you’re not letting it heal.”

“I’ll endure any pain to keep you close,” he whispers, sweet honey dripping from his words as he loops his other arm around your waist, effectively pulling you in between his open legs.

His chin is a mere few centimetres from your belly button, gazing up at you with a flirtatious wink as he perches his hand onto your lower back. You hold your breath, worried that he can hear the utter chaos erupting within your chest due to the close proximity.

Flustered, you push at his broad shoulders, desperate for some room to breathe. Geum flinches at your touch and you instantly regret your thoughtless behaviour. Your concern at the severity of his wound multiplies tenfold, feeding into a disquiet that nestles into every cell in your body. “I’m serious, it doesn’t look good.”

One hand falls into his lap while the other comes up to ruffle his damp locks. “Don’t get shy now, Princess.”

Taking in the defeated slouch to his back, the distant glaze that darkens his bronze orbs, you think about your hair. You think about how much younger your mother appears after she detangles each strand. You think about all the scars you’ve avoided throughout the years by singing a simple tune.

This man saved your life, and it’s time for you to repay the favour. You consider waiting until he’s asleep to heal his arm, plagued by the distress of being mistaken as a witch. Mother warned you about those kinds of people, who are ready to ruin your life in order to improve their own—anything ranging from taking advantage of your unworldly qualities to selling you for a pretty penny.

Mother always knows best. Right?

You peer into his expressionless eyes that stare holes into the dancing flames, the other uneaten half of the fish still laying untouched. From the limited time you’ve spent together, you shouldn’t feel this distraught at his pain, as though a chunk of your heart is bleeding out with him and leaving you in a puddle of your own misery.

But one look at Geum’s laceration and even a child could tell that the relentless stream would end his life before long. No matter how well he can conceal his shallow, rapid breathing, you begin to make sense of his sweaty, pallid countenance that shreds any remaining skepticism you hold against him—dismissing the wariness brought about by those wanted posters.

“Geum.”

His eyelids shut close at your grave tone. “I know. It’s fine.”

At your hesitant tone, he sluggishly spares you a placid, tame smile. You hate it.

The Geum you’ve come to know is exuberant, taking all his hardships in stride with a sly smirk to boot. He’s brilliant, craftier than any artist, and resourceful even in the face of despondency. He’s compassionate, extending his own neck to save yours, always sympathetic to your plight.

This Geum is hollow, a shell of the person you knew.

The crushed downturn of his doe eyes doesn’t belong to his captivating features. You yearn to watch that classic, mischievous glint sparkle in his irises as he taunts you endlessly, testing how high your pulse can spark when he invades your personal space yet again.

You take a seat next to him. “No, uh,” you stammer, “I got a solution. You just can’t scream or freak out or anything, okay? Most importantly, you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul.”

Before he can react to your cryptic warnings, you separate a lock of your hair, wrapping it around his wounded bicep. He raises a single brow at your strange antics but provides no further opposition. You’re pleased with the amount of trust he’s placed in you.

You close your eyes, and then you sing.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine,”

Starting from your roots, a golden glimmer races across the tresses of your hair. Bewildered, Geum recoils in his state of shock but remains rooted in his spot nonetheless.

“Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

He follows the scintillating shimmer in your strands until he reaches the portion wrapped around his bicep. You absentmindedly wonder if he can feel his flesh reconstructing, cells dividing at a rapid rate to close the smooth gash.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

Your lids slide open to stare at his wide eyes, his jaw hanging ever so slightly. You’re glad to see that his previously pale complexion has given way to his natural, lively undertone.

“What once was mine.”

When the last notes fade out, eventually overpowered by the lone hoot of an owl, you gingerly untangle your hair from the shell-shocked man. Geum slaps his other hand over the healed skin, his head rapidly darting between examining his arm and making absurd facial expressions that convey his amazement. From his naturally cool composure, you treasure this rare moment of awe.

“Wha—”

Your stressed squeak halts him in his speech. “Please don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself more so than you when he continues, “Not freaking out. What’s there to freak out about? I mean, magical healing hair? Completely normal.”

Your grin is filled with mirth at his nervous tone, and you lift his prodding digits from the site of the wound. Or at least where it used to be. “You feel okay?”

With all of your attention directed towards analyzing his healthy appendage, ensuring that your magic had not screwed up somewhere along the process, you miss Geum’s tender gaze roaming over every inch of your countenance. “Yeah, I guess I’m more than okay now.”

“I promise I’m not some kind of witch or anything like that. Just, uh, was just born with it,” you try to explain despite being in the dark about many of the nitty-gritty details yourself.

“Born with magical hair?”

You giggle at the absurdity of his question, although the validity remains true, it’s rather peculiar to hear it out loud. “Some of us are born with more talent than others. But that’s also why I can’t cut it,” you smile sheepishly, deciding to answer his earlier question now that your secret is out in the open.

“It turns brown and loses its magic.” You gather all your strands into one fist, pulling the mass to the side to expose the short, chestnut coloured strands underneath. You feel vulnerable and exposed with your neck out on display, sharing the fragility of your powers with a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours.

But it’s Geum, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger to you. “An overbearing mother is also part of the reason, but that’s a story for another time. Carrying it around can be heavy and the tangles can be brutal, but I guess it has its perks.”

He hums, stretching his torso to throw some twigs into the fire in hopes of enlarging the dwindling flames. “Yeah, I, uh…”

You stay silent, neither dismissing nor pressuring him into voicing his thoughts.

“My name isn’t actually Geum.”

A teasing smirk lifts the corner of your lips as you lean closer and nudge his arm. “You don’t say?”

He scoffs at your playful demeanour and pushes you back with one finger on your forehead. When your upper body is tilted away from him and your head is facing the starry night sky, he retracts his digit and speaks so softly that the noise is almost carried away by the wind. “It’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook,” you test it out, matching the syllables to the face. It’s a bit strange after getting accustomed to associating him with the name ‘Geum,’ but in a way, it complements him better.

“Yeah.” He pauses and you shift your body to study him, memorizing the slopes and angles of his side profile. His orbs reflect the flickering fire, engulfing the newly added branches in its blaze. “I just thought somebody should know.”

“Is Geum your alias... for when you’re being a criminal?” Although you’re hesitant to delve into the subject, especially right after he’s begun to unveil his true identity, your curiosity outweighs reason and you can’t contain yourself. You can’t say that you’ve never questioned the diadem hidden in his satchel.

Crowns don’t belong to convicts who run from justice.

You wait for his answer with bated breath, unintentionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth in anticipation. Please, Jungkook.

“If you’re trying to ask what I did,” he hisses, knuckles turning white from his clenched fists, “Yeah, I stole it. Those assholes don’t deserve their riches.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, his anger radiating off him in waves. You wish you could eat your previous words because of how furious he’s become, but you’re committed to finishing the job. “Are you talking about the King and Queen?” Your brows pinch together in your discomfort. “Was that their crown?”

“This is your first time out of that tower, right?” You confirm his inquiry with a quick nod of your head. “How much do you know about the kingdom?”

“Jungkook—”

He tuts, fixing you with a strict glare. “Answer the question.”

“Well…” While recalling all the knowledge you picked up from your mother and the few historical books within your collection, you fiddle with a strand of your hair and organize your thoughts. “The castle is located in the middle of the capital, said to loom over the entire kingdom with its height. After it was rebuilt to accommodate more space for the Prince, everyone, from poets to milliners, cried over the beauty carved within those walls.”

He expels a deep sigh, causing you to question the legitimacy written in those pages you recited. “I asked about the kingdom, not the castle.”

His question leaves you dumbfounded. The information you collected over the years is limited to everything inside that grandiose, opulent building. There was nothing about the land, animals or even the common folk.

A gust blows the smoke of your little bonfire towards you, and you blink rapidly to avoid any soot from lodging itself into your eyes. Jungkook plucks a large leaf from one of the plants nearby, lazily fanning the fumes away. “That cozy castle and the royal family sitting on top of it all couldn’t care less about their people. They rake their luxuries from our hard work when even one jewel off that crown could feed hundreds.”

You process the cold truth in silence, a shiver overtaking your limbs in spite of the heat in front of you. “Is that why you stole it?”

“I don’t care if they want to plaster my face all over the kingdom and put a bounty on my head, I’m not going to stand around and watch people die from their greedy hands,” he states, proud and resolute.

You’re torn between the anguish nipping at your heels and the relief washing over your head. Living sheltered in that tower, you had no clue about the perils outside your own stone walls, is this what Mother was trying to protect you from?

However, discovering the true nature behind Jungkook’s crimes restores your faith in him, and your shoulders relax as you crane your neck to peer at the stars again. With your curiosity quenched, you move on to another question. “So, how many people get to call you Jungkook?”

He follows your example, leaning back and revelling in the breathtaking sight. “Nobody knows my real name, everyone calls me Geum.”

Your jaw drops a fraction from the admittance, feeling rather privileged that he chose to share it with you. “Your family calls you that too?”

“Don’t have any,” he brushes off your sympathetic gaze with a shrug.

“Why the name Geum?”

You catch his tiny, forlorn smile in your peripheral. “I grew up hearing all about the royal family’s massive parties, overflowing with family, friends—people. They were never lonely. And since they were parading their money around, I thought that was it, that was the secret.”

The dejected tone in his voice clogs your airways and makes it difficult to breathe, stunning your motionless form into remaining as still as a statue, the magnitude of his sorrow sweeping over you in fatal waves.

“And I hoped that maybe naming myself ‘gold’ might give me some luck with that.” With his shoulders downcast, his eyes flicker over to you, gauging your reaction.

You desperately wish you could turn back time to console the young boy whose heart was too big to fit inside his tiny body. Although he’s grown into it now, you strive to ease his suffering by even the slightest fraction. “I think ‘Jungkook’ is even better for making friends.”

The edges of his lips flip upwards as he navigates his face to halt directly right in front of your own, pressing one hand to the other side of your farthest thigh and caging you in. “Would you be my friend, Princess?”

All your blood rushes to your head, warming your cheeks. In a futile attempt to preserve any of your remaining dignity, you shrink back to maintain some distance. But his smirk grows at the sight of your shy response to his advances, his orbs flitting down to your pink lips before returning to your eyes. He looks absolutely ecstatic over your flustered state.

His hot breath fans over your lips and you gather any rational sense you have left inside your muddled brain to push him back, missing the split second his confident facade cracks and a sliver of insecurity shines through. It’s instantly replaced by a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No matter what you decide to call yourself, I’ll always be your friend.”

Seconds seem like hours as the two of you stare at each other, seeking to uncover the words left unsaid. Jungkook’s palms press against his knees, pushing off of them to come to a standing position and effectively ending your little moment. “I’m gonna go get some more wood.”

You nod, staring at his retreating backside that ventures into the adumbral forest once more. Even though the perpetrator of all these complex emotions is no longer within sight, you feel unsettled from the mere thought of him, yet your heart yearns for him all the same.

“Oh, Petal, I thought he would never leave!” A distinctly high-pitched cry rings out in the empty space, a voice which you didn’t expect to hear until at least tomorrow night.

Your head whips to the side to confirm your suspicions. “Mother?” Her dark figure emerges from the shadows and your heart drops to your stomach. You fumble for the right words, at a loss from her unexpected appearance. “How did you—”

“The better question is how could you, Petal?” she corrects, continuing to step into the light provided by the fire. The once comforting flames turn harsh, sharp pops bursting forth from the aggressive combustion. She lowers her hood to reveal the disappointment etched into her youthful features—and without fail, the sting of upsetting her burns through your conscience. “Really, how could you betray your own mother like this?”

You stand, determined to explain yourself, “Mother, he’s different from the monsters you told me about. If you get to know him, he’s sweet and caring and kind an-and he isn’t after my magic!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, my naive, little Petal.” She tilts her chin up slightly, peering down at you. “Everyone is the same out here, all looking after themselves.”

You approach her within a few strides. “Mother, please listen to me, he’s different! Even though he puts on a tough front at times, he’s really considerate on the inside.” You fiddle with the tips of your fingers as you whisper the next part, “And I, uh, I think he might like me.”

The reaction you least expect is her startling outburst of laughter, powerful enough to fold her in half, and you wait for her giggles to quiet down before warily stepping forward. Your mother is acting awfully strange. “You think he likes you? And what makes you think that?”

You blanch at her ruthless words, wincing as though they assumed a physical form and punched you repeatedly in the gut.

Her maniacal snickers abruptly cease and a frown mars her lovely face once again, her expression one you recognized from previous reprimands, whether it was shattering a vase or begging to go outside. Your chin falls down to meet your chest, unable to muster up your faux bravery for any longer.

“I’m asking what gave you the idea that he would like some insolent, unsightly brat like you?”

You can’t open your mouth to respond, frozen in fear.

“Hm, what’s with the silence? You seemed so certain earlier, Petal. This is why you never should have left, look at this pitiful romance you’ve created,” she mocks, rounding your nervous form like a predator playing with their prey. “Let’s put him to the test then, shall we?”

Your head snaps up at her odd suggestion, eyes widening at the satchel she uncovers from behind her slim form. “You found it?”

She tosses the bag to you and you outstretch your arms—only to catch it a second too late. The bag drops to the floor and the flap flips open. You race to collect the sparkling crown that tumbles out, hastily shoving the diadem back inside before Jungkook wanders back, even turning towards the fire to ensure his continued absence.

“Why so scared?” your mother questions smugly, “I thought you said that he’s different from the rest of them?”

“He is!” you exclaim, rushing to defend him.

“Then give it to him, let’s see if he stays once he has the crown back in his hands. But don’t come crying back to Mother when he runs for the hills,” she snarls, lifting her hood over her short curls and withdrawing into the woods.

Your mind reels from your mother’s visit, but your concern lies with where to stash the leather satchel in your grasp. Dead leaves crunch under approaching footsteps and you examine your body, contemplating the best area for your idea.

Hiking the hem of your dress up to your stomach, you loop the strap of the bag through your left foot, twisting and repeating until it’s coiled around your ankle and the pouch snugly rests against your skin. You shimmy the satchel until the middle of your thigh where it refuses to go any higher.

Satisfied, you release your dress, smoothing the fabric down and confirming that nothing is suspiciously sticking out. You violently shake your leg back and forth to ensure there would be no future problems and sure enough, the straps tenaciously cling onto your thigh throughout all your testing.

“Hey, look what I found! He’ll definitely save us some travelling time tomorrow, but I don’t think he likes me much.”

Jungkook appears from the area your mother disappeared with an overwhelming pile of lumber in his arms. You stroll over to lessen the load, but he brushes you off and bypasses you to drop it beside the fire.

A white horse tromps along after him, trying to nip at the crown of his head while he shoos it away with a waving hand. The comical sight distracts you from the dreary thoughts of your mother, although the stiff strap wrapped around your leg forbids you from forgetting about it.

When you snap out of your reverie, Jungkook is cocking his head to the side at your unusually spacey behaviour.

You spare him a weak smile and shake your head.

Rather than sore feet, the next day your entire crotch is painfully numb from riding Maximus, the quirky horse who holds an obnoxious grudge against Jungkook for reasons unknown to you. While Max allows you to rub his cheeks, scratch his neck and run your fingers through his mane, he huffs if Jungkook so much as breathes too loudly.

Oddly enough, the stallion follows Jungkook around like a lost puppy despite his cold attitude. What is with males and their inability to show their appreciation for one another?

Jungkook insisted on being in front and taking hold of the reins even though Max refused to let him mount his back at first. After some caresses and loving words with the sweet animal, Max permitted you to hop on—which Jungkook was not pleased with. It was a nice change of pace to watch the ordinarily suave man lose his cool over a horse’s favouritism.

In the end, the only way Jungkook was allowed on was by sitting behind you, latching onto you for stability. The animosity growing between the two males adds to your amusement, so you remain unbothered by the hostile glares you can feel Jungkook throwing over your shoulder and the aggressive puffs of air that blow through Max’s nostrils every once in a while.

“Tell me how you found Max again?” Skepticism leaks into your tone, courtesy of Jungkook’s thieving habits.

You could practically feel his eyes roll back into his head as his arms tighten around your waist. His built torso is glued to your back, which repeatedly distracts you from the path ahead. “I told you that I was collecting some twigs off of the ground when this guy appeared out of nowhere! I was scared shitless.”

“You mean to say that someone accidentally lost their horse in the middle of the woods?” You glance sideways to peek at his chin, lodged into the crook of your neck. His face is merely a couple of millimetres from your own.

When he insisted on resting his head there, you had thoroughly embarrassed yourself with a flaming face, resembling a ripe tomato ready for the picking, coupled with your inability to enunciate any word properly. But after hours of his head smooshed against the side of your face or leaning against your upper back, you finally relax into his hold, finding comfort and safety in the appendages coiled tightly around you.

“Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

You scoff at the impish grin stretching across his cheeks at his own horrible excuse.

The castle comes into view in the ensuing half-hour, the imposing building no longer obstructed by the towering trees of the forest. Your spirits are dampened slightly by the cruel secrets Jungkook revealed yesterday night, although your giddiness at the prospect of living out your dreams makes you vibrate in excitement. You remind yourself that you’re here for the magical lights, not the castle.

The faint pounding against your back picks up speed for a reason drastically different to your own. He is essentially walking right into his own imprisonment—his wanted posters more than likely plastered across every flat surface inside the marketplace with soldiers littered around the premises. You gather the sturdy reins into one hand, freeing the other to hold Jungkook’s conjoined digits over your stomach.

Completely engrossed in Jungkook’s dilemma, neither of you notice Max racing into town until a screech pierces your ears. You apologize profusely for the spilled legumes that begin rolling away from the young woman, and you whip Max into trodding off before she curses you out.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of space between yourselves and the unlucky woman, you tie Max’s reins to a nearby fence and race to join the festivities carrying on all around you. Spotting Jungkook’s unsure form lagging behind, you dart back to tug on his wrist, flashing him an encouraging smile before lugging him from one stall to another.

You don’t get far before you experience a sharp pain on your scalp. With the large amounts of people bustling around the tiny square, your hair is a tripping hazard that you try to quickly bunch up into your arms. Your hair is way too long to carry by yourself, so you turn to ask Jungkook for help, though he’s nowhere to be found.

Your mind races to the worst-case scenario. The guards must have caught sight of him, capturing him off guard while you were none the wiser and now he’s going to be hanged for his crimes all because you were too stupid to—

A couple of little girls with flowers decorating their braids physically yank you out of your trance, their tiny hands gathering your multitudinous strands and dragging you off to the side. You’re about to protest against their actions, more concerned over Jungkook’s whereabouts than anything, but after catching a glance of said man playfully waving at you from a few feet away, you allow yourself to be whisked away.

The three girls deftly move from left to right, taking locks of your hair with them as they knot it all into one humongous five strand braid. When you stand up to your full height, you’re amazed to see that none of your hair touches the ground. Considering the hefty weight that pulls at the back of your head, you know this solution can’t last too long.

