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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 3 years

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The New Nihilism

It feels increasingly difficult to tell the difference between—on one hand—being old, sick, and defeated, and—on the other hand—living in a time-&-place that is itself senile, tired, and defeated. Sometimes I think it’s just me—but then I find that some younger, healthier people seem to be undergoing similar sensations of ennui, despair, and impotent anger. Maybe it’s not just me.

A friend of mine attributed the turn to disillusion with “everything”, including old-fashioned radical/activist positions, to disappointment over the present political regime in the US, which was somehow expected to usher in a turn away from the reactionary decades since the 1980s, or even a “progress” toward some sort of democratic socialism. Although I myself didn’t share this optimism (I always assume that anyone who even wants to be President of the US must be a psychopathic murderer) I can see that “youth” suffered a powerful disillusionment at the utter failure of Liberalism to turn the tide against Capitalism Triumphalism. The disillusion gave rise to OCCUPY and the failure of OCCUPY led to a move toward sheer negation.

However I think this merely political analysis of the “new nothing” may be too two-dimensional to do justice to the extent to which all hope of “change” has died under Kognitive Kapital and the technopathocracy. Despite my remnant hippy flower- power sentiments I too feel this “terminal” condition (as Nietzsche called it), which I express by saying, only half-jokingly, that we have at last reached the Future, and that the truly horrible truth of the End of the World is that it doesn’t end.

One big J.G. Ballard/Philip K. Dick shopping mall from now till eternity, basically.

This IS the future—how do you like it so far? Life in the Ruins: not so bad for the bourgeoisie, the loyal servants of the One Percent. Air-conditioned ruins! No Ragnarok, no Rapture, no dramatic closure: just an endless re-run of reality TV cop shows. 2012 has come and gone, and we’re still in debt to some faceless bank, still chained to our screens.

Most people—in order to live at all—seem to need around themselves a penumbra of “illusion” (to quote Nietzsche again):—that the world is just rolling along as usual, some good days some bad, but in essence no different now than in 10000 BC or 1492 AD or next year. Some even need to believe in Progress, that the Future will solve all our problems, and even that life is much better for us now than for (say) people in the 5th century AD. We live longer thanx to Modern Science—of course our extra years are largely spent as “medical objects”—sick and worn out but kept ticking by Machines & Pills that spin huge profits for a few megacorporations & insurance companies. Nation of Struldbugs.

True, we’re suffocating in the mire generated by our rule of sick machines under the Numisphere of Money. At least ten times as much money now exists than it would take to buy the whole world—and yet species are vanishing space itself is vanishing, icecaps melting, air and water grown toxic, culture grown toxic, landscape sacrificed to fracking and megamalls, noise-fascism, etc, etc. But Science will cure all that ills that Science has created—in the Future (in the “long run”, when we’re all dead, as Lord Keynes put it); so meanwhile we’ll carry on consuming the world and shitting it out as waste—because it’s convenient & efficient & profitable to do so, and because we like it.

Well, this is all a bunch of whiney left-liberal cliches, no? Heard it before a million times. Yawn. How boring, how infantile, how useless. Even if it were all true... what can we do about it? If our Anointed Leaders can’t or won’t stop it, who will? God? Satan? The “People”?

All the fashionable “solutions” to the “crisis”, from electronic democracy to revolutionary violence, from locavorism to solar-powered dingbats, from financial market regulation to the General Strike—all of them, however ridiculous or sublime, depend on one preliminary radical change—a seismic shift in human consciousness. Without such a change all the hope of reform is futile. And if such a change were somehow to occur, no “reform” would be necessary. The world would simply change. The whales would be saved. War no more. And so on.

What force could (even in theory) bring about such a shift? Religion? In 6,000 years of organized religion matters have only gotten worse. Psychedelic drugs in the reservoirs? The Mayan calendar? Nostalgia? Terror?

If catastrophic disaster is now inevitable, perhaps the “Survivalist” scenario will ensue, and a few brave millions will create a green utopia in the smoking waste. But won’t Capitalism find a way to profit even from the End of the World? Some would claim that it’s doing so already. The true catastrophe may be the final apotheosis of commodity fetishism.

Let’s assume for the sake of argument that this paradise of power tools and back-up alarms is all we’ve got & all we’re going to get. Capitalism can deal with global warming—it can sell water-wings and disaster insurance. So it’s all over, let’s say—but we’ve still got television & Twitter. Childhood’s End—i.e. the child as ultimate consumer, eager for the brand. Terrorism or home shopping network—take yr pick (democracy means choice).