They scatter various fresh flowers all over, the scent of the blossoms wafting around your figure. As you’re appreciating their handiwork, an arm wraps itself around the curve of your lower back, drawing you into a herculean chest while you blow air kisses filled with your gratitude to the snickering girls.

Jungkook maneuvers you into a narrow alleyway, and you get a chance to admire his glittering irises from up close.

“Guards?”

He only grins.

You’re certain to keep an eye out for any wandering soldiers from that point on, with you pulling Jungkook behind crowds or him dragging you into the gaps between small buildings. Despite the situation being rather stressful with your lives at stake, your escapade is thrilling nonetheless and you enjoy being pressed up against his lean frame, carelessly giggling to yourselves.

Although neither of you carries any silver, window shopping proves to be equally as amusing—browsing through homemade accessories, toys and masks that you play around with, flashing ridiculous faces at one another.

The delicious smell of baked goods drifts through the streets and prompts your mouths to fill with saliva. You appreciate the artistry behind their beautifully decorated exteriors, adorned with colourful frosting and sprinkles. One booth catches your attention and you latch onto Jungkook’s hand to drag him along.

Rows and rows of shiny green bottles are positioned in perfect rows on a table inside the booth and plushies hang from the sides, acting as bait to any passerby. You tug on the hem of Jungkook’s dark vest, gesticulating towards the game with awe.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few silver coins that glint in the sunlight. Your eyes widen into saucers at his mischievous grin and you smack his arm, chiding him for his wandering hands as he assures you that he found them on the ground. When he goes as far as to insist that he saved them from being trampled on, you can’t help your tinkling laughter from escaping.

Perhaps it’s karma that prevents your rings from landing on top of any bottle, but the exhilaration of watching the rings soar in midair with a flick of your wrist as Jungkook’s chants fill your ears is priceless. Certainly more precious than any stuffed animal.

You two amble about the streets again, side by side. Long fingers intertwine with your own and your heart flips in your chest, suppressing the raging flush that threatens to colour your cheeks whenever Jungkook is involved. You look around your surroundings, trying to conceal the cheeky grin on your face, resembling that of a toddler with their favourite candy.

Before long, your travelling gaze takes notice of the people hunched over on the ground, concentrated on the stones below them. With a closer look, you discover the sketches littered across the stone pathways—some spanning the entire street and some smaller than your palm.

You bolt over to join them with Jungkook in tow. This whole hand-holding business is proving to be more useful than you thought.

There are pieces of different coloured chalk dispersed throughout the streets, and you pick up an orange one, urging Jungkook to do the same. He searches around for a bit until he decides on a white coloured chalk.

By the time you’re finalizing the tiny drawing you sketched onto the uneven stones, the stub in your hand is half the size of your pinky. Your joints ache from kneeling for so long, but you’re more than satisfied with the bright tiger lily staring back at you.

You stand up, brushing off of any stray rocks that have embedded themselves onto the bare skin of your legs and nudge Jungkook’s arm with your foot. He grumbles under his breath that you ruined the white blob he claims to be a bunny, but you jest that it was doomed the moment he picked up the chalk.

The retort silences him and you stretch your hand out to help him stand, grinning sheepishly at the pout on his pink lips. He accepts your peace offering, although rather than using your aid to get up, he yanks you downwards and your unstable body lands right into his lap. You squeak at his retaliation and wriggle violently in his hold as he curls himself around you, his chin resting onto your shoulder and arms wrapping around your torso to quell your futile efforts of escape.

“You like the nation’s flower?” He questions, nuzzling his face into your upper back.

“Nation’s flower?”

He hums his confirmation and you feel the pleasant vibrations on your neck before he’s nodding towards the purple pennants that dangle off of thin strings, stretching between buildings. Now that you’re actively inspecting the marketplace for the flower, you notice the continuous motif of the orange lily sprouting everywhere from decorations to paintings.

Jungkook seems to have abandoned all hope on his own masterpiece, for he lifts you up by your underarms and leads you away.

As you venture through the rest of the market, grazing through the various stalls, you examine all the knick-knacks depicting the famous tiger lily. It soothes you slightly, recognizing the flower decorating your walls back at the tower.

Lost in your trance, you don’t catch Jungkook slinking away, disappearing into the crowds.

As you turn the corner to browse the next stall’s wares, a massive stained glass window depicting a family of three catches your eye. The man appears stern with his furrowed brows and deep-set frown, and the woman’s forced smile fits awkwardly onto her face. She’s holding a tight bundle of canvas, a tiny face peeking through the layers of fabric in her arms.

Rays of the setting sun pierce through the coloured, translucent material and surround the art piece with an ethereal glow. You’re transfixed by the woman, reminded of your own mother’s delicate features.

You shake off the unpleasant feeling of your last encounter with her and analyze the three squares dedicated to the child’s crumpled face. The only noticeable detail you can make out is his chubby cheeks.

“Interested in the Prince?” A warm breath whispers into your ear, “Am I not good enough for you anymore, Princess?”

You spin around to face Jungkook, barely able to contain your delight as you examine the playful glint in his eyes. “Bold of you to assume there was ever a point where you were good enough for me.”

He scoffs, hands automatically coming to loop around your middle. “I know you’re not suggesting that I’m anything less than stellar company.”

You hum aloud, feigning contemplation by rubbing at your chin and a wide grin breaks his irked performance. He tries to hide his little slip by burrowing his face into the crook of your neck.

His soft cheeks on your bare skin along with his large hands squeezing at your sides elicit all your muffled giggles to burst past your lips. Pure, unadulterated glee bounces around your stomach.

Some of the lilies lodged within your golden strands fall loose and flutter onto the ground with the movement. You intercept one that drops from near your temple, plucking it out of the air and slotting the stem just above Jungkook’s ear.

He pulls away from subjecting your clavicle with his tiny nips in order to rest his forehead against yours. Your head is cradled by one of his palms and you watch as his heated gaze roams down to your lips. Entranced by his overwhelming presence, your eyelids slide shut as he leans forward slightly, tilting his head to the side before a meaty hand encloses around the circumference of your upper arm, yanking you away from him.

Panic seizes your muscles. Your heart threatens to shatter your rib cage with its fierce pounding. The soldiers. You extend your other arm to reach out for Jungkook—the same alarm piercing your flesh is reflected in his blazing orbs. Before he has the chance to rush after you, a dainty woman clothed in a primrose dress sweeps him away as well.

Barely a whole day has passed since you began running away from the soldiers, yet you’re more than certain that the soldier’s attire solely consisted of their royal uniforms, which did not include any flowy, pink garments. You whip back to your own abductor; a stout, jolly man with a cheshire grin stretching from one ear to the other.

He releases you in the middle of a swarming mass of people, moving their bodies left and right to the beat being pounded out on tabors and the sweet melody spilling from a nearby flute.

The man spins you around, encouraging you to let loose and sway your hips to the upbeat song as you’re handed off from one partner to the next. Somewhere within the chaos, you spot Jungkook’s longing stare and you subconsciously inch closer to his side.

The second that you two are within reach of one another, you dart into his arms. Just as you’re about to slip into his comforting embrace, a scrawny boy takes your place while an older woman wraps her arms around your shoulders. She wastes no time before guiding you into a dip, her palms supporting your back.

Upside down, Jungkook’s annoyed countenance is an amusing sight that you gleefully chortle at. Knowing that he is similarly distraught at the prospect of being unable to dance together soothes your aching desire and you savour the thrilling experience of moving as one part of a greater whole.

You prance and twirl your heart out as if it’s your last time. And you’re sure that it will be.

Eventually, both of you are able to slither your way out of the dancing crowds, and the cheers die down the farther you get from the main square. The sun is rapidly falling past the horizon and the capital is shrouded in the deepening twilight. You assumed that he would lead you to see the lanterns about now, but you’re clueless as to why you two are heading away from the castle.

“Jungkook?”

He turns back to you with a breathtaking smile resting on his lips, the dwindling light casting an otherworldly radiance around him. Reaching for your hand, he intertwines your fingers with his own as he leans down to softly bump his forehead against yours. “You’ll see.”

Jungkook directs you towards the moat that surrounds the marketplace, ushering you into one of the many gondolas lined up against the dock. You narrow your eyes at him and he attempts to reassure you with a simple, “We’ll bring it back.”

This man will truly corrupt all your morals.

But you’re so entranced in his spell that you follow along without more than a tiny squeeze at your interlaced digits. You release his hands before he jumps into the boat, the wood swaying back and forth under his weight, worrying you instead of the unbothered man a few feet away. As you take a sharp inhale, about to follow in his footsteps, Jungkook grips the sides of your hips and lifts you into the gondola with him.

You fix him with a reproachful glare at his unexpected actions yet the silent scolding doesn’t last long, for you’re hopeless to the sight of his elation, sticking to him like a second skin. Powerless against his charms, you sit on the thin wooden seat on the other side of the boat and watch him grab an oar, dipping it into the water and propelling you two forward.

You want to admire the unobstructed view of the sparkling night sky, but nothing can beat the galaxies hidden within Jungkook’s eyes, thus you try to seem as inconspicuous as possible in ogling him from your peripheral. However, your futile efforts are rather pointless considering your position, facing the handsome thief rowing the boat at the other end.

You think the title is fitting since he’s stolen your heart without a problem as well.

Once he deems your spot satisfactory, Jungkook strolls over to your side, taking a seat on the bench across from you. His legs slot in between the spaces of your own.

“Now that I think about it, it’s the Prince’s eighteenth birthday too,” he states. “He must be pretty excited, taking over the throne and everything.”

You perk up at the news. “He’s succeeding the King?”

“Mm,” he affirms, wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “King announced an early retirement or something because they’d already found the Prince’s betrothed. His coronation is today.”

You nod your understanding, thinking about the responsibilities bearing down on the poor boy. “It’s kind of weird to think about, y’know, being the same age and even sharing the same birthday but leading completely different lives. He’s about to get married, lead a country and me...” you falter, pausing to string your thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Well, this is my entire dream. Seeing these lights is everything to me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re living your own life, on your own journey. Comparing yourself to others does nothing but rob yourself of your own happiness.”

You hum with a teasing lilt to your tone. “Suddenly the boy who named himself ‘gold’ in the hopes of attracting some friends is giving me advice?”

He breaks out into a chuckle, doubling over and laying his forehead on your shoulder. His hands reach out for the locks of hair resting on your lap, plucking one of the flowers swimming in your strands. Like Hansel and his bread crumbs, many of the blossoms that fell off throughout your time in the marketplace left tracks of your whereabouts. Only a few flowers remain with you.

With the delicate daisy between his thumb and index finger, he rolls the pads of his fingers against each other, spinning the white petals so fast that they blur together into a splotchy circle surrounding the yellow centre. Once he becomes bored with the flower, he lifts his head and stretches his arm out with a classic smirk that heightens his flirtatious nature. “For you, my lady.”

You huff at the offering. “You act as if it wasn’t already mine in the first place.” Despite your sharp words, you gingerly pluck the stem out of his grasp, fingers brushing against his own. When you raise the daisy up to your nose, the invigorating floral scent startles your senses once more.

With not much else to occupy your time, you decide that now is a better time than ever to dislodge the wilting buds from your tresses. You face the side of the gondola overlooking the water, grabbing onto the ledge and leaning forward.

You muster all the grace you have within your bones to place the ivory daisy onto the water’s surface. The flower drifts along the calm current, painting the atmosphere with a tranquil serenity.

Despite your best efforts to suppress them, your clumsy tendencies shine through when you tip your torso over a smidge too far, losing your balance and diving headfirst for the water. Jungkook is quick to latch on to your wrist, steadying you before you accidentally throw yourself overboard.

You’re sheepish in both your apology and thanks. To avoid any further mishaps, one of his hands remain on your lower back and the other collects the remaining blossoms in your tresses, handing them off to you.

A slow rhythm develops between you two and your raging thoughts come to a standstill, a red light halting the traffic within your mind. In front of you, a garden of assorted blossoms assembles, floating gently towards the ornate castle. One sprout catches your eye.

A tiger lily.

Directly below its long petals, a flash of bright red catches your eye in the reflection of the water. Jungkook’s deep voice cleaves through the soft sloshing of the water. “The lanterns.”

“It’s…” You struggle to piece together proper words to describe the sight before you. One lantern lightens the dark sky, drifting alone in the expansive space before a bunch of others race to join the first. Their warm, yellow glow overpowers that of the moon, painting the landscape in an orange tint that seems to welcome you into its embrace.

“Beautiful.”

You’re too distracted by the enchanting sight before you to notice his eyes trained on your profile, and so you soundlessly agree with a nod of your head. It’s as if time has ceased in its endless ticking, halting in its tracks for another world to open where only you and Jungkook exist.

You don’t mind the idea as much as you think you would.

“I have a surprise.”

You turn over to face him, head tilting in curiosity. He carries a paper lantern in his open palms and your brows furrow at his attentive, considerate behaviour. “Jungkook?”

“We should join in on all the fun, right?” A genuine smile illuminates his soft features instead of the usual smirks he casually throws your way. Oddly enough, despite your inability to operate in front of his flirty personality, you adore both sides equally.

“Kook, wait.”

He perks up at the nickname, reminding you of a dog with its tail violently wagging back and forth—you can’t help but be enamoured by him. You raise the hem of your dress up to the middle of your left thigh and he sputters, looking away. “Hey, hey! I know I’m pretty irresistible but this boat is not the place to—”

“No, you idiot.” You snicker at his unexpected timidity, shimmying the coiled strap down your leg and covering your decency once again with the fabric. “I have something for you too.”

He peeks at you, ensuring that you’re sufficiently clothed before turning to face you. A cold sweat settles over the outer layer of your skin as you watch his brows raise at his satchel in your hands. Keeping the lantern in one hand, and his steady gaze focused on your eyes, he gently pushes the bag down to the floor of the boat, the metal of the crown banging against the wood.

“All I need is you,” he whispers the words into the empty space of the night, the syllables getting lost somewhere within the mellow breeze blowing by. Your heart constricts at the reassurance that this time, Mother is wrong. You fight back the tears gathering at your waterline and grab the other edge of the lantern after he lights the candle inside.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod and the two of you slowly lift your arms to release the lantern with the masses drifting above you. After a bit, you lose sight of your paper lantern and you glance back at Jungkook to ask whether he was able to keep track of its location, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you become captivated with the childlike wonder buried within his orbs, roaming over the sky and examining every single lantern at once.

His scouring eventually leads him back to you. He catches you staring, but neither of you care enough to break the moment. His eyes soften and you two shuffle forward on your seats, being pulled toward one another like magnets. Your legs entangle with his in the cramped area and you lean forward until your lips are millimetres from one another.

From this close, you have a perfect view of your reflection within his brilliant irises, the shallow scar that runs along his cheek, the cute birthmark right under his mouth. His eyes are locked on your mouth and you take that as the go-ahead signal to close the gap and slot your lips against his soft ones.

With your evident lack of experience, Jungkook takes control immediately, a hand flying to the back of your head, threading through your hair to keep you in place as he sucks at your lower lip. His tongue swipes at the closed seam that blocks him from your mouth, and you instantly open up to clash tongues, although you shrink back soon after, letting him explore your hot cavern.

You sneak a peek at him every time you two separate for air, confirming that this is indeed reality and not some product of your wild imagination. He invades all your senses and keeps you locked to him like an addict desperate for their fix, his other palm searing through your clothing with its heat and burning a hole through the thin fabric of your dress.

When you finally pull away, you feel feverish and dizzy as a raging blush colours your cheeks. You can’t find it in yourself to look directly into his eyes, but he reaches for your chin and forces you to study the haze of passion in his gaze.

Every part of your body is lit aflame from his touch. Hooked on the feeling of his plush lips pressing against yours with your tongues swirling in tandem with one another, you’re about to lean in for more when his eyes dart off to the side and he abruptly jerks away as if you burned him with your embrace.

His startling jolt snaps you out of your dazed state. With your head out of the clouds, you notice that the lanterns have already moved onto the next town over, taking their warmth with them. The fire within you, kindled by Jungkook, dwindles with the uncertainty of your future together.

Without so much as another word, Jungkook snatches the oar from the bottom of the boat and jumps back to his position at the front of the gondola. He urgently paddles the two of you back to land and you fumble for words. “Jungkook, I—”

“It’s not you.” His statement is reassuring in writing, although his tone is detached, distant in a way that crushes the passages to your lungs. Lost in your dejection, you’re powerless to prod him for any more information than that.

Before the boat can hit the edge of the dock, Jungkook springs out with his leather satchel tucked under his arm, pausing to mutter, “I just—I have to take care of something. Please believe me when I say I’ll be back.” His anguish leaks into his voice and you will yourself to nod, a forced smile on your lips. “Wait for me.”

He dashes off with your heart in his hands. You steady your shaky breath and place your faith in him, the man you have come to trust with your life.

You spend the next half hour struggling to get out of the gondola, craving the flat land to ground yourself. By the time you manage to clamber out, there are a couple of discoloured blotches on the length of your dress that put your many failed attempts on full display. You fan one of the bigger spots to help it dry faster, but the fabric becomes chilly with the extra wind and a shiver slips down your spine from its icy temperature.

Languid footsteps approach your frigid frame and you brighten up, forgetting about the cold. “Took you long enough. Y’know, for a second there I was worried you’d actually lef—”

You pick up more than one pair of feet advancing on you and your eyes widen at the lanky, redheaded twins that stop in front of your path. Cursing your quivering limbs, you cringe at the tremor in your voice when you ask, “What did you do to him?”

They simultaneously snort at your question and the one on the left replies, “Sorry about this, lass, but you’re gonna have to come with us.”

The blood drains from your face and you repeat, louder, “What did you do to him?”

“Aw, don’t get all riled up now. But don’t worry your pretty little head, we’re going to take you right to him.” They corner you back to the dock and you scramble to locate a weapon to defend yourself with. At your wit’s end, you prepare to jump into the murky waters.

However, before you get the chance to move another muscle, an intense pain blooms at the back of your skull, wrapping around to your temples accompanied by a flash of light exploding behind your eyes. Then everything goes black.

Your head pounds as a dull ache nestles itself deep within your bones. Your vision is nothing but a blurry, indecipherable mess of colours, so you opt to keep your eyes closed instead. You’re kneeling on cold tiles that rub your knees raw when you subtly shift into a more comfortable position, discovering the existence of the shackles around your wrists and ankles.

“—nd the girl. We expect you to keep your end of the deal.” The rugged tone that speaks is one that you recognize from before your blackout—one of the redheads.

“Yes, yes, all the charges laid against you have been cleared,” a high-pitched voice meets your ears and you subconsciously grimace, physically recoiling from the sound. Thankfully, your sharp motions go unnoticed. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” You hear shuffling nearby, the rustling of clothes getting farther away from you. The distinct, metallic sheen of a couple of swords being unsheathed follow and the footsteps come to a sudden stop. “You promised us gold.”

The woman scoffs, “Now why would I give you crooked-nosed knaves anything more than a death sentence?”