Since the death of the Historical Movement of the Social in 1989 (last gasp of the hideous “short” XXth century that started in 1914) the only “alternative” to Capitalist Neo-Liberal totalitarianism that seems to have emerged is religious neo-fascism. I understand why someone would want to be a violent fundamentalist bigot—I even sympathize—but just because I feel sorry for lepers doesn’t mean I want to be one.

When I attempt to retain some shreds of my former antipessimism I fantasize that History may not be over, that some sort of Populist Green Social Democracy might yet emerge to challenge the obscene smugness of “Money Interests”—something along the lines of 1970s Scandinavian monarcho-socialism—which in retrospect now looks the most humane form of the State ever to have emerged from the putrid suck-hole of Civilization. (Think of Amsterdam in its heyday.) Of course as an anarchist I’d still have to oppose it—but at least I’d have the luxury of believing that, in such a situation, anarchy might actually stand some chance of success. Even if such a movement were to emerge, however, we can rest damn-well assured it won’t happen in the USA. Or anywhere in the ghost-realm of dead Marxism, either. Maybe Scotland!

It would seem quite pointless to wait around for such a rebirth of the Social. Years ago many radicals gave up all hope of The Revolution, and the few who still adhere to it remind me of religious fanatics. It might be soothing to lapse into such doctrinaire revolutionism, just as it might be soothing to sink into mystical religion—but for me at least both options have lost their savor. Again, I sympathize with those true believers (although not so much when they lapse into authoritarian leftism or fascism)— nevertheless, frankly, I’m too depressed to embrace their Illusions.

If the End-Time scenario sketched above be considered actually true, what alternatives might exist besides suicidal despair? After much thought I’ve come up with three basic strategies.

1) Passive Escapism. Keep your head down, don’t make waves. Capitalism permits all sorts of “lifestyles” (I hate that word)—just pick one & try to enjoy it. You’re even allowed to live as a dirt farmer without electricity & infernal combustion, like a sort of secular Amish refusnik. Well, maybe not. But at least you could flirt with such a life. “Smoke Pot, Eat Chicken, Drink Tea,” as we used to say in the 60s in the Moorish Church of America, our psychedelic cult. Hope they don’t catch you. Fit yourself into some Permitted Category such as Neo-Hippy or even Anabaptist.

2) Active Escapism. In this scenario you attempt to create the optimal conditions for the emergence of Autonomous Zones, whether temporary, periodic or even (semi)permanent. In 1984 when I first coined the term Temporary Autonomous Zone (TAZ)

I envisioned it as a complement to The Revolution—although I was already, to be truthful, tired of waiting for a moment that seemed to have failed in 1968. The TAZ would give a taste or premonition of real liberties: in effect you would attempt to live as if the Revolution had already occurred, so as not to die without ever having experienced “free freedom” (as Rimbaud called it, liberte libre). Create your own pirate utopia.

Of course the TAZ can be as brief & simple as a really good dinner party, but the true autonomist will want to maximize the potential for longer & deeper experiences of authentic lived life. Almost inevitably this will involve crime, so it’s necessary to think like a criminal, not a victim. A “Johnson” as Burroughs used to say—not a “mark”. How else can one live (and live well) without Work. Work, the curse of the thinking class. Wage slavery. If you’re lucky enough to be a successful artist, you can perhaps achieve relative autonomy without breaking any obvious laws (except the laws of good taste, perhaps). Or you could inherit a million. (More than a million would be a curse.) Forget revolutionary morality—the question is, can you afford your taste of freedom? For most of us, crime will be not only a pleasure but a necessity. The old anarcho-Illegalists showed the way: individual expropriation. Getting caught of course spoils the whole thing—but risk is an aspect of self-authenticity.

One scenario I’ve imagined for active Escapism would be to move to a remote rural area along with several hundred other libertarian socialists—enough to take over the local government (municipal or even county) and elect or control the sheriffs & judges, the parent/teacher association, volunteer fire department and even the water authority. Fund the venture with cultivation of illegal phantastice and carry on a discreet trade. Organize as a “Union of Egoists” for mutual benefit & ecstatic pleasures—perhaps under the guise of “communes” or even monasteries, who cares. Enjoy it as long as it lasts.

I know for a fact that this plan is being worked on in several places in America—but of course I’m not going to say where.

Another possible model for individual escapists might be the nomadic adventurer. Given that the whole world seems to be turning into a giant parking lot or social network, I don’t know if this option remains open, but I suspect that it might. The trick would be to travel in places where tourists don’t—if such places still exist—and to involve oneself in fascinating and dangerous situations. For example if I were young and healthy I’d’ve gone to France to take part in the TAZ that grew around resistance to the new airport—or to Greece—or Mexico—wherever the perverse spirit of rebellion crops up. The problem here is of course funding. (Sending back statues stuffed with hash is no longer a good idea.) How to pay for yr life of adventure? Love will find a way. It doesn’t matter so much if one agrees with the ideals of Tahrir Square or Zucotti Park—the point is just to be there.

3. Revenge. I call it Zarathustra’s Revenge because as Nietzsche said, revenge may be second rate but it’s not nothing. One might enjoy the satisfaction of terrifying the bastards for at least a few moments. Formerly I advocated “Poetic Terrorism” rather than actual violence, the idea being that art could be wielded as a weapon. Now I’ve rather come to doubt it. But perhaps weapons might be wielded as art. From the sledgehammer of the Luddites to the black bomb of the attentat, destruction could serve as a form of creativity, for its own sake, or for purely aesthetic reasons, without any illusions about revolution. Oscar Wilde meets the acte gratuit: a dandyism of despair.

What troubles me about this idea is that it seems impossible to distinguish here between the action of post-leftist anarcho-nihilists and the action of post-rightist neo-traditionalist reactionaries. For that matter, a bomb may as well be detonated by fundamentalist fanatics—what difference would it make to the victims or the “innocent bystanders”? Blowing up a nanotechnology lab—why shouldn’t this be the act of a desperate monarchist as easily as that of a Nietzschean anarchist?

In a recent book by Tiqqun (Theory of Bloom), it was fascinating to come suddenly across the constellation of Nietzsche, Rene Guenon, Julius Evola, et al. as examples of a sharp and just critique of the Bloom syndrome—i.e., of progress-as-illusion. Of course the “beyond left and right” position has two sides—one approaching from the left, the other from the right. The European New Right (Alain de Benoist & his gang) are big admirers of Guy Debord, for a similar reason (his critique, not his proposals).

The post-left can now appreciate Traditionalism as a reaction against modernity just as the neo-traditionalists can appreciate Situationism. But this doesn’t mean that post-anarchist anarchists are identical with post-fascism fascists!

I’m reminded of the situation in fin-de-siecle France that gave rise to the strange alliance between anarchists and monarchists; for example the Cerce Proudhon. This surreal conjunction came about for two reasons: a) both factions hated liberal democracy, and b) the monarchists had money. The marriage gave birth to weird progeny, such as Georges Sorel. And Mussolini famously began his career as an Individualist anarchist!

Another link between left & right could be analyzed as a kind of existentialism; once again Nietzsche is the founding parent here, I think. On the left there were thinkers like Gide or Camus. On the right, that illuminated villain Baron Julius Evola used to tell his little ultra-right groupuscules in Rome to attack the Modern World—even though the restoraton of tradition was a hopeless dream—if only as an act of magical self-creation. Being trumps essence. One must cherish no attachment to mere results. Surely Tiqqun’s advocacy of the “perfect Surrealist act” (firing a revolver at random into a crowd of “innocent by-standers”) partakes of this form of action-as-despair. (Incidentally I have to confess that this is the sort of thing that has always—to my regret—prevented my embracing Surrealism: it’s just too cruel. I don’t admire de Sade, either.)

Of course, as we know, the problem with the Traditionalists is that they were never traditional enough. They looked back at a lost civilization as their “goal” (religion, mysticism, monarchism, arts-&-crafts, etc.) whereas they should have realized that the real tradition is the “primordial anarchy” of the Stone Age, tribalism, hunting/gathering, animism—what I call the Neanderthal Liberation Front. Paul Goodman used the term “Neolithic Conservatism” to describe his brand of anarchism—but “Paleolithic Reaction” might be more appropriate!

The other major problem with the Traditionalist Right is that the entire emotional tone of the movement is rooted in self-repression. Here a rough Reichean analysis suffices to demonstrate that the authoritarian body reflects a damaged soul, and that only anarchy is compatible with real self-realization.

The European New Right that arose in the 90s still carries on its propaganda—and these chaps are not just vulgar nationalist chauvenist anti-semitic homophobic thugs—they’re intellectuals & artists. I think they’re evil, but that doesn’t mean I find them boring. Or even wrong on certain points. They also hate the nanotechnologists!

Although I attempted to set off a few bombs back in the 1960s (against the war in Vietnam) I’m glad, on the whole, that they failed to detonate (technology was never my metier). It saves me from wondering if I would’ve experienced “moral qualms”. Instead I chose the path of the propagandist and remained an activist in anarchist media from 1984 to about 2004. I collaborated with the Autonomedia publishing collective, the IWW, the John Henry Mackay Society (Left Stirnerites) and the old NYC Libertarian Book Club (founded by comrades of Emma Goldman, some of whom I knew, & who are now all dead). I had a radio show on WBAI (Pacifica) for 18 years. I lectured all over Europe and East Europe in the 90s. I had a very nice time, thank you. But anarchism seems even farther off now than it looked in 1984, or indeed in 1958, when I first became an anarchist by reading George Harriman’s Krazy Kat. Well, being an existentialist means you never have to say you’re sorry.