Many polished boots clamber against the ground with such force that the vibrations can be felt through the flesh of your folded calves. The grunts and garbled screams that ensue are silenced within seconds and two hefty weights hit the floor with a limp, lifeless thud.

“A pleasure working with you boys.”

There’s more shuffling, then something is dragged past your crumpled form. The throbbing across your cranium worsens and you’re incapable of fending off the blissful oblivion of desolation any longer, thus you surrender to the darkness once more.

The next time you open your eyes a harsh light coats your surroundings and the blocks of colour are clearer, sharp enough to decipher the intricate detailing painted on the tiles beneath your knees. Someone chokes on a wet cough, and your eyelids snap shut once more. Your nose crinkles in disgust as well.

“Her tiny skull should have been rolling through these halls eighteen years ago.” The woman’s wretched tone fills your ears, words full of deadly poison.

You remain chained, kneeling against the ground with your head lowered. A numbing sensation lingers no matter how much you fidget in place, bearing down your limbs with the weight of your useless nerves that refuse to fire off.

Another, deeper, voice responds, “Tone it down. Her magic is powerful, the advantage we hold over the other kingdoms is colossal with this kind of sorcery on our side. If she falls, the whole empire will fall with her.”

Sorcery? Although you can count the number of people you met on one hand, you’ve studied heaps of books and drilled your mother with enough questions to know that your magic is unique and rare—a product of alchemy that occurs merely once every millennium.

“I see no point in keeping her around when we cannot access her magic at our will, she is as good as worthless to us. That halfwit of a sister was incapable of locking this churl in a tower for long enough, and look at her now, running around, wreaking havoc with a criminal.”

Your mind swirls with the sudden barrage of information, unsure as to why these two strangers hold deep insights into your life, as well as the knowledge about your unusual hair.

“There is nothing to worry about, Jimin is on the throne. We will simply send her away once again,” the gruff voice states, exasperation clear in his tone.

A deafening thud reverberates throughout the spacious room. Helpless to the dreadful fear swimming in your veins, your body shudders in response to the noise.

The woman shrieks, clearly at her wits’ end, “I want her dead! Guillotine, hang, drown, burn, I could care less. She poses a threat to Jimin’s throne with her existence, and we have gone through too much to have our plans foiled by this knave. We were merciful enough in having my imbecilic sister continue to meet with Jimin throughout the years.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh before the man answers, “Have some heart, darling, that is her son you speak of.”

“In the eyes of the people, he is my son and the King,” she seethes. Her enmity is strangely familiar, yet you fail to identify the woman through her voice. “Quit acting as if I am the only sinner here and remember how much we both sacrificed for our blood to inherit the King’s throne.”

“It is not your blood though, is it, dear wife?”

The tension within the room is thick, palpable in the dense air in the way that makes breathing difficult. “You must have enjoyed sleeping with my sister more than I believed. Do you want to call her back here? Play a good husband and wife for the counterfeit King?”

You couldn’t keep the tremours from breaking out over your body as your breaths quicken and an abundance of liquid races to your eyes. It was all beginning to come together, but you wait for the two to confirm your suspicions.

The man chuckles with hollow intent. “Do you fail to recall your own words, pleading with me to follow this foolish scheme of yours? I would have much rather preferred a foreigner rule the kingdom alongside our daughter.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said eighteen years ago.”

You let out a choked sob, unable to repress the sounds of anguish that tears at your skin to brutal shreds. Enraged rivulets stream down your cheeks, and you lift your torso to stare at your legitimate parents. They turn to you, the man distraught and the woman with pure disgust.

“How—” you stammer through your heavy wails, “how could you?”

“So the Princess found out.” Your biological mother raises from her royal seat, storming over the short distance to your trembling form. “Fine, we can strike an agreement.”

She reaches behind your head to grab a handful of your hair, yanking your head up to peer up at the exquisitely decorated ceiling. When you yelp in pain, she crouches down to your level, baring her pearly white teeth as she threatens, “Leave. Be a good little girl and go hole yourself back up in that tower. Don’t worry, Mommy will come get you if we ever need that magic of yours, hm?”

You desperately wriggle around to loosen her hold, but she only grips your strands tighter, pulling downwards to introduce more pain to your scalp. “That thief will stay right here to ensure you keep up your end of the deal, alright?”

At the mention of Jungkook, your heart stutters and your expression morphs to that of despair, momentarily forgetting about the strain to the sensitive skin of your head. “Where is he?”

She smirks and snaps her fingers. The door to the throne room is pulled open with a loud clack, and Jungkook’s weak, bloody form stumbles through the grand entrance, hanging upright with the help of two sturdy guards.

“Kook,” you achingly howl.

“Mopping all his blood off the floor would be terribly tiresome for the maids.” She jerks your head down to bear witness to the sneer stretching across her lips. “It’s all up to you, really.”

“Let me heal him!” you agonize, sobs ripping through your chest, burning through every tissue to the outermost layer of your skin. “Pl-please, please let me heal him. I’ll leave, I won’t say a word, I’ll do anything you want—I’m b-begging you, please.”

The wicked smirk playing on her lips grows wider at your pleading. She shoves your head away, the momentum of the push throwing your whole torso over to the side, bringing about a harsh meeting with the floor. With Jungkook occupying every crevice of your mind, there’s no space to register the pain pulsing through your groggy body.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You scramble to your hands and knees, disregarding the scrapes and bruises littering your limbs. Despite your tunnel vision directed towards reaching Jungkook, your movements are sluggish from the extended period of time spent kneeling in one position.

The guards supporting him release their hold on his arms, and you scramble to catch his limp frame in your arms, but your depleted muscles can only manage to soften his fall with your body. You detangle yourself from him and hurriedly begin wrapping your hair around his torso.

Your jaw trembles at his damp locks, sodden with sweat and stuck to the side of his head dripping in crimson. The vicious colour oozes out of the deep gashes you locate across his back, peeking through the tears in his shirt and stains the bloody spit drooling from the corners of his cracked lips. Great purple welts fill the rest of his exposed skin, completing the heart-wrenching picture before you.

You pick up the weak croak of your name, and you hiccup from your fierce laments at his red-rimmed eyes. “Guess I was right all along, Princess.”

Your mother’s cruel words follow the nasty glower she shoots his way. “Shut up or we’ll end your pitiful life now, you filthy criminal.”

“Jungkook, I’m here,” you reassure him, beginning to wrap your excess strands around his arms before he stops you with a stained hand. “Jungkook let me—”

“Stop,” he mutters, gripping his side in pain.  

“No! I can’t—I can’t let you die.” You grit your teeth, disobeying his words and going to wrap your tresses around his broken body once more.

“If you go back there,” he coughs, an alarming amount of blood spurting out, “then you’ll—”

“It’s fine, everything will be alright, okay?” You press your palm over his hand and the icy bite that greets you hardens your resolve. “We’ll figure it out.”

You take a deep breath, readying yourself to sing the incantation engraved into the back of your mind when Jungkook’s fingers graze your cheek. You unconsciously lean into his touch, examining every crimson stain marring his delicate features.

His doe eyes soften at your orbs roaming his face and when your gaze settles on his thin lips, he snatches the chance to land a peck against your mouth. The fleeting kiss fills you with greed, and your eyes flutter shut despite your rationale as you dip towards him for another.

You halt, gasping at the gut-wrenching sound of your tresses being severed from the base of your neck, the noise snapping you back to reality. Your eyes widen at Jungkook’s relieved countenance as his torso reclines to the ground, the sharp dagger in his hand rattling onto the tiles beside him. When you reach back to assess the damage, your hand grips onto the short strands that reach no further than your shoulder.

You glance back at the heaps of dead, brown hair sprawled across the palace floor and your mind wipes clean of any coherent thought. Instead, your chest caves in on itself, breathing made impossible because of your collapsed airways and you choke out, “Jungkook, what did you—”

“What an absolute halfwit, does he think he did anyone a favour with that little stunt of his? Without your hair, we have no need for either of you.” Your biological mother laughs, the notes turning ominously maniacal towards the end. “Kill them.”

Guards immediately surround you two, and in a weak attempt to protect him from their pointed swords, you cradle Jungkook’s powerless form to your chest. You prepare yourself to bear the end of their piercing blades.

“What do you roaches think you’re doing?” she seethes, blazing orbs flashing with white-hot fury. “I said, kill them!”

The gigantic doors burst open again, but this time, a lean man strides forward. His blond strands are neatly styled away from his forehead and the regal red robe hanging upon his shoulders elegantly sway after him. The soldiers part ways to make room for the intimidating man and one of his retainers at the door announces, “The King is here!”

You struggle to even out your frantic breaths, thankful for the distraction that grants you a break to rack your brain for a method to escape the dreadful situation you two have found yourselves in. Debating whether you should fight back, sneak away or plead for forgiveness, your eyes dart wildly around the room. A woman donned in a black cloak lingers slightly behind the King, gazing at you with a murderous glare that sends pin needles into the thin lining of your stomach.

“That’s enough,” the King states.

“Jimin.” The former Queen races up to him but is stopped by the retainers that encircle the King.  “What business do you have here? There are more important matters for you to attend to.” Her eyes narrow at the sight of the woman behind him.

“No, I think this has gone on long enough.” He sweeps his gaze over to the two of you, Jungkook barely clinging onto life, nestled within your protective embrace. The woman latches onto his bicep, her head vigorously shaking back and forth, yet you’re uncertain whether her disagreement will relieve your anguish or worsen it.

Despite her insistence, his head nods in your direction and the woman that raised you begrudgingly marches up to you, barely acknowledging your presence in favour of pressing her palms against Jungkook’s open lacerations. He winces at the pressure and just as you’re about to tell her off, you discern the thick gauze that rests between her hand and Jungkook’s side, the sterile white shade expeditiously being replaced by a bloody crimson.

“What are you talking about, dear?” the former Queen asks, a hard edge to her tone. “These two are hedge-born lowlives, simply not worth your time.”

He crinkles his nose in disgust, flicking his hand towards the former King and Queen. “Lock them up in the dungeons.”

Both their eyes widen comically, jaws dropping to the floor. However, you can’t find joy within their despair when Jungkook’s survival is still up in the air.

The woman sputters, recklessly thrashing her body to escape the soldiers’ grip. The man simply lowers his head, seemingly having accepted his fate as he follows the guards without another word.

“Did you forget who put you in that throne, Park Jimin?” the woman screeches, the blood vessels lining her neck about to implode. “How dare you disrespect your pare—”

“How could I ever forget your treacherous actions?” he spits out, disgust lacing his voice, “How could I ever forget how many lives you’ve ruined, dear aunt.”

“We did it all for you!”

“You did it for yourselves,” he hisses. Relief trickles through the tips of your fingers, spreading across your body like wildfire from the King’s aid. “Get them out of my sight.”

“You worthless—” Her shrieks echo throughout the halls, though you’ve long lost focus in their conversation after watching the two wretched souls being punished and put in their rightful place.

Your aunt passes some thick bandages from inside the bell sleeve of her cloak. You gratefully accept the offering, pressing it against his lower back—wishing that it’s not too late, that Jungkook has not lost too much blood yet. The passive stare that your aunt fixes you with crams your head with doubt and you begin to panic, bringing one of your hands up to cradle his face.

Although you’re convinced that you wailed through an entire year’s worth of sobs, the tears sliding down your face refuse to stop, dripping down and landing onto the dirtied skin of Jungkook’s cheek. You press your forehead against his, hoping against hope that some magic remains within your body, that the tiniest bit will reveal itself like a bag trick and heal his wounds.

But your magical hair was extraordinary enough, and this is no fairytale.

“Get those two to the physician’s,” the King orders.

Guards scramble to action, ripping you apart from Jungkook as you unsuccessfully attempt to resist being separated again. You’re absolutely spent from the tiring events of the past couple of days and your weary legs give out as the soldiers lift your drained form into a standing position.

Jungkook is moved onto a sturdy sheet, then carried away past the double doors and out of sight. Your flimsy arms wrap around the shoulders of two guards as they assist you in following Jungkook to the physician, passing the King on your way.

His plush lips stretch into a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile, but the adrenaline from earlier wears off and the sting of your own wounds drains you of your manners, uncaring that you’re facing the King. Thankfully, he dismisses your discourtesy instead of beheading you, and you’re hauled away from the gracious man.

On the way, you’re close enough to overhear what he mutters under his breath. A garbled scream rips through your throat in protest, and you shoot the King the deadliest glare you can muster. He releases a deep sigh at your childish antics, waving as you turn the corner.

“Poor guy doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

You spend the next few, rather tedious, days in a luxurious bed, being fretted over by everyone from the maids to the chefs. It was difficult to indulge in the extravagance that the castle had to offer when you were anxiously awaiting news regarding Jungkook, which they refused to disclose until your own condition improved.

After all the pampering, you were permitted access past the confines of the expansive room you were forced to recover in. Your injuries were minor in comparison to Jungkook, thus you were granted freedom much earlier than him.

Not like he was capable of stepping outside of his room anyway.

Although his body is repairing his torn flesh incrementally, he shows no signs of consciousness—not the twitch of a finger, the flutter of an eyelash, nothing. Doubt claws a bit higher up your torso each day, waiting for the moment that the disquiet slithers up your esophagus and suffocates you.

Despite the crushing news of his coma-like state, you work diligently to ensure that neither you nor Jungkook becomes a burden to the castle by picking up various duties. Jimin continuously waves off your attempts to help, but you’re restless and desperate for a distraction from wondering about Jungkook’s condition all the time.

Jimin banned you from performing some of the maid’s tasks once, then sorely regretted it when he had to tend to your nervous breakdown in the afternoon. Since then he has kept his comments on your excessive working habits to himself.

Today you’re in Jungkook’s room, dusting off the spotless shelves that house the many herbs being grounded into powders and rubbed as a salve onto his injuries daily. You organize the rolled bandages for the second time in the past hour and mop every inch of the floor.

You can’t devote yourself to lingering by the unconscious man’s side for too long, otherwise your mind gradually begins to spiral into every possible worst-case scenario and you simply can’t handle the reality of a future without him. It sounds overly dramatic—many of the maids you have grown close to over the months claimed as much when you brought up your journey together.

But they didn’t hear his melodic laughter that followed his teasing smirks when he said something flirtatious, effectively making your heart skip a beat. They didn’t feel his hand always reaching out to make contact with you in some way, craving your touch to ground him to reality. They didn’t see his eyes softening when he gazed at you as though you were holding his entire world in your eyes.

They didn’t know Jungkook the way you did.

You strain the mop of its excess dirtied water before stowing the tool away in the storage room. When you return, a draft filters in through the open window and you race over to close it, worried that Jungkook may catch a bothersome cold that will delay his healing process.

You take a seat on the lavish mattress adjacent from his thighs as you stare out the window in front of you. The air remains stale in spite of the fresh breeze that blew into the room seconds prior, and the dull atmosphere persists due to the lifeless man inhabiting its space.

You’re uncertain how many more times you can handle walking into this room with his weak body lying motionless on these pristine sheets, but you will endure it all without complaint for him. A knock at the door catches your attention, and you twist around to meet Jimin’s friendly beam. “How is he?”

“Same as he always is,” you state, allowing yourself to take in Jungkook’s sunken cheeks and pale face. “Unresponsive.”

“You wanna join me in the gardens for some fresh air?” At your unsure raise of a brow, he convinces you with, “You’ve been cooped up in the castle the whole day.”

The both of you head out to view the lush scenery outside, seated amongst the blooming tulips, although your eyes are drawn to the lilies that border the lilac cosmos. You trace the familiar shape of the orange flower with your pupils, reminiscing on the doodles decorating your room’s walls back at the tower. That seems like forever ago now.

Other than his lack of consciousness, Jungkook’s condition remains relatively stable and yet you still find it burdensome to stray too far from his side. The staff is under orders to instantly notify you should he arise while you’re away, but that doesn’t ease the disquiet that rouses whenever you leave the castle walls.

You’re convinced that the second you wander off, he will wake up without you there; a thought too unbearable to consider. You crave to lose yourself within his molten ember orbs once more, exploring the undiscovered galaxies in his gaze.

“These past few months must seem unfathomable,” he starts, pressing his lips together to ponder over his next words before continuing. “I don’t know how my mom treated you in the tower but, knowing her, I’m guessing it wasn’t too great.”

His casual mention of the affectionate term you pleaded to call your mother for ages—the topic she despised almost as much as you begging to venture outside the tower—stung the slightest bit. From her actions, it was evident that she never cared for you as much as her own, biological son, but it was difficult to dismiss the joyful memories you shared with her, no matter how few and far between they were.

“She started visiting me a few years back, explaining all their horrendous crimes and insisting that she was the only one I could trust. She told me about you, too. Your mother ordered her to lock you away in that tower and ensure that nobody ever found out the truth in exchange for my seat on the throne. ”

Your head lowers at the information, brows furrowing as you contemplate your true relationship with the woman that raised you from birth.

“When my mom caught word of you travelling with the thief, she returned the crown in hopes that Jungkook would run for the hills, and you would be left to come back with her. Her goal was to overtake the kingdom from your mother.” His eyes gloss over with a distant sheen and you sympathize with him; the boy was used as a tool, just like you.

“It’s reassuring in a way.” His strange admittance prompts you to glance up at him, confusion swirling within your orbs. “At least we’re both suffering from our family’s despicable actions.”

Our family.

His optimistic viewpoint hits you like a wave crashing against the shore, sharing his vast fortitude and washing away a fraction of the sombre agony tormenting your heart. Although Jimin’s life was no doubt disparate from your own, you two are connected through the blood running through your veins. Even if those same bonds brought you to a tragic meeting with your own wicked parents, at least you could rely on one person within your family.

The edges of your lips curl into a tiny smile aimed at the blond man across from you, your own short, chestnut coloured hair providing a stark contrast. “I’m glad I can rely on you, Jimin.”

He readjusts his weight on the green, iron chair and leans forward to rest his elbows on the metal table between the two of you. “I think this is the first time you’ve called me by my name without me having to remind you.”

You quietly giggle at the memories flooding your mind, from the hostile attitude you first approached him with, then the days he comforted you over Jungkook’s motionless form, to Jimin demanding that you call him by his first name. You consider yourself extremely lucky to have someone as gracious and compassionate as Jimin to be your half-brother.

“I know we’ve already gone over this,” he starts with a serious edge to his tone, “but this is your last chance.”

You rip your gaze away from the plants to lay a couple of light pats to his hand. Despite the lack of context, the topic is familiar to you, as he has gone over this with you many times. “No, I don’t want the throne. You trained for this position your whole life, so I’m entrusting the kingdom to your capable hands. All I ask is for you to fulfill my request.”

Jimin releases a heavy sigh. “If you really want him free of all his crimes, there’s no way you two can live within the capital.”

“That’s fine with me.” You shrug your shoulders, unconcerned about the prospect of having to leave the busy city. “I don’t think I could live somewhere like this anyway.”