In the last few years in anarchist circles there’s appeared a trend “back” to Stirner/Nietzsche Individualism—because after all, who can take revolutionary anarcho-communism or syndicalism seriously anymore? Since I’ve adhered to this Individualist position for decades (although tempered by admiration for Charles Fourier and certain “spiritual anarchists” like Gustave Landauer) I naturally find this trend agreeable.

“Green anarchists” & AntiCivilization Neo-primitivists seem (some of them) to be moving toward a new pole of attraction, nihilism. Perhaps neo-nihilism would serve as a better label, since this tendency is not simply replicating the nihilism of the Russian narodniks or the French attentatists of circa 1890 to 1912, however much the new nihilists look to the old ones as precursors. I share their critique—in fact I think I’ve been mirroring it to a large extent in this essay: creative despair, let’s call it. What I do not understand however is their proposal—if any. “What is to be done?” was originally a nihilist slogan, after all, before Lenin appropriated it. I presume that my option #1, passive escape, would not suit the agenda. As for Active Escapism, to use the suffix “ism” implies some form not only of ideology but also some action. What is the logical outcome of this train of thought?

As an animist I experience the world (outside Civilization) as essentially sentient. The death of God means the rebirth of the gods, as Nietzsche implied in his last “mad” letters from Turin— the resurrection of the great god PAN—chaos, Eros, Gaia, & Old Night, as Hesiod put it—Ontological anarchy, Desire, Life itself, & the Darkness of revolt & negation—all seem to me as real as they need to be.

I still adhere to a certain kind of spiritual anarchism—but only as heresy and paganism, not as orthodoxy and monotheism. I have great respect for Dorothy Day—her writing influenced me in the 60s—and Ivan Illich, whom I knew personally—but in the end I cannot deal with the cognitive dissonance between anarchism and the Pope! Nevertheless I can believe in the re-paganaziation of monotheism. I hold to this pagan tradition because I sense the universe as alive, not as “dead matter.” As a life-long psychedelicist I have always thought that matter & spirit are identical, and that this fact alone legitimizes what Theory calls “desire”.

From this p.o.v. the phrase “revolution of everyday life” still seems to have some validity—if only in terms of the second proposal, Active Escapism or the TAZ. As for the third possibility— Zarathustra’s Revenge—this seems like a possible path for the new nihilism, at least from a philosophical perspective. But since I am unable personally to advocate it, I leave the question open.

But here—I think—is the point at which I both meet with & diverge from the new nihilism. I too seem to believe that Predatory Capitalism has won and that no revolution is possible in the classical sense of that term. But somehow I can’t bring myself to be “against everything.” Within the Temporary Autonomous Zone there still seems to persist the possibility of “authentic life,” if only for a moment—and if this position amounts to mere Escapism, then let us become Houdini. The new surge of interest in Individualism is obviously a response to the Death of the Social. But does the new nihilism imply the death even of the individual and the “union of egoists” or Nietzschean free spirits? On my good days, I like to think not.

No matter which of the three paths one takes (or others I can’t yet imagine) it seems to me that the essential thing is not to collapse into mere apathy. Depression we may have to accept, impotent rage we may have to accept, revolutionary pessimism we may have to accept. But as e.e. cummings (anarchist poet) said, there is some shit we will not take, lest we simply become the enemy by default. Can’t go on, must go on. Cultivate rosebuds, even selfish pleasures, as long as a few birds & flowers still remain. Even love may not be impossible...

#hakim bey #Nihilism #t.a.z.#anarchism

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amphibiandad · 3 years

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A Ghostly Gift

Gift exchange for @dappersdoodles :)

‘Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the house

Not a creature was stirring

Not even a mouse...

“Aether, where the FUCK is the tinsel?”

“I thought you didn’t want to do this,” Aether smirked to himself in amusement at the smaller ghoul. Anger falling from his face as he realised the drop of his façade, Dewdrop stomped in a manner that was a little too dramatic to be genuine moodiness and spluttered “n-no! I just want to get it over with is all! I mean, who would want to be dressed like this? It’s-it’s...”

Aether raised his eyebrows expectantly, trying not to break into a grin at the pink warmth growing on Dew’s face.

“Well...you know...ridiculous.”

Aether just couldn’t keep the laughter in. A hearty chuckle rumbled out from him and echoed on the old stone around the pair. It wasn’t his fault - it was impossible not to when Dew was so cute pouting in that adorable reindeer onesie. A fiery blush worked its way across Dew’s cheeks as he glared at the larger ghoul, just about to snap a retort when the rest of their motley crew rounded the corner of the abbey courtyard.

“Oh my God, Dew, you look so cute!!” Cumulus squealed, pulling him into a tight hug which the petite male pretended to try and squirm out of.

“Get off me, Cumulus! Cute is so not my style.” He grumbled.

“Well, it’s not my style either but at least it’s comfortable.” Cirrus shrugged. “I think Papa might have underestimated Mountain’s height though.”

Looking over to him, the others noted that Mountain’s onesie ended almost at his knees and he frowned as he sighed heavily, already mourning his normal clothes. A short snicker came from the fire ghoul at the sight but was quickly halted by a couple of sharp elbows in the ribs (courtesy of Rain and Cumulus, nonetheless) who quickly tried to placate the towering male across from them with soft, reassuring coos.

“I thought they were quite nice,” Swiss commented haughtily. “Although...” He swivelled round and bent at the waist, one hand on his hips and the other resting pensively on his chin. “Does it make my ass look too fat?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible, Swiss.” Rain answered, completely straight faced whilst Dewdrop continued to suppress his laughter at the risk of incoming punishment. “But in any case, I don’t think this is the worst outcome from the Cardinal losing a bet.”

“Hm, I just wish he didn’t have to use us as a bargaining chip.” Mountain mumbled in deep baritone.

“Well, at least it was a bet with the third and not the second.” Aether replied, crossing his arms and huffing a quiet laugh as Dew paled visibly at the prospect. “Who knows what nightmares he would subject us to?”

The group shuddered collectively at the thought. None had been told specifically what was to be expected of this evening with the third, only to wear the the festive pyjamas and be in the courtyard of the abbey on time. So far, the only one who hadn’t made it there promptly was his excellency himself and regardless of how fashionable or not the outfits were, the group were certainly glad to be wearing something warm in the chill of the winter evening as their breath came in puffs of thick mist.

The courtyard itself was bare under the pale light of the moon and had the ghouls wondering why they were called out here in the first place. Originally, the group had mused that perhaps they were to participate in a play for the clergy as a strange celebration of Yule - or perhaps something more...sinister...but having seen that they were obviously not in a theatre or in front of an audience, they were only more confused. Perhaps they would be incorporated into a strange ritual or made to do physical labour - maybe the third just wanted to laugh at them in their new get up.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter...

Suddenly, said papa rushed around the corner of the abbey in a flash, his feet furiously striking the ground in quick, light taps and looking for all the world as if about to shout something awe-inspiring...before slipping on the icy stones and falling flat on his face.

Dewdrop wondered whether tonight was simply an exercise in torture as he yet again went blue in the face trying to contain his laughter at the sight of the third, face down in the grass with his ass stuck straight up in the air. However, Dew wasn’t the only one trying to suppress himself as the rest of the group were trying equally as hard not to break the silence of the untimely fall by revealing the hilarity of it all. When the small, pained giggles did start to break free, papa finally raised his head and blushed for a moment in embarrassment that was almost adorable before laughing himself, prompting everyone to break out in loud hysterics.

Once the laughter had finally died down and the tears wiped away, the third stood gingerly, trying out his limbs to make sure nothing had been injured before putting any real weight on them, and the group finally had a good look at his outfit.

“Um, sir...” Cumulus started.

“Is that a...Santa suit?” Dew finished incredulously.

“Ah! You noticed!” Papa affirmed with renewed vigour, pointing his finger in the air energetically. “Yes, I caught wind of this new trend the kids are hopping on and thought we should follow suit - pardon the pun. Very nice, eh?”

“You mean Christmas?” Cirrus supplemented hesitantly.

“Why would you want to start celebrating Christmas? And that still doesn’t explain why you’re in a Santa suit - even though, I have to say, it looks very good on you, sir.” Swiss said with a teasing wink at the third.

“Ooh, I like you.” Papa returned with an equally flirtatious smile which caused an incredibly rare flush to bless the ghoul’s high cheekbones. “It’s common sense really, the jolly fat man is known by almost everyone on the planet! Why not use that to our advantage? It’s a genius idea if you ask me.”

“So...you want to pretend to be Santa so we can spread the clergy’s message?” Aether said.

“Exactly! And it’s a good job I cheated-I mean, that your cardinal lost our bet, too.”

“Why?” Everyone asked, puzzled.

“Because,” Papa dropped to a whisper as they all leaned in curiously. “You are all very much necessary to my plan.”

The teasing atmosphere of before was gone and replaced briefly by an air of confusion and wariness as the ghouls once again dwelled on the daunting question of why they would be necessary before the third straightened and resumed his eccentric performance.

“Now, let’s hop to it!” He jumped up and started walking briskly out of the courtyard and into the woods beyond, leaving the bemused group trailing behind him.