You don’t expand on your reasoning, and he doesn’t question you further, simply sparing you a solemn, understanding gaze. Supposedly, you aren’t supposed to pick favourites within your family, but Jimin is definitely golden in your eyes.

“Deeply sorry to intrude, Your Royal Majesty, but your betrothed is at the door and wishes to meet with you.” A guard inches his way towards your table with his head bowed, hands respectfully gathered behind his back.

Jimin looks to you with an apology on his tongue, but you wave him off before any explanations can spill from his plump lips. “Go get your girl.”

A bright smile enlightens his features as he springs up from his seat, dusting off his uniform before bounding after the guard. When he quirks his head back, you demonstrate your encouragement through a thumbs-up that you wave from side to side until he is satisfied, facing forward with a gleeful snicker.

You inhale the outdoor air, about to head inside yourself to rearrange Jungkook’s bandages again when your eyes wander back to the tiger lilies that caught your eye earlier. Within a few strides, you reach the vibrant buds, stretching your hand out to pluck a few stems. The sweet smell invades your senses.

With a tiny bouquet in hand, you make your way back inside, the metaphorical load on your shoulders a bit lighter than it was before. You expertly maneuver your way through the halls towards Jungkook’s room with the dwindling hope that today will be the day that his honey orbs reflect the sun’s light filtering in the window, filled with the mischief and tenderness that you remember.

When you’re met with his unmoving form instead, another sliver of that faith shatters into tiny shards.

You shake it off and head back to the windowsill, where an empty flower vase rests. The lilies within your grasp are carefully inserted inside and you place the bouquet back onto the tiny platform. Their floral scent wafts throughout the space as you take your place beside his legs.

As part of your usual routine, you use this time to relax. Just for a moment, you give yourself the room to breathe, giving your brain free rein to feel the emotions raging within you and fantasize about your future with Jungkook. You imagine yourself in a tiny cottage, craving a quaint place to live after the immense tower you were raised in.

The two of you would settle down there, adopting a pet to keep you company before you inevitably brought a few children into the world. Their genders didn’t matter, as long as you could raise them with Jungkook, forming a tight-knit family that shared all the love the both of you lacked growing up.

A warm hand wraps around your wrist. Your head snaps to follow the direction of his arm, curving into his broad shoulders, and past his sharp jaw with your heart in your throat. Tears gather at your waterline, spilling over onto your cheeks as you hiccup from the sudden sobs that overtake your body.

The doe eyes that stare back at you carry your whole world in their weight.

+ epilogue.

Tiny footsteps scuttle around the wooden floors, screaming in delight from being chased by a much larger, yet still very childlike, man. “Betchya can’t catch me, daddy!”

Your husband playfully roars at the taunt, speeding up his strides to snatch the little girl up into his arms. She shrieks at the hand that comes up to tickle her little torso.

“Okay, okay, enough playing you two,” you command, calming the baby boy in your arms that becomes far too excited from the chaotic energy erupting within your cottage. “It’s dinnertime!”

“Dinnertime!” your oldest repeats, violently wriggling around in her father’s grip to force him in lowering her back to the ground so that she can run to her spot at the table. She looks from side to side, doe eyes flitting back to you with a pout on her lips. “But where’s Pascal, Mommy?”

You pass the baby to Jungkook, freeing your hands in order to bring the steaming hot food from the stove to the table. The beige chameleon fades back into his natural emerald colour once you grab him by his scaly torso, dropping him into your daughter’s awaiting hands.

Her squeaky voice chides, “You can’t hide from Mommy.”

A boisterous, yet melodic neigh notifies you of Max’s presence in your backyard, and you shamble past the wooden door to hand the carrots you prepared for him. He snorts in delight as he lowers his head to the floor and begins chomping away. At the sight of his dirtied mane, you take a mental note to give him a thorough wash and brush later on.

Before you head inside, you catch sight of a blond man making his way towards you. “Jimin!”

His eyes reduce to two crescents from the wide grin that occupies his face. He swapped out his imposing robe for a commoner’s shirt and slacks, and they strangely suit his lithe form better than his bulky uniform.

“And where’s our lovely Queen?” You tease, elbowing him when he reaches out to ruffle the top of your head.

“Taking care of things that I don’t want to do.” You two snicker, ecstatic to see one another, and you step aside to let him coddle your children. The slight breeze in the air gingerly kisses your face, rustling the leaves on the trees surrounding your tiny house, and you close your lids to relish in the tranquillity of nature.

A pair of familiar arms curl around the shape of your waist and a smile creeps onto your lips as you open your eyes to examine Jungkook’s face, inches away from your own. He brushes your brown strands over your shoulder, leaning in for a quick peck as a loud chorus of disgust is vocalized behind you.

Both of you break out into giggles at your daughter’s behaviour and turn to face your family waiting for you inside. With your hand tangled with his, you walk to a brighter future together.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #btswritingcafe #heartsforbts #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts au #bangtanscenery #btsgoldnet #ficswithluv #goldenclosetnet #cypherwritersnet #bangtanhq

[house-of-galathynius]

Only You ~ Rowaelin

A Rowaelin fanfic, set if Aelin’s parents had lived and she had met Rowan under normal circumstances, if Erawan and Maeve weren’t threats. Hope you enjoy! 

Chapter One 

Prologue: The Night Before

The moon was high in the sky as Aelin made her way through the palace courtyard and towards the river that ran beyond. It was well past the time anyone would be out here. She was confident in her abilities at keeping hidden as she strolled down the path and stopped as she reached the waters edge. 

In the winter she wouldn’t even hesitate at crossing the river. Terrasen winters were harsh and bitterly cold. Parts of the river where it flowed slowly would freeze over from mid-December until February. But it was September, and that meant the water was running freely; so Aelin had no choice but to jump in and swim quickly across. If it wasn’t for her fire magic that was able to dry her off within seconds, she would hate that crossing more. 

She checked behind her, ensuring no one was following and quickly made off into the night. 

The walk from the palace into the city itself was not long if you were taking the normal route. For Aelin, she would have to go the long way round; traipsing through thick brush and woodland to reach the edge of the city. 

After too many scrapes and close encounters with the ground she saw the distant lights of the city. As she entered the city walls themselves she marvelled at the white stone buildings and the way they glowed in the moonlight, the streetlights flickering in the shadows. It was louder here, the taverns only just opening for the night. A group of Fae stumbled down the street, arm in arm, laughing at each other. 

Aelin knew she was privileged, to live in a palace, to have maids and cooks and cleaners. She was happy there, with her family. But sometimes, when she would sneak off to see Sam, she wished she could have a life like this; a life of freedom, to do what she wanted whenever she wanted. The stolen moments with Sam were ones she cherished. 

She approached the large store front, a dark wooden sign hanging above the door reading Little Library of Orynth. The real library of Orynth sat above the city, it’s walls protected with magic to ward off any unwanted attention. And whilst Aelin loved that library, she came to find the old librarians there to be too strict, too stuffy, to fully enjoy the books they held. 

She had found Sam’s library years ago; when it was not Sam’s library. Her father had taken her there to browse the collection of romance books which were not available elsewhere. Since then, she had come back more times than she could remember. 

Sam had always been there, in the shadows of the towering shelves and the dusty books. It hadn’t been until she was eighteen and Sam twenty that they had crossed paths properly. They had bonded over their mutual love for a series of books and had continued from there. It had been two years and every moment she had with Sam was precious.

She gave a few gentle taps on the oak door and waited. It was only a few seconds later when Sam was there, a smile on his face, dust covering his clothes and his hair messy. His classic look. 

“You really need a haircut.” She grinned at him and placed a kiss on his cheek. 

“And you really need to learn time management.” He kissed her right back and pulled her into the darkened library. 

“I was trying to get away sooner, but Aedion was complaining about his new training—“ she trailed off. “You don’t need to hear about Aedion’s boring life.” 

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer. She took in his scent, old books, leather and a faint hint of lavender, before bringing her lips to his own. 

She lost herself in the softness of his lips, the way he caressed her head as she leaned into him. Her hands found his hair and slid through the messy locks. 

Sam broke away first, his hand finding her own, and slipping his fingers through hers. “I have a treat for you.” 

“I hope it’s chocolate. Kasper has me on a diet.” Kasper was her trainer, and he had put her on a new diet, to try and curb her appetite for sweets. 

Sam laughed. “Kasper can try, but we both know you will not be stopped when it comes to chocolate.” He continued walking, up the stairs and into the apartment above the library. It was rare to find somewhere like this in the city. Most buildings would house two or three shops over several stories; people’s homes were found just outside of the city walls, tucked away amongst the foothills of the Staghorns. Sam had been lucky. The old man who had owned this place before him had converted the floors above into a large, airy apartment. The ceilings were high, dark oak beams jutted across the ceilings, the walls a light beige, and the floor an old herringbone design, worn with years of footsteps. There were little touches of Sam dotted around; a painting he had purchased on a trip to the Southern Continent, a large rug which Aelin had bought him for his birthday. Scattered amongst his things were her own. Books, shirts, a hairbrush which perched on the mantle. She could imagine living here with him, and sometimes it hit her that none of this was permanent, that her love with Sam would one day have to end. 

“It’s not much, but I found it when I was digging through some old trunks of books I found.” 

Aelin snapped away from her thoughts and looked towards Sam who was holding a badly wrapped book. She took it from his hands, turning it over, shaking it to check that it wasn’t, in fact, chocolate. 

“What’s the occasion?” She sat on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. 

“Does there have to be an occasion for me to get the woman I love a gift?” She blushed at the words. It was still felt foreign to her, the concept of love, and the idea that she was in love with Sam and he with her. And every time he said he loved her, it would fill her with a warmth that she couldn’t describe. 

She hastily unwrapped the book and her breath caught in her throat. “Sam… this is—“ she opened the cover. “This is too much.” 

“I saw it and immediately thought of you. It’s from Eyllwe. I remembered you used to have a friend from there and you had always said—“ 

“I love it, Sam. Thank you.” She swept her fingers over the patterns and ridges of the leather, admiring the detail in the small book. The fact he had remembered Nehemia, that he had remembered what she had meant to Aelin… her heart swelled. 

She didn’t know what to say, so she showed him instead. Slowly peppering kisses along his jaw, lower. 

And lower.

He moaned at the feel of her. A sound that sparked something within. The lazy touches became faster as they both raced to take the others clothes off first; which were hastily thrown to the floor, neither caring where they landed. They were wrapped in each other’s embrace, their mouths moving together, Sam’s soft hands caressing her curves leaving warmth wherever he touched. Her breath was heavy as she let Sam pull her across the room, never straying too far from the other. 

They were moving towards the bed; groans mixed into the frantic kisses, their touches fevered and rough as they made up for the two weeks apart. But Sam was gentle as he laid her on the mattress, his eyes devouring her. She heated at his touch, as he showed her all the ways he had missed her. 

And when they lay there later, Sam’s head on her shoulder, his fingers trailing patterns along her skin, she didn’t think she could want anything more than she did right then. 

The two of them dozed on and off, until Aelin’s stomach growled. Sam huffed a laugh at the sound. But neither of them made to move, they stayed wrapped in each others arms for a while longer. Sam was the first to break the silence.

“Run away with me.” Aelin balked at the invitation. Turning her head to look at Sam. He was looking back at her. “I know it’s insane; but just listen…” 

He stood from the bed, rummaging to find some pants. Aelin watched his movements as he made around the room gathering up papers and books, before he laid them on the bed in front of her. “I’ve done my research. We could head to the Southern Continent and with the money I have saved and the inheritance from Terrance I can buy us a house with enough land for horses, enough room to raise children. It would be perfect, and the Southern Continent is beautiful, I know you would love it, Aelin.” Of course she would love it. And she was sure she would love the life that Sam was proposing, but in her soul she knew that it was a dream, one that would likely never be able to come true. She hated to ruin the bliss they had been in, hated the look on Sam’s face as he saw her hesitation. She shook her head once, clearing her mind, trying to think of the easiest way to say that his dream would always be a dream. But the words didn’t come. 

Sam spoke again, “I know it’s insane. And you would be giving up a lot, I know. But there are other people who can take the throne Aelin.” He took her hands in his, eyes wide with excitement. “People have given it up for less.” 

“What of my family, Sam?” Aelin stood then, grabbing the clothes that were strewn across the floor. “I love you Sam; you know that. But it’s one thing for me to be sneaking around with you here in Orynth, but to runaway from here completely?” She shook her head. “I could not do that to my family… to my kingdom.” Sam’s face fell, she saw the defeat in his features. “Is it not enough that we have each other right now?” 

“Of course it is. But then what happens when you have to marry, when you have to produce heirs for the throne?” This had been a conversation she had wanted to avoid at all costs. She would be expected to marry, and her family would certainly not let her marry Sam. There was also the other small problem of her immortality. “We pretend that everything is perfect, we have our stolen nights, and we ignore the dark cloud that has been over us since we began this thing.” 

“Can we not do this now? Please.” Aelin put on her shoes. “I have to go. Guests are arriving tomorrow and I need some sleep.”

“So we’re not going to talk about this?” He looked so hurt, so devastated at her leaving. 

“Not tonight.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you soon.” 

And then she was gone.

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin ashryver #aelin ashryver galathynius #aelin galathynius #rowan x aelin #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction #sam cortland #orlon galathynius #evalin ashryver #heir of fire #queen of shadows #empire of storms #kingdom of ash #tower of dawn #sarah j maas #sjm #sjmaas #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #only you rowaelin

[youarevalidblog]

Chapter 6: You Can

The scenery was the most pleasant in the morning, sounds of the birds singing, and warmth heat from the sun embrace another morning. My foot seems like has their own mind and they automatically walk to that place. It is still the same old memories. Time passed by but seems like a seconds ago. Still want to stay, I pick up all the dried leaves scattered along the whole place and felt completely alone. Only few people were here as it is not yet time to come. The wind blew that send shivers down my skin as if it whispers: it’s okay, we are fine. At that exact moment I cried a river, my hands are shaking so violently as if everything happened only yesterday but when I finally managed it, it felt surreal, I felt the love, the longing for a care of somebody who would tell me it’s okay. It’s very comforting even if it is only in my mind.

I took my time, lay down and fall into a deep sleep. Desperately wanted to be in the past I dreamt of them, pictures scuttled in my mind but could only be for the meantime. When reality hits, I pulled myself up and got a last glance at my parent graveyard, yes I lost them for life.

They took them away from me unprepared, too soon that I was not able to understand and accept it. Years had passed still a coward for not facing the reality. I run away from it. Still beating myself up and blamed uncertainties for their death, for not having decent edibles on the table and for not being a good daughter that they could.

Decided to run away from my dark hole, I went to another side of the country and chose to continue my study. My life goes in a rugged way, sleepless nights, numerous side jobs to sustain my studies. Until I earned my degree and put up own business. Definitely everything won’t go according to your likings, there was a time that I almost lost it. But still I hold unto my inspiration in heaven. I prayed and prayed until I feel it is okay. My business is doing well and I have met a man. He was an American and way back then he was still wearing his military uniform looking good and manly approached me and everything goes smooth and lovely. We were given a beautiful daughter that looks exactly like his father. By this time, I totally understand why my parents are very strict towards me. I really do. I am now starting to leave a peaceful life and accepting things that we can’t really handle and that only him knows. I am living my most life by helping persons who are in need, guiding my daughter and loving my husband. And yes it seems like life goes so fast when you are enjoying it but a vice versa when you feel like carrying all the burdens and problems around. And in just a snap of time, history repeat itself and this time my brokenness doubled. My husband and daughter died in an accident, they are dead on arrival on the hospital. My world totally stopped. I could not hear anything; my vision became blurry, I can’t accept the fact that for the second time around my loved ones left me without a word. I was even worse than a dead man living.

This time I did not cry. I became numb. Instead what I did is laid in bed remembering what I did wrong to deserve this miserable life of mine. Took a lot of thinking, once again, after decades of ignoring and fooling everything, I decided to come back to my home, to where my parents only showed me love and protection. I breath and calm myself reminding to not to cry. I looked upon our home, now all new designed upon my likings since I decided to renovate it years ago. I cleared my mind from everything that is stopping me to move forward. I am starting to forgive myself this time. I started to move on. I seek for a psychiatric help for me to better understand things that I can’t understand anymore. But I realized that what would really help me is no other than myself. Yes, still ourselves. I allowed myself to be angry but I don’t let it last. Because before, I let other people and my distressed mind behold the truth. I felt ashamed of what I become so I stayed under the dark shadow and got afraid of what other people will say not minding that there would also be someone who will look upon us. Plan what is ahead of you, plan your future with the power of your belief, words and positivity it can change your outlook and your life.

By that, I have learned to be human again, to feel the loving grace of life, the emptiness within me was filled once again by burning passion and desire. It is a second chance indeed, I can rekindle with my old friends and only god could take over my life, ever again. Same goes for you, do not let them interfere in your mind, do not get lost.

If I can do it, you can also do it. Because in life nothing is impossible, think, aim and believe. You can make it.

#youarevalid #inspiration #story

[raven-of-domain-kwaad]

Fine, I give up

Fictober #4 (Am I a day late? Yep. But I didn’t plan on keeping a real schedule anyway. Just wanted to try and write)

1 ABY. Kalarra, the head of the surviving Kine-Rist family recovers some family secrets and puts up with a frustrating companion.

-

Kalarra Kine-Rist was not in a good mood. Admittedly, she had not been in a truly good mood for about a year, not since the destruction of her homeworld.

It was odd, thinking of Alderaan as her homeworld. She had never exactly cared about the planet itself. Her family had used it as a safe haven to escape the Republic and Jedi extermination of her people. It was never meant to be anything more than that. And yet somehow Alderaan had become important to her.

Maybe it was the shock of feeling most of her family die through the force. Maybe it was the anger at learning that those responsible had taken the name of her people for themselves. Maybe she was just human and had come to care for the place that her family had lived for three thousand years.

“So, you going to share your plan with me then or what?”

And maybe none of that mattered when she had a damned ex-jedi assigned to accompany her. Damn Alliance Intelligence and damn that prick in charge, Vernan. She had given them incredible amounts of accurate and actionable intelligence over the past year. Yet they still didn’t trust her. Or they didn’t trust her enough to not send a babysitter to watch over her.

She supposed they had their reasons. And it wasn’t as if she actually cared about restoring their precious Republic. All she wanted was to ensure that these Sith pretenders, Vader and Sidious, were destroyed along with the Empire they had built. 

“Hey, you listening?”

Gent, she doubted very much that was his actual name, waved a hand in front of her face. Kalarra ignored it and kept walking. 

“Fine, I give up,” he grumbled. “Far be it from me to wonder how the hell you plan on getting a Clan of Mandalorians to work with us.”

Kalarra rolled her eyes. If only this poor foolish jedi knew the truth. “They won’t be working with ‘us’ they’ll be working with me. That’s non-negotiable. If Intelligence or High Command has a problem with that then they can forget about getting their support.”