“Wait, where are we going?” Dew asked, annoyed.

“No, no, no,” Papa replied, not even breaking a sweat still, despite the others panting heavily behind him. “Patience, young one, can’t ruin the surprise!”

Again, Dew tried to calm the traitorous blush that once again bloomed on his face. He couldn’t quite tell if it was from embarrassment at being scolded or just from the third’s overly flirtatious manner but he had little time to ponder it further as only a few moments later, they found themselves at the edge of a vast clearing, covered in a light dusting of white frost.

“See? Here we are!”

The ghouls all looked in childish wonder at the spectacle before them, with Dew and Cumulus even letting out a delighted squeal.

“Wow.” Swiss said, equally as stunned.

Before them, situated perfectly in the centre of the clearing and illuminated like moonlit velvet, was a huge, black...sleigh.

[A/N: that’s right, get your mind out of the gutter, folks.] And it was a thing of midnight beauty; the railings and silver grucifix adorning the sides gleamed as bright as shooting stars and the interior was made of plush leather the deep red of a fine french wine - a luxurious gothic steed befitting of its owner to be sure. Said owner now stood with his hands on his hips, very pleased with himself as he regarded the ghoul’s jaws resting on the floor.

“Pretty ah...impressive, hm?”

“EE-“ Dew squeaked excitedly before remembering himself and coughing. “I mean, it’s-it’s...alright, I guess.”

Terzo found himself biting his cheek at that, he couldn’t reveal his amusement now.

“Good, now onto business.”

The group snapped to attention - well, all but Swiss, who was busy touching every inch of the thing to examine the luxe materials and muse about designers and such. All of them knew. They knew that now would be when he would strike, when papa would finally drop this mask and crack the whip. The cardinal was always very kind with them and treated them like his surrogate family but they were never under any illusions about how brutal the regency could be. Many a ghoul had been handed to the papas and come back completely different, refusing to speak of what they had seen or done.

“Ghouls,” The Papa commanded and again, they straightened with a fearful jolt.

And they waited.

Rain resisted swiping a hand across his bow as sweat started to drip down. Aether could feel his heart pound like it was Mountain himself in the ghoul’s chest, Cirrus starting to tremble slightly in the corner of his eye. Even Swiss stood rim-rod straight to await what was coming.

“I want you...”

The tension became palpable as the group held a collective breath.

“To help pull the sleigh, of course!”

They blinked.

Then blinked again.

What?

“What?” They asked in unison.

“Well, I can’t move it by myself, can I?”

“You mean it works?” Mountain demanded in an unexpected boom of sound.

“What do you mean? Of course it works! How else am I going to spread the word?”

“But, sir...we can’t fly.” Cumulus said softly, careful as she glanced over at Dew, his eyes a little too shiny to be just from the moonlight.

Terzo only chuckled to himself and beckoned the (somehow even more) confused group to the sleigh until they had all found a seat: himself, Dewdrop, Aether and Rain in the front while Mountain, Swiss, Cumulus and Cirrus took the back bench. He held his hands out in front, confidently, and closed his eyes in the picture of serenity before instructing them.

“Now, I want you all to copy me. Take a deep breath...”

They did.

“And imagine yourselves floating, light as a feather.”

There was nothing for a moment and the ghouls wondered whether they really were just on an evening of babysitting the senile but then the sleigh gave a heavy groan...and miraculously, the runners lifted, slowly rising inch-by-inch until the group were suspended almost six feet in the air. Dew didn’t try to stop his thrilled squeal this time.

“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD AETHER WE’RE FLYING WE’RE FLYING AETHER YOU GOTTA LOOK OH MY GOD-“

“Not quite flying yet, boy.” Terzo halted his excited rambling but couldn’t help smiling warmly at the ghoul at his outburst. “We’ll be gone in no time and handing out our lovely gifts for the little kiddies.”

Hearing of such gifts, the group in the backseat looked behind them to the huge black velvet bag and peeked inside to reveal...

“You’re giving them merch?” Swiss asked incredulously. Inside were the warm blue blankets, hundreds of T Shirts and-

“You can’t possibly be thinking of giving them the phallos mortus set!” Cumulus screeched suddenly.

“AHHH NO,” Terzo coughed. “No, no, that-that isn’t supposed to be there. Secundo must have...erm...put that there.”

Spluttering profusely about how it definitely wasn’t his or his idea, the third clambered into the back to throw the set out of the sleigh before coming back to face Dew.

“Now boy, I have a special job for you.” He said warmly.

“What?” Dee breathed with wonder.

“I need you to light my way.”

“You want me to be...your rudolf?”

The rest of the ghouls looked at the pair like they had just stripped down to their underwear and were prancing round the clearing, holding hands.

“How the hell is Dew going to be Rudolph? You got an LED nose in there, old man?” Cirrus said before stiffening as Terzo narrowed his eyes in a downright glare.

“You’re a fire ghoul, aren’t you?”

Dew nodded, confused.

“Well, just - boop!” He tapped the ghoul’s nose.

Dewdrop blinked for a moment, blushing hotly at the unanticipated contact before peeking up and gasping.

“Oh, you mean like this?”

A small flame bloomed to life on the tip of his nose and his eyes crossed as he tried to keep sight of it, Terzo letting out a small chuckle.

“Ah yes, fabulous.” He said, the light from the flame dancing in his eyes with laughter. “Now one more thing...the magic words to make us set off.”

The others chittered excitedly, finally all on board for the trip they were to take after all of the third’s encouragement. At his prompt, they huddled together, becoming a mass of brown fur and poorly disguised horns. As he whispered in their ears the words, there arose a collective groan but the group sat down again, nonetheless.

And finally, after all his hard work, the sleigh rose once again, shook slightly and shot off into the sky as Terzo and the ghouls cheered-

“Merry Christmas to all

And to all a good night!”

#ghostbcgiftexchange2020 #ghost #the band ghost #papa emeritus iii #dewdrop ghoul #fanfic #wholesome

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synecdochereads · 3 years

Text

Six of Crows – review

Someone said, “heist movie but it’s a fantasy setting,” and I’ve been on the lookout for this book ever since. I finally found it in the clearance section of Half Price Books, and then—couldn’t read it. I got through the first chapter, I started the second, I put it down, and I didn’t pick it up again. Not sure why, but frankly this has less to do with the book than with me. I’ve been erratic about reading for, oh, years now – either I can’t focus for more than a few pages at a time, or I spend every waking moment with my nose in the book. There’s no middle ground. There’s no telling which way the cards will fall.

All of this to say, it’s not the book’s fault that it took me so long. But then the show came out, I watched it gleefully with my mom, and somehow having seen the characters onscreen made it easier to slip into their heads on the page. Two days later, I’ve inhaled the entire book as fast as I could get away with, and I’m in love.

This isn’t a regular book review – I’m terrible at ranking things, and the five-star system gives me anxiety. It’s mostly just some Thoughts™ neatly sorted for clarity, and hopefully reading over them will help you decide if you should pick this book up and fall in love with it like I did.

Mind the cut!

Characters

I am in love with them.

It probably helps that I’ve been looking forward to this book for ages, I’ve seen lots of gifsets and the occasional meta post, and of course I did watch three out of six crows swan about being fantastic for an entire season of a show that’s not even about them. But it’s not just that. There are a lot of technical literary ways you can analyze characters – arcs, themes, etc – but quite apart from all of that there’s just…are they compelling? They don’t have to be, for a book to be good, but it sure does help. And these six characters are so compelling.

(Also really likeable, which is even less necessary for a good story but which I do personally value. And I like these kids, I really do. Even Kaz “I commit atrocities without shame or remorse” Brekker. Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley, or even a well-lit avenue! But I care about him and want him to succeed.)

It’s hard to devote equal time to six character arcs while also running a fantasy heist. Bardugo doesn’t try, but even the crows who get less screen time have complexity and depth. They’re all well fleshed-out, with full and distinct personalities and all that – on a technical level, these are really well-crafted characters. Top notch. Plus everyone struggles with different traumas and goals, and handles them in different ways, which gives us wonderfully varied arcs as they each move toward a deeper understanding of themselves, for better or for worse.

It also gives us really varied dynamics – some of them hate each other, some of them love each other, some manage to do both at once, some are just along for the ride. It’s as they pull at each other’s ragged edges that the story forms, in their different desperate needs and in what they can and cannot be for each other.

The show smoothed over a lot of the sharp edges and grey morality, most notably in Kaz. Kaz Brekker is a bad person. He does bad things for selfish reasons. His arc isn’t Learning To Be Good, it’s an ongoing question of whether he might, for the sake of the first person he has (quite accidentally) let himself love, consider maybe perhaps being slightly less of an amoral monster. I’ve seen this book described as “fantasy Leverage episode” but it’s really more Ocean’s Eleven, if Danny Ocean was a vicious bastard and everyone was seventeen.

And that’s great. I love that so much! Especially because the other crows run the gamut from shining idealism to casual self-interest (with a fun detour into “shining idealism but the ideal is violent bigotry”), so we really do get a morally complex story, without any easy black-and-white answers. One of the most kind-hearted people in the whole story has committed multiple murders and dreams of becoming a pirate. Kaz Brekker may do bad things for selfish reasons, but a lot of those selfish reasons boil down to “survive.” It’s complicated! It’s compelling!