“And why would they want to work for some Alderaanian noble?” Gent asked incredulously. “No offense but you aren’t really the kind of person a Mandalorian would respect.”

She wanted to laugh at that. No, most Mandalorians wouldn’t respect her. But then most didn’t know just how deadly the Kine-Rists really were. “My family had a history before we settled on Alderaan, Gent.”

“About three thousand years worth of history in fact.”

Kalarra did laugh as the new voice made Gent jump and reach for his blaster. “Relax, hero. This is who we’re here to meet.”

A Mandalorian in black and crimson armor stepped out from the shadows and despite being helmeted, it was clear she was smiling. Completely ignoring Gent, she embraced Kalarra. “ Zhol uud tukodi kian letas.” Her voice then grew soft as she pulled back and placed a hand on Kalarra’s shoulder. “Nu sua liudnas lig Alderaan... ir tave jidai.”

Kalarra snorted and glanced back at Gent. “Nu sua liudnas lig tave jidai kian.”

With a hand still resting on top of his blaster, Gent scowled. “That’s not Mando’a.”

“No, it is not,” the Mandalorian confirmed in basic but didn’t say more to him. “Come. We found it.” She then turned on her heel and walked off.

“Really?” Kalarra couldn’t keep a faint tremor from her voice as she walked with the Mandalorian. She had seen images of The Graveyard. It was hard to believe that anything could have survived the Death Star’s attack.

The Mandalorian nodded gravely. “I was surprised myself but...” she shrugged. “Tsis alchemija kash midwanas.”

Kalarra nodded in response. Yes, Sith alchemy was powerful.

The trio made their way to a private hangerbay where several other Mandalorians, also in black and crimson armor, were waiting. Many raised their hands in greeting to Kalarra but all ignored Gent.

“Tym kash delsus," the lead Mandalorian muttered to Kalarra who laughed.

She took another look at Gent and could see the gears in his head turning. He had obviously recognized the cognate "jidai" but many languages didn't have their own word for jedi. He might have recognized "tsis" but from what Kalarra knew, very few jedi had bothered to learn the Sith language before they had been wiped out. Well, he would be learning the truth one way or another soon enough.

Walking into the mandalorian ship's cargo hold, Kalarra couldn't help but gasp. There it was. Her family's vault, incredibly still intact. Even the family crest was still clearly etched into the front. She supposed that no matter what technological terrors the galaxy created, the force really did render them insignificant.

Her hand raised and after a moment of hesitation, she pressed it against the dark metal. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was still secure in the Juran Mountain estate. She could still feel the faint imprints of all those family members that had touched it before her.

A cough from behind her brought Kalarra back to the present.

"Mind telling me just what the hell is going on here, agent?" Gent's voice was cold and his hand was still resting on his blaster.

The Mandalorian shook her helmeted head in disappointment. "He really is slow, this one. I thought Jedi were cleverer than this."

Gent's eyes flashed and he pulled his blaster from its holster but kept it pointed downwards. "Alright, start talking. What's going on? This obviously isn't recruitment for the Alliance."

Kalarra sighed and raised a hand to keep her distant cousin from killing the former jedi. "Well you're wrong about that. This is a recruitment run. Clan Kine has agreed to help with Alliance operations against the Empire. As for what's going on... well it might be easier to just show you."

Turning back to the vault, Kalarra closed her eyes and reached out with the Force. She could feel the old familiar mechanisms within the vault and gently nudged them into motion.

While nothing seemed to happen on the outside, within the vault a series of complex locks were carefully being moved into position. 

Kalarra, frowned in concentration. The vault was designed to only be opened by a force user. But it was not just a simple switch that any force user could flip. It was a puzzle. Move one piece too much or too little and you would find the door remained stubbornly locked. Fortunately, she had learned the solution to the puzzle before... well before things went wrong.

A small hiss indicated that the vault was now unlocked. 

Opening her eyes, Kalarra resisted the urge to throw open the door and check on the vault’s contents but she resisted the urge and instead turned to Gent whose eyes had gone wide.

"You're force sensitive."

Kalarra nodded.

"Not Jedi."

The Mandalorian snorted but didn't say more.

Again, Kalarra nodded.

"Not Nightsisters. You aren't Kel Dor, so not the Baran Do. Not the Jal Shey... no..."

A small smirk appeared on Kalarra's face as she watched the former Jedi put it together. She always wondered how the Jedi might react to learning that Sith still existed in the galaxy.

For the first time in years, fear gripped Gent’s heart and he took a small step back. Wide eyes flicked from the Mandalorian to Kalarra, only now noticing that the crest on the vault was the same crest that was etched on the Mandalorian's armor. "That's not possible. The Sith are extinct. The Jedi killed them all."

Kalarra's eyes flashed briefly with rage but she forced herself to remain calm. "You certainly tried,” she replied icily. “But you missed a family. And that family has been living in your Republic for the last three thousand years. Now it’s up to you to decide what you’ll do with that information.”

-

Was lazy and used this Sith language translator. But here are the translations anyway.

“Zhol uud tukodi kian letas” - It has been too long

“Nu sua liudnas lig Alderaan... ir tave jidai” - I am sorry about Alderaan... and the jedi

“Nu sua liudnas lig tave jidai kian” - I am sorry about the jedi too

“Tsis alchemija kash midwanas” - Sith alchemy is strong

“Tym kash delsus” - He is slow

#my writing #rebellion era #the kine legacy #oc kalarra kine rist #currently thinking that they end up together lol #the kine rists do leave for zakuul after the destruction of the second death star and gent might just decide to go with them

[vynnyal]

Throwing random thoughts, headcanons, and a variety of pasta at the wall (but only those having to do with vessels and/or their biology this time): The Thrilling Third Installment™

...aka pretending i can be dark and dramatic jskhdfd

Thk's larger form is not the standard, but the exception. Thk was cited as being "raised and trained to prime form", which people take to mean pk assisted in the vessel's natural growth. However, that conclusion leaves a lot of unanswered questions, most important of which being “then what about Ghost?” In short, I think that train of thought is backwards. Vessels can't grow- they are ageless, and immortal. We know this due to Ghost, despite living as long if not longer than thk, being completely unchanged over the years. The only thing pk trained into "prime form" was thk’s mind and fighting prowess. Their body... well, I think it was mutated. Most likely either directly by pk, or ordered by him- and with the shenanigans happening over in the sanctum, I wouldn't be surprised if Soul was involved, too. In any case, it was in no means natural. Vessels are corpses reanimated by void; neither corpses nor void tend to make drastic changes on their own all that often. Whether pk predicted the vessel’s “issues” and intended to manually “upgrade” them from the beginning, it's hard to say. But... yeah. Unless Ghost goes out of their way to make themselves grow- if its even possible, now that pk is gone- its fairly safe to say, they never will.

...with that in mind, we are promptly gonna ignore that for the rest of this post lmaooo

Grown-up vessels wouldn't look like thk; while they are described as being raised into "prime form"... prime form, to whom? Rather than looking like an idealized pk soldier, it sounds much more fitting that they’d have an entirely different, natural adult form. Consider: their cloaks being longer and fuller, perhaps filling out into something with a more practical use to their “species”. Better yet, they could even grow up to be more beast-like. Feral vessels, YEhaW

The black egg temple is cited as being "built to sustain [vessels]", yet it can't be their lifespan that is sustained. Rather, it seems the egg is specifically designed to keep the radiance from tearing thk apart, physically and/or mentally. Ngl its p obvious, but worth noting.

Sorta-au where Ghost’s shade has 8 eyes, and/or is generally all-around more cryptid-looking.

@ the sharpshadow charm and the strange, 6-eyed creature their shade turns into: kudos to this post, they bring up something super interesting- the creature not only resembles the Shade Lord, but the lord outright becomes it during the Embrace the Void cutscene.

makes me respect the ol’ civilization a whole lot more if a single charm can turn a baby shade into a baby lord.

The concept of finding ghosts unconscious body, laying next to a corpse, while they battle in their dreams. Alt: when ghost enters the dream realm, their shade leaves their shell... And protects their body from harm.

If steel soul mode is taken as canon, just how did ghost and the shade meet? Alt: Ghost may never have “met” it at all, as it technically doesn’t exist in that mode- instead, its more of a metaphor than an actual entity.

What the vessels looked like- or were supposed to look like- before the void. Alt: a story following a child, alive and untouched, that somehow managed to be spared. They could even have a gender. Alt alt: the void intentionally spared them for some purpose, or even out of simple kindness- or at least, something that resembles kindness.

Re: the shade inexplicably having a nail: all the vessel's swords are crafted from “will-bearing rock”- of which i’ve come to lovingly call living stone- and as such, are of void themselves. That's how the shade seems to conjure up its own copy; it merely shapes it, from the ground, using void. And, while more of a stretch, Ghost’s nail being some sort of living stone/pale ore alloy could explain just how Ghost can do seemingly pretty crazy things with an otherwise ordinary nail. Better, while 100% a baseless hc, its material might actually enable Ghost to build it up and modify it to suite their size as they grow older. finally, a logical reason adult Ghost has an adult-sized nail-claymore. hdsfghjfghdsjf

On that same thought: Ghost outright invented the "art" of manipulating- or creating- living stone to make their nail. ...gimme a sec. The other escaped vessels have nails, too, right? Either meaning they also discovered this ability... or that theres some legitimate ground for the “vessel gang” hc. Or, yanno, i’m reading too much into Ari’s sprites but sHHhh

How did all the vessels know to race to the top? They seemed to be falling merely because they had just been born and had literal, actual baby strength; yet not only did they inexplicably risk everything competing to the top, they somehow knew death was waiting if they lost. Alt: pk just, bringing a fucking megaphone and telling them like a sports announcer.

What if Ghost made it, and instead of falling, they managed to joined thk at the lip? What would pk do? Push them off the edge??? Or just adopt them both?? Oh fuck au where they're raised as twin sacrifices. Or worse yet, they’re raised unequally, and one is trained only as an afterthought. As a backup.

Alternatively, pk keeps all the vessels au, only a few years later when they're grown. Pk now has a literal army of pure knights. Radiance is fucked.

Hm. If vessels were fully coherent entities from the moment of birth, why was there a crib in the white palace? Did... did they use it? I have a feeling team cherry made that asset before the abyss scene lmaooo alt: they did, uh, use the crib. Cue a very awkward scene of thk, clearly not a normal baby, staring at wl with like... idk, the poofy baby hat and pacifier. I can’t tell if the image is more funny or more sad rn shdfgfjsdgg

The og notes that inspired this post, in case my rambling makes more sense (and w/o the awful comic hjsfgjsdfhj): Oh oh OH i GET it now. The void is all about "will" and whatnot, right? And shades are "fragments of a lingering will"- will, like the one you leave after your death, but instead of inheritance its the vessels' desires...last regrets.... DAMN team cherry, that symbolism is clever as heck. That took me a while. Kinda funny how a will is, technically, a person's last regrets Like I knew they were last regrets but I didn't understand WHY. Duh, it's because they're literally Made Of Will. They are the vessel's "wills". I'm so stupid.

Ghost, walking thru the abyss, getting increasingly fed up / freaked out, ducking into a crack in the wall. They follow the crack into the Scream Chamber, pause, then exhale in relief that this was EXACTLY what they needed.

Ghost's shade rolling up its void-sleeves like “fuck it, ima defeat thk myself”

Why was thk's sword there? Was its pedestal decayed? Did it fall from their body? Was it place there as an afterthought, or hurriedly? alt: taking thk's sword before freeing them, but doing the mom thing like you're grounding them hdhfjchjch

I can’t believe it just occured to me now, but... as objectivley stupid as the vessel’s test was, Ghost... technically came in second place. What if that whole scene was a metaphor? Because really, it’s just too silly to take seriously. To do so isn’t too far fetched, either; many other elements in the game’s story are better taken as symbolic or metaphorical, anyways. Take the PoP cutscene- while it could’ve been a literal moment, where they just happened to find themselves standing around and took the moment to appreciate each other... imo it makes much more sense to read it as the concept of their faint ~forbidden love~ and parental pride itself. Or, better yet, the scene at the end of the 4th pantheon. Sorry, but I severely doubt that was an actual event. What I’m trying to get at is the significance of “second place” in the cutscene. My brain is too fried to chase down any other possible connections to this theme rn (if thats even what the theme is), but even without proof, the theory smooths out a few interesting tidbits related to just how Ghost could tough it out when all others failed. All except for #1, anyway. Either way I’m just happy to take this as an excuse to pretend that cutscene didn’t literally happen because like, l m a o

The story of a small group of vessels as they work together to escape hallownest. (aka the aforementioned vessel gang hc... im sure theres a more formal name but you get the idea). Its impossible to tell how long it took them to discover that near-invisible hole, the last exit remaining after the king ordered the abyss to be sealed up. Once they did, however, the remaining vessels were quick to make a desperate scramble to escape- only for the entrance to suddenly crumble shut, far, far too soon. The remaining 8 slowly made their way through deepnest, their numbers quickly dwindling as the jouney started to take its toll. The group was nearly wiped out by those terrible, spiney-legged creatures that used their own kinship against them. Only three finally escaped the deep, yet only two made it through the basin- the third, largest sibling, left to fight alone againt a hopeless battle, just to buy the others time. It was in greenpath, so close yet so far to their goal, that the second succumbed to the infection. It was a mercy killing, that nail through the heart. The last, after all of that, finally made their way to the very precipice of howling cliffs, hesitating for just a moment to gaze out upon the still-fresh ruins of hallownest. But only for a moment, before Ghost jumps down to begin their journey beyond this wretched place.

A vessel running from its shade as it tirelessly pursues them, the vessel refusing to put it to rest.

tw: suicide, + personal on main

Ugh ugh ugh ugh Either thk was fully conscious and in terrible pain for all those years... or they couldn’t feel anything at all. The former is horrible, but imagining thk waking up, chained, unable to do anything but wait for Ghost to heed their call? Did they turn their nail on themselves to help Ghost, end the pain, or some awful mix of both? For someone who has personally dealt with close friends and family that struggled with suicide themselves, hollowknight is one of the worst horror stories I've ever seen. And the fact that the story is so personal, so open to interpretation? The fact that each character is so genuine yet vague enough to be read completely differently to someone else’s biases? Its why hollow knight- the game, and the character- will forever be one of the most powerful stories to me.

in short, good LORD THIS GAME IS SO FUCKING SAD

#hollow knight #Thonking abt hollowknight #blabbing.txt #i should probably proof-read this.... uuuaaaah #anyways #@ that last one: i had to take a week-long break after tiso died. so like. you can imagine my reaction to thk #other than that some of these are VERY OLD #and dsfhhfdj the test one literally just occurred to me #sweet catharsis.... fuck you pk.... #also.... yeah. vessels have a p bad time all considered #ghost is like 'i know i look 7 but im actually 1000 years old!' #then hornet punts them into the sun #OH WHAUFHDFKJ

[scarletmanuka]

Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @thisbluespirit

Name:  Well, Scarlet Manuka on Tumblr is explained in my ‘about me’ page. Suffice to say it’s a kiwi thing.  My writing names are Mab Browne and Dale Gardener.  The Mab is related to a nickname I used to have in a workplace many years ago and the rest of that name and the Dale bit is just, I dunno, it sounded good at the time. My real name? Yeah, nah, no crossing the streams.

Fandoms:  I was the kind of kid who hyperfixated, so in terms of sheer love, my first fandoms were Blake’s 7, Sapphire and Steel, and The Lord of the Rings, (the book and the BBC radio play - this was the late seventies/early eighties). But I was a full-on geek, watching Star Wars and any SF that came down the pike. I also read a great deal of SF and fantasy in general. My first fandom in terms of fannish participation was Star Trek TOS. I read a friend’s zines, scraped up some cash and bought some of my own, and have two zine contributions of highly dubious quality floating around out there. 

My first slash fandom was The Professionals, a show I’d watched as a teen when it first came out.  My first writing fandom was The Sentinel, although my first internet fanfic was Blake’s 7, written under my  real name back in the day  It’s now on Hermit as by anon. I’ve written in a variety of fandoms, including Starsky and Hutch. My Elfquest enthusiasm prefigured my love of Maiden Rose, an actual manga rather than just manga influenced. Current loves are The Magnus Archives and The Expanse.  Having said that, all my fandoms are current, in the sense that I never completely abandon an interest in something that I’ve loved.

Where you post: I used to have an individual site back in the day, but it’s all on AO3 and my Dreamwidth these days.

Most popular one-shot: That would be my TS story A Modern Kind of Guy.

Most popular multi-chapter That would be my TS story Reverently and Discreetly, where I played about with the sentinel/guide bonding trope. Always a crowd pleaser.

Fic you were nervous to post: A lot of them, especially earlier in my fic writing career, when I was also a wee bit on the depressive episode side.  I had a literal mild panic attack after posting I Married a Vampire.  It was a short follow-up to a TS vampire AU that I ended up writing four stories for, and I think is actually pretty good for something I wrote at an early stage of fandom experience. TS was a fandom where there was much discussion about what good fic is that I took unnecessarily to heart back in the day, despite being mercifully ignored at worst, and getting generally positive comments at the best.  Nowadays I enjoy better mental health and have embraced the fact that I’m often a niche flavour, and simply enjoy myself.

How do you choose your titles?   With great difficulty.  Song and poetry titles are pretty common, or maybe a phrase out of the story itself.  Sometimes a title comes as part of the story concept. How Strange the Change for Maiden Rose was one of those. 

Do you outline?  Only to a bare minimum. I always have a full concept in my head for long stories in terms of key events and emotional beats and I just work through that; with short stories I sit down and see what comes out of the keyboard.  What I am more likely to write down is the good dialogue or a Big Thought that comes in the shower or when you’re doing mundane tasks. I get those down if I can because however much you tell yourself you’ll remember it, you won’t.

Complete I have 196 fics up at AO3. Some of those are drabble and ficlet compilations.

Do you take prompts?   Not generally no, although now and again I see things that generate an idea.

In progress I have several unfinished stories languishing on my hard drive, all of them currently The Sentinel.  I don’t tend to post WIP, even though I had some good experiences with that on LJ. These days, nah.

Coming soon Maybe one of the WIPs? It’s a fic with the working title of The Non-Con Mind-Control Fic of Doom, so who knows what readers it will have.  But it’s certainly perfectly designed for me, so it’s strangely dear to my heart regardless.

Tagging Whoever wants to, truly. @sullendragon if you’re out there, and you’d like, but if you’d not like that’s fine too.

#Mab's Fanfic

[bluebeirry]

Humanity in Heroes, Humanity in Villains- everyone’s flawed AF even if Hero Society can go F*** itself

Edit: I had to rename this because I realized my original name was misleading

I’ve seen a lot of thoughtful, well-written posts making very good points about why hero society is broken and is doing the wrong thing by vilifying their ‘villains,’ locking them up and forgetting  about them. I’ve seen a lot about how Tomura Shigaraki and the LoV in particular are natural responses to a broken system. @linkspooky and @waxwingedhawks and @thyandrawrites have a lotta good meta on this.

But… I also wanted to make something about the other side, that accepts that the heroes are flawed, human, and often in the wrong. Maybe a lot of people who already stan the heroes won’t get this, or will misunderstand what I’m going for, but I wanted to put it out anyways for fun and to see if I’m just talking out of my ass.

Here’s the thing. BNHA society as a whole being a villain-making machine that creates new villains, demonizes them, destroys lives, and then benefits from the hero system that only functions because of this destruction? Yes, spill that tea. Heroes doing harm by perpetuating the system? Totally agree.

But Heroes individually being responsible for the monsters created and being justifiable targets of hated? Well, I think it’s more complicated than that.

See, if we look at the hero system as a mirror of real-world capitalism, then the Heroes aren’t the CEOs and the politicians who make up the 1% and keep the world in tatters. They are symptoms of a broken system as much as the villains. They have more agency than the villains, yes, but I don’t think they’re all monsters for failing to see the shortcomings of a society that encourages them not to look too deeply.

First of all there’s the pure fact of what heroes do- they save people.

I don’t have a problem with heroes fighting villains who use their powers in destructive and violent ways. I have a problem with the system then taking those villains and locking them away, instead of trying to help them. But when a man made of slime is holding a 13/14 year old kid hostage, blowing up buildings, and shouting how he’s gonna kill All Might? He needs to be stopped.

In short, I agree with the hero system ONLY so far as the idea of having people who are trained professionals use their skills to protect people and save lives. If people are threatening/taking the lives of other people, I do not have a problem with those people being stopped by violent means- so long as those means do prevent further death.

What I have a problem with is the demonization of human beings, harsh and unforgiving societal reactions, and refusal to acknowledge or examine the circumstances that push human beings into committing crimes.

We see heroes treat villains as the irredeemable scum- and in cases like Overhaul, this is pretty true. But their society also doesn’t encourage heroes to follow-up on anyone they arrest after all is said and done- not once is it even mentioned that a hero plays a role in a villain’s trial, something that real-world cops often are called to do IRL  for the people they’ve arrested. And let’s be honest- it's easier for heroes to beat people senseless and not feel bad about it if they think the villains all deserve it. Acknowledging that doing physical harm to another person may be necessary in order to prevent further physical harm (or even death) from falling on more people is complicated and difficult to accept. I’m sure some heroes are being cowardly when they embrace the idea that villain=evil, while others- like All Might (see below)- don’t seem to have the social and societal awareness outside of their own experiences to realize that they should be following up and helping people. What’s more the idea that anyone should be looking at the cause of villainy is one that’s hard to pick up because it’s so rarely found. Nobody in the media, in the government, in the HPSC, wants people to think about the ethics of Tartarus. Even the Liberation Army doesn’t seem to give two fucks about the ways their society makes and profits off villains. It’s said several times that the world of hero society is a world of ‘repression’- I strongly suspect that anyone who tries to explain to others the flaws in their society gets repressed  and shut up, one way or another, with the only people in power who are aware being the ones that benefit from the system the most and don’t care about the lives destroyed in the process.

Deku says that this is the story of how he became the worlds greatest hero. I can this be the case without dismissing the villains completely- if the world changes how it treats them. If Deku brings about or enters a society where cases like Toga and Twice can be saved without needing to turn to the darkness- where the people Deku defeats and arrests aren’t just locked up for life, but are given brighter futures.

Now some specific cases, just for fun:

All Might:

So I said above that All Might is a good-intentioned person who backs the hero system due to ignorance of how it harms people. Now here is where I break down the psychology of this statement for you. First of all, we know that All Might’s original mission statement as a teenager was to make the world safer so that people would have the courage to do the right thing and make the world a better place- a viewpoint he probably gained from being part of the population that was too terrified to act. It reflects his life experiences. What’s more, we know that the world before All Might was very different from the world after him. It's very possible that his limited viewpoint comes from having an understanding of the world and what it needs that hasn’t changed over the course of his career- even as his career changed what the world needs. It’s not malice or arrogance that leads All Might to support a broken system- it’s lack of societal awareness beyond his own class bracket and lack of awareness of how the world has changed.

All Might may very well have been what society needed at the time when he was a teen. We don’t know what the world was like  back then- we don’t know if he truly was doing the right thing But he failed to make sure that the culture that sprung up in his wake would properly protect everyone as best as it can, and failed to recognize that society had to keepchanging beyond his original vision. It’s like stairs- you need to take each step one at a time, but after you take one step you then have to continue on to the next one. And All Might poured so much of his life into getting past one particular step, he never even realized that there was more steps to be climbed before society could reach the top.

The League of Villains:

See, I agree that the league are all people pushed to their roles by societal rejections, and their actions are a direct repercussion of society’s failures and crimes against them. I can even agree that attacking kids is morally iffy and not 100% morally wrong when those kids are also willingly  learning to become the next generation of soldiers (and later used as child soldiers) enforcing the broken society. I still think child murder is wrong because you cannot reasonably expect 15-year olds who grew up in a society that idolizes heroes to not buy into the propaganda. Plus often they’re being attacked just for being convenient, or for pissing Tomura off- which IMO is not a good reason to try to kill someone.

But all that aside, there are two things the LoV does that I truly believe are reprehensible. While the execution of the PLF raid had severe moral issues involved all over the place, the concept of  taking the PLF and the League down is just because of  two factors:

1. The use of human experimentation to make Nomu as weapons

2. The plan to massacre entire cities- killing millions of people-  as part of the PLF’s grand plan

The second one in particular is to me unambiguously evil. The first one is evil too- but if I put on my villain stan hat I’ve noticed in cannon that we  don’t actually know if the LoV is aware that the Nomu are made from human experiments. They’re called ‘artificial humans’ and apart from Tomura (who was a willing test subject) the LoV don’t seem to play any major role in the creation of Nomu (Shigaraki is said to have ‘designed’ some of the Nomu, but  it’s not clear if that means he actually worked with dead people or just planned the quirk combinations to go into the Nomu or something in between). Point is, Doctor Ujiko is pure evil but I can forgive the LoV if it turns out they didn’t actually know how the Nomu came to be.

But there is no possible way I can see the plan to kill millions as anything less than evil. There are a million better ways to change society- don’t jump into wholesale genocide. Atomic weapons are a last-ditch resort for a reason, and their plan would basically have had the same effect as dropping several atomic bombs on several cities without warning. I don’t think it was right when America bombed Nagasaki after destroying Hiroshima, I don’t think it was right when America made a half-assed attempt at explaining the bomb threat before dropping Little Boy, and the ethics of using nuclear weapons are complicated AF but I honestly don’t believe that the LoV’s plan is right.

Tomura Shigaraki:

In relation to Tomura, we see the heroes demonizing him and calling him an ‘it’ and seeing him as a manchild. All totally wrong. But for the last point… how are they supposed to think anything else? As readers we know Tomura is a traumatized kid, but the heroes don’t know anything about his backstory. Even All Might doesn’t know how Tomura got picked up by All for One, he doesn’t know about the death of the Shimura family.

What they do know is that Tomura is willing to kill children and bystanders to get his way. And to put this on the table- that is not a good thing. I am not pro-murder. If you think killing innocent people for simply being in a mall when a villain and a hero-trainee happen to also be there is acceptable, this post isn’t for you. By now you’ve probably figured that out, and I don’t know why you’re still reading unless you saw Tomura’s name and skipped ahead to this section.

Getting back on track, I don’t think doing such horrific things like attempted cold-blooded murder makes Tomura irredeemable. I agree that he’s traumatized and confused and lashing out. That does not mean he’s innocent, but he’s also not ‘pure evil’ or ‘evil incarnate’ as the heroes believe.

Here, the heroes themselves are definitely doing the wrong thing. Not because they’re trying to stop Tomura, but because they’re treating him- and the Nomu- as non-human. Honestly I preferred when they called him a man-child; at least then they were acknowledging the symptoms of his trauma. They didn’t have enough information to know that these were trauma symptoms as opposed to, say, symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder- with the information the heroes have, either could be possible guesses. But the world is broken when they assume it’s the latter- when they assume the case that casts Tomura in the worst possible light. And then removing his humanity entirely and treating him as a thing- there I have actual beef with the heroes.

Hawks/Takami Keigo:

Now Hawks is suuuper interesting to me, because so far he is the ONLY hero to show any awareness of the broken system. Namely in Twice. But even then, there’s problems- and arguably Hawks is either even worse of a person because of it.

There’s the fact that Hawks only recognizes the humanity and the very valid backstory of the one guy who’s his personal friend- which is blatant favoritism and shows willing blindness towards the trials and suffering anyone who he didn’t try to ‘save.’

Hawks has no desire to re-make or even change the system that he clearly knows hurt and broke a good man down into doing very wrong things. He sees that the system did these things, but he doesn’t think to try to make a lasting change that might not only protect Twice, but protect future victims from following Twice’s path. This is… interesting.

Then there’s the way in which Hawks approached Twice. Now, here I think Hawks was trying to both do a hero’s duty of preventing further future violence, but failed to balance this with his personal attempts to reach Twice as a person and save him as a victim of a broken system. Hawks tried to do both at the same time, and condescended Twice while offering him a way out.

I do not think in any way shape or form that letting Twice go free, or even not apprehending him, was the right thing for Hawks to do. Again, the LoV had two crimes that Hawks knew of that could not be allowed to go through/go on. Stopping Twice was the right thing.

Stopping Twice by throwing him around, taunting him, offering him a choice between betraying his friends and dying, and threatening his life, and ultimately killing him- that is NOT the right thing. I don’t get what Hawks was trying to do, and honestly his behavior really, really confuses me. I don’t know what would’ve been the right thing for him to do- it's a rock and a hard place- but what Hawks did definitely wasn’t the best option he had. It also wasn’t the worst. But killing Twice is still pretty damn close to the worst.

Edit: I also realize in retrospect that I didn’t even cover issues of corruption in the hero ranks, such as Endeavor, and how the popularity/fame aspects helps enforce the failings and corruption of the heroes and their society, or the issues with Quirks being repressed and regulated in anyone not a hero (which ironically contributes to the idolization of heroes)

#bnha #mha #bnha meta #mha meta #hawks #takami keigo #all might #toshinori yagi #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #crack theory #crack theories

[drshebloggo]

Ask box: JUSTICE FOR LANE KIM, a breakdown.

Anonymous asked: Do you know why Lane disappeared from the show as Rory's best friend over time? She appeared every now and then, yeah, but it has always bothered me that she slowly faded from being Rory's best friend to nobody... am I remembering things wrong?

I do not know! The Palladinos make decisions that sometimes are simply beyond my comprehension.

It’s been awhile since I watched Gilmore Girls in its entirety (and I kind of selectively ignore a lot in the last two, three seasons) but I don’t think you’re remembering things wrong. I will say, though, that the show faced a challenge with all of the Stars Hollow supporting ensemble when Rory went off to college. It’s these kind of problem-making focus shifts that I find really interesting, and they are UBIQUITOUS across teen/high school shows when a character or ensemble graduates.

Most of them that I can think of are done poorly, maybe with the exception of Friday Night Lights. But in defense of these shows, it’s HARD. How do you embrace a fundamental shift in the entire premise of your show? How do you deal with the new geographies of this shift, and the way they ripple into beloved character dynamics? How do you evolve a character through an engaging and meaningful arc without abandoning the foundation on which they were built? And how do you still capture your audience’s attention when there’s a risk that you’re leaving behind the magic that captivated them in the first place? IT’S HARD.

So in the case of Gilmore Girls, Rory at Yale is the shift that moves the show into a new paradigm, and it’s a big one. She’s separated from Stars Hollow and slowly beginning her emancipation from Lorelai, which is, on principle, painful for the audience because it’s directly against the show’s premise. (It’s no coincidence that the Palladinos starts seriously building the Luke-and-Lorelai-of-it-all once Rory’s away at college. Give that empty-nester some new story!)

Of course, Lane is right behind Lorelai in the list of People in Stars Hollow that Rory is Leaving Behind. How is Lane supposed to stay a part of Rory’s story when Rory is in a new context, and Lane is not? But, truth be told, Lane was ALREADY in this role. In seasons 1-3, LANE, not Lorelai, was #1 on the list of People in Stars Hollow that Rory is Leaving Behind. Ultimately Gilmore Girls is a story of two worlds, and Rory going to Chilton begins her passage across the into the New (Old, with Baggage) World. Lane is already being left behind, to some degree, and in seasons 1-3, there’s still room in the show’s universe to address those issues and give Lane some good storylines of her own, especially in conjunction with Rory.

So it’s possible that the issue is not necessarily one of screentime or setting. Whenever I hear the rebel cry of JUSTICE FOR LANE KIM resound in my heart chambers, I mostly think of the kinds of storylines that befell her in the later seasons, not simply in their detachment from Rory. Heeding her mom’s insistence that she attend Seventh Day Adventist college. Fracturing her relationship with her mom in order to pursue her dreams. Getting kicked out of her home. Living with her two boy bandmates who are very stupid and very messy. Never really getting the band off the ground. Her first sexual experience being terrible. Her first sexual experience being terrible AND yielding a pregnancy with TWINS. Why do the Palladinos hate Lane Kim!!! The only thing I wholeheartedly love about Lane’s later storylines is Luke hiring her to work at the diner and then being completely overwhelmed by her sheer competence.

It’s probably important to note that the mere construction of Lane Kim’s character is a bit tragic. The Palladinos are VERY good at building conflict and tension into what seems like simple character descriptions. Here’s this girl that loves rock music to an obsessive, encyclopedic level, wants to play drums in a band, and she’s from a strict religious household where she can’t express any of that. The description itself inherently means that things are going to blow up for Lane at some point. That’s okay, to some degree - that’s conflict, that’s drama, that’s good story.

So if we look at Lane’s arc pre-blow-up, and post-blow-up, the satisfying thing would be for Lane to experience some kind of happiness or success living unstifled in her dreams, to offset the trauma that her family relationships are ruined (at least for the time being). But the Palladinos don’t even do that! It’s encapsulated in the incident that tears apart Lane’s relationship with her mom: she goes to play at CBGB, her mom finds out and kicks her out, and the band doesn’t even get to go on!! The Palladinos love PAIN.

And okay, fine, there’s still some defense that that is well-designed drama and story. (And Lane and her mom do reconcile eventually, and it was at least very affecting, from my memory.) I guess you could argue that Lane IS happy with how things turned out after the lifelong lie she’s lived completely unravels and she’s able to just exist, unguarded. But also... the Palladinos wrote her that way??? And regardless, for me, the issues arise more down the line with Lane essentially staying in Stars Hollow. Wouldn’t unshackling herself from the yoke of her mother mean that she’s free to pursue her dreams? And wouldn’t pursuing her dreams necessitate her to ALSO leave Stars Hollow, like Rory herself? Would she not try to scrape together money to move with the band to New York City and hit the big time? (Bear in mind, I have no idea how the music industry works.)

Ultimately, Lane’s story in the later seasons puts the writers in a Catch-22. If she leaves Stars Hollow and goes somewhere else to pursue her dreams, she’s almost certainly written off the show. She’s a supporting character, and they can’t open up a new world beyond Stars Hollow and New Haven, just for her. On the other hand, if she stays in Stars Hollow, in keeping with the geographies of the universe, she stays on the show, and just... gets really disappointing storylines. I’d be inclined to keep giving Keiko Agena a paycheck. 

(Now, the fact that WB threw money at a backdoor pilot for Jess Mariano to go to California and open up a new world for a weakly-premised spin-off, and did no such thing for Lane Kim, is some bullshit. Literally “moving to the big city to live a dream” is SUCH a well-worn trope that all the storylines are essentially handed to them, and it’s almost inherently refreshed because Lane is a Korean-American woman and not a brooding white guy or a quirky white lady. You FOOLS, you could’ve made that show with your EYES CLOSED.)

Anyways.

I’m going to meander my way further off the main point for a moment to kick up some dust on JUSTICE FOR RORY GILMORE as well. When you write ten paragraphs lamenting Lane Kim’s eternal relegation to supporting role, it’s hard not to be cranky about affording world-opening and story-building for a main character instead. (Spin-off Jess very much deserves the crank, though.) But, frankly, the unyielding walls that the Palladinos built to construct their very effective Two-World Universe don’t do a lot of favors for Rory Gilmore either, in the end.

Basically, this construct of Stars Hollow ensemble and New Haven future means that Rory is the only one who will “get out” of Stars Hollow, because she is structurally decreed to do so. It’s the massive conflict that the Palladinos smartly built into their little generational premise: Lorelai fled her parents’ world, and Rory will slowly be lured back into it. Pain ensues. This is good drama. This is good story. This is story that will last seven seasons and six-hour revival.

But it also inadvertently makes Rory the Chosen One, in a story that doesn’t need one. This is not Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, and I’d like to believe that even Paris and Rory wouldn’t want it to be, much as they love the Power of Myth. Lorelai divests her entire life into Rory’s success; the town of Stars Hollow wants Rory to spirit out of their small town and Be Great; Rory’s grandparents expect her to follow in Richard’s footsteps and also carry out their orphaned dreams for Lorelai. And then the Palladinos choose little things that further this: Lane doesn’t ever leave Stars Hollow; Paris doesn’t get into Harvard but Rory does; Luke interrogates any boy that comes near Rory because no one is good enough. (I confess, I’m charmed into forgiving the last one.)

It’s much too much to put onto one character and leave unaddressed!!! It’s also why some audience members just really hate Rory, in a really unfortunate knife-twist on an otherwise-winsome main character. They hate the unwillingness of the narrative to acknowledge this very obvious dark and specific underside to Rory’s specialness, and the unwillingness of people within the narrative to name this very obvious dark and specific underside about Rory. But to paraphrase Jessica Rabbit: she’s just DRAWN THAT WAY!

Rory’s storylines never really confront the idea that she has had FAR too many unrealistic expectations put on her by literally everyone that’s ever existed in her life, and what it might mean if she doesn’t live up to them. What does it mean if she’s not Christiane Amanpour? What does it mean if she’s scared of disappointing people? What does it mean if she’s trying to live up to other people’s standards rather than examining what she really wants?

The Palladinos completely ignore this, and simultaneously give Rory multiple meltdowns (cheating with Dean, being cowed by Mitchum Huntzberger, stealing a boat, quitting Yale, an aimless/struggling career) and they never QUITE dig into the complete dark and specific issue at the core of Rory’s character construction... which just exacerbates the Rory hate. Rory has no self-awareness; the writers give her no self-awareness; we go in circles, and every few years there’s a slew of thinkpieces about how selfish and awful Rory is.

What makes it worse is that those questions outlined above are essentially applicable for two other women on the show: Lane Kim, and Lorelai Gilmore II, herself. Lane, like Rory, doesn’t quite bust through and answer them wholly. Lorelai, however, comes into the show having already answered them, years before, when she was a headstrong and tenacious teenager. The idea that neither Rory, her actual daughter, nor Lane, her spiritual inheritor of Parental Disapproval, are ever able to grapple with those concepts in a real way, and blossom into self-defined adulthood the way that Lorelai did is maybe the bottom line on where Gilmore Girls went “wrong.” Lorelai’s legacy is not that she’s hyperverbal, loves junk food, and got pregnant young. It’s that she rejected the expectations of her forebearers and carved out a place in the world for herself by her own definition, for better or for worse. It’s why Lorelai comes out of the narrative like a Super Mom, when in fact she’s still just as deeply flawed as Emily or Rory, and why Stars Hollow is overall magical and cherished despite it serving as a small-town hometown for Rory to leave behind. And it’s why A Year in the Life was SO satisfying for Emily Gilmore, because she proved it’s never too late to answer those questions and break through to the other side. Perhaps we’ll get enough revivals to see the same happen for Rory, and for Lane.

But enough dust about Rory. I think, after all this nitpicking, there were two options for the best way to have handled Lane Kim after Rory went off to college:

1. Give her a backdoor pilot and spinoff to Band Dreams NYC. Which, of course, was not in the Palladinos’ control, so, y’know, fine.

2. Keep Lane in Stars Hollow and give her a chance to answer those questions about self-definition and live out a few years of Lorelai-like hard-but-happy independence (and better sex) before saddling her with Zach and two babies (if you MUST). Bonus points if she moves in with Lorelai and they bond over being fundamentally disappointing to your parents and also missing Rory. A very good obvious choice.

Secret option 3. Just let Lane move to New Haven and live with Rory and Paris off-campus, and give me the goddamn roommate comedy of my dreams. Honestly this is what they should’ve done. Forget everything I said. This is my answer.

Tiny footnote: I cannot BELIEVE, that after twenty years, I am just now realizing how on-the-nose it is that Lorelai escaped from the clutches of New Haven and started a new life for herself at a place called INDEPENDENCE INN. Truly, it was right there in front of me and I didn’t even notice. This oversight might weaken the integrity of the thousand-paragraph essay I rattled off above...

#long post #ask box #JUSTICE FOR LANE KIM #there's also justice for Rory Gilmore in here too #I haven't done this in ages and it's... long. #I am watching approximately zero new television but I'd love to relitigate TV from the early 00s and 10s #Gilmore Girls

[harbingerhorizon]

Individual Responsibility to Society

Introduction

As humans, we have the capability of creating beautiful works of art. Leonardo da Vinci was most well known for the Mona Lisa. Vincent Van Gogh created the Starry Night. Johannes Vermeer made Girl with a Pearl Earing and Milchelangelo with the Sistine Chapel. These are just a few works admired by millions if not billions as works that could have only been completed by intellectuals. People flock from around the world for an opportunity to see such talent on display not recognizing that they themselves are artist in nature. A mosaic of people of many colors defined by many different types of pieces trying to figure out how to best fit into a pattern we call community. What makes any work of art a masterpiece is not just putting imagination on to canvass but the ability to carefully choose the colors, manage those colors, stay within the lines, and holding themselves accountable to every paint stroke made. 

Carefully Choosing the Colors

The world is a complexed series of problems on a canvass designed by many colors. Those many colors are the people within a community that cross intersect to make one complete picture. Within those colors are a mixture of ingredients that make up the shades that if not monitored, causes imperfections in the final work: unemployment, political violence, poverty, and ecological disasters all of which exist but dependent on the skill of the painter get overlooked despite being the things we should care about the most. What makes these problems so complexed is how they intersect one another on the canvass as colors mix. The more paint that is applied to the canvass and the more colors that are chosen, the more they become entangled and more difficult to manage. While some may go unphased by the harsh chemicals, it does not go unnoticed that the mixtures cause reprehensible results which if corrected early enough has a new unique perspective to the picture but if left unaddressed, could in worst case destroy the work and waste the time spent developing it.

Managing of the Colors

For those viewing our painting - our community, what perspective are we providing to them? The actions of individuals within our community gives sanction to the viewer of the art to determine which color is most relevant.  It also allows any viewer to pose the questions of “Are any of these colors important to me, If I were the artist, what colors would I have chosen instead, and what does the entire picture mean to me? We based these questions on cultural values and beliefs which helps us answering fundamental questions to what colors one chooses to focus on or find most appealing. In a 2007 journal on the study of Youth Sense of Community: Voice and Power In Community Context, Scot Evans (Author) concludes the importance of adolescents involvement in community affairs. In this study, youth express their views of their society and what matters to them citing while they have a high interest in contributing, “…teenagers are often unequipped and under supported to participate fully and feel like they are making meaningful contributions to society.” Teens themselves are of a separate color on the pallet that is often ignored or given equal consideration especially those young people “who are disadvantaged or members of minority groups” (S. Evans, 2007).

Staying Within the Lines

Both teens and adults have a similar set of values and that has evolved throughout history a system of governance that selects values and beliefs based on those most shared. This governing is imposed on the people as the “Rule of Law” (J. Hart, 2014). The theory behind the rule of law is designed to govern the decorum of the people within a society that are fair and equitable. This system throughout history has not been perfect but in the description of democracy, has stood through the test of time by its foundational principles of governing by the people with majority rule and with ultimate authority from its people. This is important to our societal canvass as we are essentially giving the colors that make up the painting the power to choose what is considered out of bounds or outside the lines of the painting we intend on creating.

Within a democratic society is the creation of government systems and within that, courts. The purpose of these courts is to take a common set of beliefs and values and implement them into law to protect people from other people. Originally designed to be judicial in nature, western society courts have progressed into an inclusive affair where the public through concepts of faith become involved in the decision making of what is socially acceptable. The involvement of people that are governed included the “participation in local law enforcement and administration (as sheriffs, JPs and constables) or juries (grand and petty) and, indeed, in parliament itself (as lawmakers) …” (J. Hart JR, 2014). This invited society to buy into an idea of shared responsibility and “…the commitment to the traditional means and methods of English government.  The United States continues to maintain the concept of shared responsibility through government practice in the appointments of peace officers of similar title at a local level, judges and magistrates at all levels, and the election of congressional and senatorial positions for both state and federal level. Collectively, the bodies of these entities collaborate with the communities in which they serve to solve complexed quality of life issues. To be effective, they all must make a commitment to enforcing laws in an equal and equitable manner.

The principles of a societal occupied justice system are not just for the purposes of societal cohesion but too personal gain. In a free society, people are afforded the right to explore financial independence through entrepreneurship. Entrepreneurial ventures invite innovation which as a byproduct also invites competitors to steal the ideas of one to make it their own. Individuals of society are sought to play roles in the civil judicial system to protect the rights of intellect that contribute to economic growth. Civil judicial courts as defined by Glenn Hubbard and Patrick O’Brien in “Macroeconomics” are independent courts who make decisions free of influence from any other portion of the government, governed people who have connections to political influence or any person who intimidates by criminal gang. These courts are expected to be used to make decisions based solely on law.

The legal protections of our society are lines on our canvass we have chosen to remain in to maintain order. These same lines are what society collectively create through majority vote and like the practice of artist leading to a perfect masterpiece, we are continuing to improve upon. When we work outside the lines it lends opportunity to anarchy, unrest, and disorder. This is the paint finding its way away from the canvass, splattered throughout the room in places it should never belong. As a society, working collectively, we can paint a beautiful work of art. The best direction is to embrace each color to help complement one another and, in some cases, create new colors.

Accountability to Every Paint Stroke

Some of the colors used in paintings share similar tones. What is a simple brown can be changed to a lighter or darker form of brown. We recognize these slight variations as a family of tones. A color that is mixed into another loses its identity as one color and becomes a totally different color. As it pertains to civic responsibility, we see this happen when it comes to influence on youth. According to the study of Youth Sense of Community: Voice and Power in Community Context (S. Evans, 2007), people demonstrate a higher interest in personal responsibility and accountability when they are introduced to civics and politics at an adolescent age. Youth not only have a higher interest in civics but to are “…more likely to consider public interest an important life goal when their families emphasized an ethic of social responsibility (S. Evans, 2007). When there is an absence of influence from family, there are plenty of replacements today through technology that fill the void that shapes the views of teens. Social media and online content are huge replacements that manipulate the values and beliefs in teens as they become adults.

Youth are encouraged to engage in civic programs like student body councils and Mayor Youth Council (MYC) which help them with problem solving and understand the necessity of community partnership for the greater good of all within the community. Engaging in civic government programs, teens have positions of power bestowed upon them. In Evans study, he concluded that when this power is gained, they are more conscience of their personal responsibility to the community. The students in the study also expressed their want to better their communities after becoming aware of inequalities within and outside of their own communities “revealing how their opportunities to play meaningful roles promote their developing sense of social responsibility to the agency.”

Conclusion

As a society working collectively, we can paint a beautiful work of art. The best direction is to embrace each color to help complement one another and, in some cases, create new colors. As contributing colors to the painting, we have a voice to influence the significance of our own color within the painting governed by the rule of law where the colors on the canvass dictate what is fair and just. When we say, “The system isn’t fair,” The question that we should ask ourselves is: “How are we contributing to it?” To create a picture we want others to see, we must become involved. We must find a way to carefully put our color on to the canvass, staying within the lines and holding ourselves accountable for the strokes we make. Are we becoming a part of the painting as designed, or are we fighting against it?

 References

 Evans, S. D. (2007). Youth sense of community: Voice and power in community contexts. Journal of Community Psychology, 35(6), 693–709. https://doi.org/10.1002/jcop.20173

Hart, J. S. (2003). The Rule of Law, 1603-1660: Crowns, Courts and Judges (1st ed.). Routledge.

 Hubbard, R. G., & O’Brien, A. P. (2020). Macroeconomics. Pearson.

#individual #society #contribution #individual contribution to society #painting #workplace culture #society culture #what is your contribution #harbinger horizon #harbinger #Del #LGBTQ #business #b2b #democracy #government #participation

[illfoandillfie]

Hiiiii it’s your favorite stalk- I mean person! I hope I’m doing this right, may I please request a general tarot reading for success? Sometimes I feel like my dreams are too big and I’m too old to start out

ksfhsjdskd hi darl!! Hope this helps!

tarot cards: ace of pentacles, ace of swords, the world, seven of wands, eight of cups, king of swords, nine of pentacles, six of pentacles, knight of pentacles, the star. 

Okay lets get into it. 

You said in your ask that sometimes it feels like your dreams are too big to go after and that you’re too old to start. Well, I think these first two cards - the ace of pentacles and the 8 of cups - are talking about that exact sentiment.  The ace of pentacles is a great card to start with. The aces represent the beginning of something and pentacles are the suit mostly closely connected with finances, careers, all that sort of tangible down to earth stuff. But it’s being clarified by the 8 of cups which symbolises walking away from something. These cards are the temptation to give up before you’ve really begun. 

But, beside them we have the ace of swords clarified by the king of swords and the knight of pentacles. Another ace, another opportunity. As a suit swords are related to the mind and what it can do. The ace of swords is the “breakthrough” card. It’s saying you still have a chance to make whatever your dream is happen. The Kings are the oldest of the court cards and the king of swords specifically is symbolic of authority, truth, and clear thinking. This card is a reminder that age and experience aren’t bad things. In fact they can be very useful things. The king of swords uses his head over his heart. He deals in facts not feelings. However you might feel about the situation, this king is a reminder that you don’t need to let your age or anything else hold you back from embracing the opportunity the ace indicates. And the knight of pentacles...like most of the pentacles cards he revolves around work, effort and responsibility. He’s patient and hard working and dutiful and that is the energy you need to bring to this opportunity. You will not reach your goals overnight but the knight of pentacles is here to tell you that any progress is good progress, no matter how small it may seem. If you have a chance to start on the road towards achieving your goal (as the ace of swords indicates you will) then you should grab it by both hands. Go after it with the confidence of the king and with the hard working ethos of the knight and you’ll be well on your way to making it happen. 

Next we have The World and the nine of pentacles. I can sum up both of these cards in one word: Achievement. The World is the last of the major arcana cards and as such represents completion, fulfilment and achievement. The nine of pentacles is about the fruits of your labour, rewards and success. You’ve been through the ups and downs of the journey described in the tarot cards, you’ve put in the time and effort and now it’s paying off. This is the success you’re aiming for. This is the outcome of going after what you want and taking every opportunity you can. 

So those three sets of cards seem to be describing the past/present/future (or thereabouts) of your story of success. But what of the last three cards? What of the seven of wands, six of pentacles, and The Star? I think these cards are sort of general advice. Things to remember on your journey. 

The seven of wands is a card of conflict. Traditionally it depicts a man holding a staff, fighting off 6 other staffs pointing at him from below. It represents perseverance, defensiveness and maintaining your position. This isn’t conflict related to starting a project or beginning something new. This is the sort of conflict that happens as you work towards completion. It could come in the form of other people encouraging you to give up or being in competition with you or just making things harder for you, it could also be setbacks you experience or moments when you don’t feel you can keep going. But the seven of wands is an encouragement to stand your ground and remain dedicated to your goal so you can overcome whatever challenges you face. 

The six of pentacles is about generosity, charity and sharing. It’s a reminder to be generous in both times of prosperity and hardship. This can be generosity in a financial sense - donating money or material possessions to someone - or generosity of spirit, mind, time, etc etc etc. It could also be an indication that someone will be generous to you - perhaps someone in a position of power will offer you help or guidance, or maybe it’s that you’ll have a friend on a similar path you can share resources or knowledge with. 

And finally, The Star. This is a card of hope. It’s a promising sign of great opportunities approaching. It’s also about keeping the faith. Even if things seems hopeless or unachievable, this card says that as long as you believe and are willing to try, success will be possible. 

I also pulled a few oracle cards. 

From the Artists Oracle: Buckminster Fuller. The cards in this deck give the querent 3 pieces of advice for three aspects of life - Life, Work and Inspiration. I’ll type out all three but it may be that not all of them relate to the situation, so take what resonates for you and ignore what doesn’t. 

So, Buckminster Fuller - an architect, inventor, author, and designer - says: Live to serve, serve to solve. / Invent the words by which to live your life. / Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.  To me, just from the cards I’ve pulled, that last one seems to fit quite closely with the messages we’ve been getting. Now is the time to start working towards your goals. Right now when it doesn’t feel possible.

From the Spellcasting deck: Confidence. A lack of confidence will keep you from living your life to the full. Trust in your own gifts and abilities, turn away from your inner critic, and stop comparing yourself or your progress to that of others. You can do it! 

From the Green Witch oracle: Tomato (Love) and Thyme (Courage). I think courage speaks for itself really - It connects with the confident and courageous energy of that king of swords. Love on the other hand seemed a little out of place, so I looked it up in the guide book that came with the deck and I found something interesting. First of all it says “Tomatoes will inspire and ignite love into your life of all types and on all levels. Alignment is signified, as are chances for an increase in assets. Plans are liable to change, and you should be ready for adaptation in this and other areas. Be careful to communicate effectively with your partner and close friends.” So i think the ~plans are liable to change~ part ties in with that 7 of wands/6 of pentacles/the star energy which talked about standing your ground and holding onto hope and being generous/kind even when you feel like things arent going great. The guidebook also says that the magical uses of tomatoes are related to love, protection and prosperity, so it definitely fits more with your question that I initially thought BUT the other interesting part is that each plant in the guidebook has a magic spell you can cast using that plant. And the one for tomato is this:

Attract money into your home or business with this simple spell. 

Place a perfect green tomato in a green bowl and set it on a shelf. Shower it gently with gold coins and say, “Money, rain upon us now.” Set a green candle on either side of the bowel and light them. Leave the candles until they burn out and eat the tomato when it is ripe. 

Idk how into witchcraft/spellwork you are but if that is your jam this could be of use! I’m not sure if that was a misprint or something because it was labelled a love spell but there we have it! Very interesting! 

Next we have a card from the Prism oracle: Abundance. Green cards in this deck signify an opportunity for renewal, be it through gratitude for abundance, movement on a new project, or rest. The abundance card specifically asks you to recognise and celebrate the abundance in your life. It also says that while the card depicts coins, it doesn’t have to mean financial abundance. It could relate to love, friendship, career, or in your case, success. It’s definitely a good sign that things can go the way you hope! 

And last but not least I also pulled a card from the Making Magik deck. Each of these cards depicts a magic symbol or sygil and you got the Triple Moon - Embracing all aspects of yourself; the divine and the earthly. 

#card readings #hoo boy this was a long one! #gonna have a lil break for dinner before i do the next ones!!

[anikkis-fantasirealities]

“The Banquet Rooms of the Grandeur Campus”

③ Human Interest Story ┊ ʸᵒᵘ ʷʰᵒ ʸᵉᵃʳⁿˢ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵘᶦᵈᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʸᵒᵘᵗʰ···ᵗᵒ ᵍᵉⁿᵗˡʸ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗᵉ ʸᵒᵘⁿᵍ ᵍᵉⁿᵘᶦˢᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵍʳᵃⁿᵗ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿˢ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵍᵒᵒᵈʷᶦˡˡ·

꒰⁺˚₊·₍₍loading...₎₎ ✎...۪۫❁ཻུ۪۪ -ˏˋ 📨 ˊˎ-

༘✶ ㊉ ㈦〘 ⅯⅯ 〙⋆｡˚𓆟 ༉ ║ Posted : ０６/１５/２１° ｡༄ ‧₊˚ ๑ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ •ଓ.° ｡❍ ㈩ ㊇

- - ——— ꒰ An article by Nicole “Nikki” Elaine S. Chua ꒱

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ ࿐ྂ—͙❬₊° ᶦ ᵃᵐ ᵃ ᵇˡᵒᵍᵍᵉʳ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵃˡˡ·“= ‹⸙͎

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┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩

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┊ ┊ ︎✧

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On a scorching afternoon where the shouting of children, chasing each other after classes have concluded, and the chattering adults have started to lock up the messy rooms, there was not one place that was quiet. I, on the other hand, had a quest to fulfill under a time limit! The red ballpen flung onto my chair desk when white sheets of paper were clenced by my thin palms. I ran outside past our broken doorstep to our class, over the pastures, and on top of stone-edged floors. Time is ticking... 4, 3, 2, and those squeaky black dull shoes made it! In opening the slim door to the right side of the room, they were like glorifying gates that screeched wide open—awaiting for my arrival. Well, it wasn’t that dramatic, but I was perspired out of sprinting under the gleaming sun. My short legs wobbling for a tiny second. The beads dripping on my worried face were shaken when I entered the room at around the size of a studio-type residence.

It was normal for me to be an errand girl who assists her class and obey her teachers with respect, no matter what school my identification card is designated to. I grew up with that kind of personality: helpful, caring, kind, diligent, and patient. Hence, these exhausted shoes have travelled to many places across gymnasiums, libraries, storage rooms, and laboratories. Though, sometimes, my mind still can’t get used to such a huge room, like that of the faculty rooms. I still become staggered over the hectic aura of the space, where long tables sat in rows, and people in pink & blue uniforms kindling the noise from the outside within. I would look around to see piles of examination papers, rolls of cartolina squeezed into a box, and scattered gadgets for teaching being charged to full energy. This is an article featuring the 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙀𝙧𝙖 𝙐𝙣𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙮: 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙎𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙡.

Throughout the years I’ve walked on those narrow corridors, and climbed up stairs to different floors of the vintage buildings, I also meet ways with many generations. One generation was younger than me—that of clumsy children innocently playing in the fields endlessly. The other was of my age, those who exist with me, as they attempt to finish their studies without tilting their heads to nudges of distraction. Then, there was this generation who were much similar to us—like students in a classroom laughing and sharing stories with each other. They had the knowledge of the world in their hands. In their arms, they carry heavier packages to unbox. Though, unlike the previous generations I meet who simply stepped up and down the stairs, the prudent grown-up smiled back to me, walking slowly pass my agitated shoulder.

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ㅤㅤ ❝ That room that I remember the most, ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ was under construction before the pandemic began. ❞

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I had the desire to help them lift their troubles by standing by their side, but they refuse because it is the role they signed up for, and my position had no power to be elevated to their level. Though, through these words, I know I would be able to do something to display their everyday lives behind teaching the New Era youth, giving the best advice, and serving the school with unconditional love. I was given the chance to be closer to the people who inspired me to present the compassionate self with the direction, ambition, and deduction to offer my best contribution to the world I belong to.

At the back of those generalized comforting grins and caring embraces, come their different fairytales that make the generation a community of teachers—young or old, millennial or Gen X, whatever gender and status they may have. They were a social generation, with hundred of stories to unfold and share to the youth. That was one thing I admired about them the most.

Well, I have encountered many teachers in my life since entering school, but the memory that always stick to my mind is my experiences with the teachers of New Era University: Integrated School. For some, they would cover their face when they recognize their teachers riding on a public vehicle rushing to its detination. Others simply ignore their respected educators when they spot them being at school even if the sun has already tucked in for the day.

However, I was one of those students who waves and greets them with my two-front teeth sticking out in happiness—trekking my way to school, riding shiny metallic jeepneys, and walking through scrapped walls that used to be fully painted. The inspiration flows out when I’m with them—a witness of their trials and ever-changing biographies in their very own home, the school, itself. Yes, the school becomes their shelter, figuratively, because that is how passionate they are in the path they’ve chosen to wander upon.

Then, there’s this vague image that I always remember—a banquet room where teachers eat together side-by-side during lunch breaks. The clanging of plates and utensils compliments the happy vibe of the room. The meals packed in transparent plastic bags from the canteen look fancy because of the optimistic mood all throughout the proximity in between me and the busy adults. Oh, and how could I not forget to mention the signature pancakes by New Era University: Integrated School that some teachers indulge in the most?

The giggles never end when I hear their jokes from afar, while I am walking through their room to return the checked papers I’ve finished to my Filipino teacher in Grade 10. Everyone was like workers in a castle of royalty—busy and preoccupied with their own duties, yet working towards one united purpose, that together creates a vibrant mix of emotions in the great hall. The harmonized melody it produces once the sweat and tears has finally been paid off, truly, the lunch breaks are what makes the banquet more lively. It’s a feast to behold!

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ㅤㅤ❝ Whenever I catch my name, I return it, ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤwith my good-natured, ‘Hi po, Sir and Ma’am!’ ❞

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On one side were the lockers, where old and new student’s projects filled the barren storage with interesting information. There are multiple brown wooden tables overlapped with colorful designs where groups of teachers sit together. The masters of Science sat at the bench to the wall at the right, while the experts in English stay behind a counter adjacent to the door on the right. People who speak of Filipino, Math, Computer, and MAPEH had benches next to each other in the middle of the bustling hall that was their faculty room. They are not divided, literally, for their workplaces are not distanced from one another. Each part of the table has a customized area per teacher, whose pictures of blood-related family and schedules are inserted under transparent cover—giving them motivation to carry on their sworn responsibility. However, just like BFFs who stick together, some teachers transfer to other tables to enjoy the rest of the day with their close co-faculty members.

They would talk about their personal lives, their interests, and at times, the students & problems they encounter in classes. Some gave glee, but of course, there were also those that gave headaches. That’s why whenever I am presented with a new subject teacher per grade level, I can understand if the they know me well from the narrations of the teachers who’ve handled me. They are aware of my struggles, efforts, and kindness as a pupil of New Era. They are familiarized with this face, the expression, and its body language.

Though, I am still proud that they recognize my batchmates dedication, too. Each teacher imparted values to all their children equally. There was no favoritism, and everyone gets a chance to participate. When we make mistakes, we are still accepted and loved. All this, even though they are humans who are aroused by intense feelings? No matter how impressive, or lowly we are, it is that chance to be better that we are most thankful about in this palace of high education.

All the pictures you’ve seen so far contain significant beings in my life as a student-soon-to-be-adult. That’s the magic of being someone not so known in society or history, but will remain a treasured person in your life—a special connection only you and that person understands, and not everyone else does. Even though I tend to stutter and zip my mouth when I am often in the loud banquet when I do not want to disturb the delightful get-alongs by our educators, eventually I am noticed and asked, “What are you doing here, Nicole Chua?” It’s the admiration that regardless if I was hidden or completely revealing of myself, they help me to speak out and be more confident with the adults. That is something that I also want to influence my classmates with, because these teachers outside lessons and activities are not so intimidating & looming at all!

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ㅤㅤ ㅤ❝ I can recall the cooked dishes and the grades for judging, and I cherish them knowing you cannot taste them again. ❞

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They are friendly, approachable, and absolutely considerate of the many kids they manage from Mondays to Fridays. Off campus is a different story that I can’t personally share for the privacy of their lives, though I would say it’s rough. It’s rough to come back home—to take care of your very own children while finishing school records, bringing along the stress from work into their real dwelling. They are not just mothers and fathers of the campus that caters hundreds of beautiful princes and princesses. They are also parents worried of their own children’s future.

The sicknesses, the loans, the quarrels, and the trickling hourglass—all this is what they must face in the cold, dry evenings. They are vulnerable to all these things that makes them a part of reality, and not just some fantasy with no flaws. It didn’t matter if they were in the coordinator’s office, the cookery laboratory, the office in the second floor, or that special place on the fourth floor. I was there to hear their encounters with their rude children, or the sweet marriage they had. If I clean harder, dart quicker, and volunteer even more, I can appreciate them who were not supernatural beings veiled in fiction. They sacrifice for that hope, that they will teach the next generations how to educate those after them, and those before them. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤𝙨 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺.

One time, I was holding onto the dream of being a part of the school’s newspaper—it was my “𝗛𝗨𝗗𝗬𝗔𝗧” to fulfill the vision, reflected by that tender link I had with that story. The tension was still on me when I came to the opening. I had no clue why I felt that way, even if I’ve entered too many banquet halls at that point. Though, I was determined to open that door and introduce myself with the passion I had. She was someone I did not know so much back then, but now, I’m writing this article because of her instruction. Her proficient Filipino words, and the lectures she offered to us. There was the excitement, the uplifting compliments, and the will to keep on writing. This may be the last time that we will be coupled for education, but I’m hoping to see our names as staff on the front page. Am I too much, or was that a mysterious ending?

Teachers in general only want the best for their learners, for influencing their lives is the greatest fulfillment. They can be strict or relatable, but together, they spend the rest of the day in the banquet room, merrily toasting for a job well done. In this monumental learning institution, many important people shall rise and do their part in society, away from the fairytales and fictional playtime. Perhaps, next time, if you can also observe your own school’s faculty room, you can hear their stories—the sounds of a feast, and assist them in preparing for the afternoon festivities.

I hope you were able to see the beautiful reality of the teachers of New Era University: Integrated School with my own eyes. Do greet them hello, or help them in your tiny acts the next time you see them, and it will definitely brighten their day. Thank you for reading their ordinary tales! Come back again in another blog where my fantasies become realities! A Nikki reminder: let’s help one another to rise up to success, instead of degrading one another to failure!

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ❝ It’s the ultimate desire, and yet I felt so anxious, ㅤㅤ ㅤbut now we’re so close, yet so far between screens. ❞

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· * ✫ * ⊹ * ˚ . . 　　· ⋆ * . * . . · . · . * · . · · + . ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ· ** ˚ . . + 　　· ⋆ * . * . . · . · . *

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ. . + 　· ⋆ * . * . . · . · .˚ ⊹ · * ✧ ⋆ · * . · . · · .. . .

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ· + ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ· * ✫ * ⊹ * ˚

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ · ** ˚ . . + ㅤㅤ　· ⋆ * . * . . · . · .˚ ⊹ · * ✧

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ⋆ · * . · ㅤㅤ . · · .. . . · + .

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ. · + . *

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⋆ * . * . .

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ . · ·

ㅤㅤ﹙dedication. ﹚ ୨˚୧ ˚ ༘♡.↳ ₊˚‧

This blog is dedicated to “I am a Teacher,” for her patience, remarks, rainbow scarfs, adorable dogs, and wonderful words given to me. You are My Most Precious Treasure in this writing journey, from blandness to vividness.

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ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ┊彡 Credits

➥ Cover Edit

➫ Ma’am JB

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➥ First Blog Divider

➫ Sir Leo

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➥ Second Blog Divider

➫ Ma'am Eva

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➥ Third Blog Divider

➫ Sir Prince

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➥ Fourth Blog Divider

➫ Sir Prince

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➥ Fifth Blog Divider

➫ Teacher Med

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➥ Source of Information

➫ The author’s encounters

➫ Briefly shared stories by her teachers

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[drsenkustone]

🧪How to Survive🧪

CH4 - Mince Meats

You reached your hands above your head stretching out your arms, back now lying flat on the dirt as you let out a quiet groan. It was still pretty uncomfortable sleeping on the cold ground, even with the sleeping bags. Slowly sitting up, you check your surroundings again. The fire in the center had burnt out, just little smoke puffs still rising out through the opening. Senku was right after it, still curled up in his sleeping bag completely unconscious. You had no idea what time it was, you could guess from the sun's position but you need to get outside for that. You fold up your sleeping bag and place it to the side before quietly sneaking out of the hutch. After closing the door, the sun burned your eyes a bit, not a cloud in the sky and you embraced the warmth on your skin. A slow smile graced your face as you began to walk around, stretching your legs. It was obvious no one else was up yet, you were sure they'd be working or fighting if so. This entire set up was still so impressive, and continued to get larger! Actually, you were excited to be a part of all of this! In your eagerness (and politeness) you took it upon yourself to begin preparing some breakfast for your friends.

It wasn't too long after Senku woke up too, actually he woke when he heard you shuffling out the hutch, but he didn't see any reason to stop you or get up him just yet. What he did sit up for was when the smell very similar to bacon caught his nose. He pulled himself out of the sleeping back and decided to walk out and see what you were up too. He was slightly surprised to see you were using some pig meat Kinro and Ginro had gotten for you guys, slicing it up and cooking it over the fire. Since there was no skillet yet, you used the tongs to hold the bacon above and allow it to cook, then flipped for the other end. He chuckled softly before walking over to join you, glad to have someone food creative on the team.

"Didn't know you knew how to cook, that's quite the useful skill," he quipped as he took a seat next to you. He was already thinking of how useful you would be when they are fully prepared to make ramen, that was exciting!

"It's not like I'm a gourmet chef, just got some basics." You smiled softly, placing another cooked piece on a clean clay plate. Senku reached for a cooler one but you were quicker and lightly slapped his hand away, taking him by surprise. "I know you know it's polite to wait for everybody…"

"I do, however I also know everybody won't be here before the food gets cold. We haven't really done group breakfasts." Contrary to his statement, he placed his hands on his thighs, listening to you instead, waiting politely for you to finish cooking.

"Well, we can start," you hummed, placing the last slice of bacon on the clay plate and putting the tongs down. "We'll let the others know to join us tomorrow! For now this is a good start, dig in!" You picked up the warm plate with both hands and offered some to Senku first. He chuckled before taking a slice and began to eat, you following in suit.

"It's been a while since we've gotten a real breakfast, thanks for cooking." Senku said after swallowing his bite.

"It's a fine line of 'real' but for the stone age, sure. But you're smart, you could've easily done this."

"I'm no cook, I know the concepts of cooking but the food never comes out good like this."

You cheeks gained a tint of color from the compliment, but he obviously didn't think of it as one, or didn't notice he did it. You let a sad smile grace your lips as you looked down at the place. He thought your food was good…somebody did.

"Well, let's go wake Chrome, we have a lot to get done today," he grinned standing up. You realized you both ate most of the bacon, though one slice was left.

"Did you want the last one Senku?"

"Nah, I left that for you. I ate enough and you're still building back your strength, you need all the energy you can get." He started walking towards the Shed of Science ready to wake the brunette. You stared at his back as he walked away. You had some mixed emotions, you weren't sure what was going on in your head or heart and you know this wasn't the usual you. Most times you were calm and happy, but right now you were a bit confused, stirred up and a bit happy. You took a deep breath before chomping down the last slice of bacon, deciding to ignore the stupid parts of your brain and stay focused.

As you climbed up the ladder to the open door, your eyes widened as you saw the scene in front of you- Senku’s energetic laughter and Chromes cries for mercy as he was the victim of mint leaves being shoved into his nostrils. You jumped up in attempts to help pull Senku off Chrome, Senku willingly stepping back as you pulled with a stupid grin on his face staring down at the boy. Chrome immediate pulled the smelly leaves out and glared at the genius.

“WHAT THE HELL MAN?!?! Is that how you wake people up?!”

“Nah, but it sure is funny seeing you create such a fuss over the smell of mint in your nostrils,” Senku chuckled. “Your sinus’ should be clear if anything!”

You knelt down next to Chrome as he bickered with Senku and used a piece cloth from the shed to wipe a couple tears. Chrome was surprised at your delicate touch, deciding to let the joke slide and he gave you a smile.

“Thanks (y/n),” You smiled back to him and put the cloth back in your pocket. Since you had been here you had remade some clothes you were more comfortable in. You crafted a tank top shirt that had about an inch of opening on the sides from the stitching and pair of shorts, similar loose stitching on the side of your thighs. You had some familiarity crafting clothes so of course Senku designated you as the seamstress when necessary.

“Should’ve shoved it in his mouth Senku, he would have had minty fresh breath!” You gained a stupidly large grin as Chrome’s face turned to shock and disbelief, his jaw dropping wide at your bold comment. Of course this earned a laugh from Senku, agree that he’ll keep it in mind for next time. Chrome swore he’d be more careful around you now too.

Every day in the Kingdom of Science, time flies by so goddamn quickly—god you wish you could say that right now! Senku sent Kohaku out to get some meat for the ramen and Suika into the village for a couple eggs. Chrome and he were to set up the rest of the stage to prep the food while you were in charge of creating noodles out of all the new flour everyone created. Though this wasn’t physical work, it was time consuming and your fingers ached a bit. You weren’t trying to get the noodles to perfectly match or anything, it was just more ‘crafty’ as he put it which is why he chose you. You felt a bit like he was treating you as his own Yuzuriha in her absence.

“Nice work,” Senku praised from over your shoulder, stepping around to poke in the basket of prepped noodles.

“I swear if you ruin them…” you glared, currently rolling another one.

“Relax, once we eat you’ll be less crabby.”

“You’re indicating I’m hangry?”

“10 billion percent,” Senku grinned. Before you could accuse how, your stomach let out an obnoxious growl. “And that’s how I know.” You looked back down at your rolling, feeling slightly embarrassed. Senku’s grin softened as he stood with the first small basket of prepped noodles in one hand and rubbed the top of your head with the other, messing up your hair.

“…Punk…” you muttered as he walked away, ignoring the slight heat you felt on your cheeks.

Chrome had already got a pot of boiling water going, now keeping the fire in check. Senku had returned and immediately dumped the noodles into the mixture, knowing it was at the perfect boiling point. He glanced back over his shoulder to you as you still rolled more noodles for the next batch. He was still torn on how to tell you about the dangers out there. He sent Kohaku for the obvious reasons, being a fast and skilled fighter, he was glad you were weak. He picked up the scallions and began to cut them into the pot in small pieces. His small action didn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you worried about her?” Chrome asked with a gentle look to Senku. The scientist met his eyes for a moment before looking back down at the scallion he was chopping.

“Yes,” he sighed softly. “I have to tell her about Tsukasa tonight, the danger of him being out there is too real for her to hide from. If she knows she can protect herself to an extent…”

Chrome added another block to the fire pit under the pot. “I have a feeling there’s a reason you’re stalling. You’re not one to be nervous about a talk.”

“It’s not that I’m nervous about having the conversation,” his red eyes grew large and soft. “She’s still fairly frail at the moment, but even in her full potential, if she gets caught by Tsukasa she’s done for. I want to find a logical way to keep her in the base so she stays safe, but I know that in itself is quite illogical.” He dropped the rest of the chopped scallions in the pot and ran a hand through his bangs.

“She’ll eventually want to explore more, she seems like the open minded type,” Chrome stated while looking over at you. He knew very little about you, but in the short time he had a good idea of who you were.

“I know, that’s why I have to tell her tonight.” Chrome could see in his body language he obviously didn’t want to do this. His hand that was just in his hair was rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes were large staring into the pot and his posture seemed stiff. He didn’t understand though why Senku was having a hard time moving forward to have this conversation. He never minced words, what was different now? He said he wanted to keep (y/n) safe in the base but—

Chrome lightbulb in his brain started to flicker.

He stared at Senku while he was stirring the pot. Could it be that…? But a guy like him?...Does he even realize—

“Why are you staring at me?” Senku deadpanned. Chrome’s skin jumped a bit as he took a step back, laughing it off. You had returned over to them with the second pot of noodles, Senku approving you to drop them in. Shortly after Suika returned with the eggs and Kohaku with a small pig. Surprisingly, Senku finished what he started, he finally cooked everybody a bowl of Ramen.

Chrome, Kohaku and Suika were SLURPING it down like their lives were on the line, you were actually stunned people could eat that quickly!! Senku told you he wasn’t that good of a cook, but maybe he got lucky. You brought the noodles to your lips and sucked some up, chomping and chomping. You swallowed, not wanting to be rude out of everything. When you looked to the genius to make a comment, it was obvious he tasted the difference too, his face was already in the dirt muttering how much it was NOT like ramen from their time. You laughed whole-heartedly and patted his head.

“It’ll get better. There’s still worse cooks out there than this,” you encouraged, the boy sitting up and wiping the dirt off his face. “Besides, it’s pretty damn amazing to people who never tasted it before~” Senku suddenly took notice in that, his devilish grin appearing.

“Then it’s all going according to plan! Soon we’ll be inside the village curing Ruri and fully building a Kingdom of Science!!!” He chuckled lowly as your face paled over.

“You need to calm down,” you huffed before taking another bite of your decent ramen. He was right, you were more calm too.

#senku x reader #howtosurvivesenku #dr stone #dr stone x reader #senku #senku ishigami