Plot

It’s a fantasy heist, what more do you need?

Plots and counter-plots, double-crosses and last-minute improvisations. Magic, though it’s used as just another tool, as impressive and as prosaic as the gunslinger’s pistols. Dramatic climbs, elaborate disguises, cunning grifts, and some good old-fashioned sleight-of-hand. Six wildly competent teenagers, one impossible job, and four million fantasy dollars waiting for them if they can pull it off.

Well, okay, that’s just half of the story – maybe two thirds. The rest is flashbacks, showing us how these characters met and how they came to be the people they are; and stolen moments in between the action beats, where we see how they’re changing each other. It’s woven in really deftly. Our knowledge of the characters expands in time with the forward momentum of the plot, so that both parts of the story – the sorrows of the past and the edge-of-your-seat excitement of the present – get their hooks in you in tandem.

Worldbuilding

There are two settings in this book: Ketterdam, where we begin, and the Ice Court, where the bulk of the action takes place. The wider world outside these two cities is sketched in, alluded to in offhand comments and minor details of backstory. In theory, reading the Grisha trilogy would fill in those sketches, but I suspect it doesn’t matter. This is a heist story, after all: one entrance, one exit, and all the traps laid firmly between the two.

You know that thing authors do sometimes where they use the aesthetic of a real time and place, in the names and the architecture and so on, as a sort of worldbuilding shorthand? I’m a big fan of that. Ketterdam is clearly based on post-medieval Holland, perhaps in the late 17th century or so – a city of canals and commerce, with a ruling merchant class and a thriving criminal underworld, and a stock exchange at the heart of the wealthier district. The similarities feel like they’re just skin-deep – I don’t know that much about post-medieval Holland, but I’m pretty sure Bardugo has her own plans for the political situation in the wider world, which I assume is relevant in the Grisha trilogy. Here it’s not, and we have just enough detail to get a quick feel for the city, with extra importance granted to the politics of the various criminal gangs Kaz needs to worry about.

If I’m honest, I would have enjoyed a bit more detail in the worldbuilding. Ketterdam is vibrant and crowded, but it feels shallow; the only information we get is what relates directly to the characters’ actions. We’re told that it’s a big and complex city, but I don’t really have any idea what goes on there beyond, vaguely, “trade, gambling, and tourism.” But that’s probably just me. I’m unreasonably invested in worldbuilding. And anyway, we do get everything we need to understand the actual story.

The same is true in the Ice Court, the frozen capital of the Fjerdans. It’s a beautiful place, white and gleaming, and the parts that we see are incredibly vivid. We get scant glimpses of history and religion, the faintest suggestion of politics, and exactly enough of the city layout to understand the heist. We do, however, get a much deeper understanding of Fjerdan culture than we did of Ketterdam’s, because one of the crows defines himself utterly by the Fjerdan worldview, and his arc is largely about the difficulty of losing his place in that world and not knowing if or how he can ever get it back.

So yeah, we really do get everything we need to appreciate the story and the characters. I would have liked more, because I like worldbuilding, but what we do get is varied and satisfying.

Themes

I can’t really go in depth here without spoilers, so this’ll be a pretty vague section. I haven’t gone full lit-major on this book and I don’t especially plan to, but at a glance, the central theme is the tension between, in short, love and vengeance.

In long, several of the crows have the choice to embrace love as a force for healing and joy, or instead hold onto the (often violent) goals that have driven and defined them for so long. If they embrace love, it’ll mean letting go of the driving purpose that has kept them alive, and risking their whole identity (and possibly their lives) on a new purpose. It’s scary! It might ruin them! And it’s really not as easy as “love conquers all.”

(Big advantage of an ensemble cast: you can explore the same theme in different ways, with different outcomes, without having to settle for a single “answer” to the question posed by the theme. I really love it when that happens, honestly.)

It’s also not just romantic love! I mean it mostly is, but one of the crows has an arc that’s really about self-love, about learning to trust and prioritize not just your survival, but your happiness, your goals, and your ideals. About putting yourself first, not in a selfish way, but in a healthy, loving way. It’s really lovely, and although it has no bearing on the plot (it’s an internal moment of revelation), it’s one of my favorite things about the whole story.

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walq-chan · 4 years

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To late to fall in love - Mammon x F! MC fanfic

Hello everyone. Hope you like my little dramatic fanfic. Sorry for the grammatical mistakes. ;-;

Your relationship with Mammon has always been at least unusual and difficult to frame.

Although he was not willing to help you in the beginning, as soon as the pact was signed, the two of you started to accumulate more and more time together.

And between a "Grr, no touching" and a "Get your hands full of fingers from the MC", where this was usually aimed at any other individual who approached you besides himself, Mammon started to demonstrate, in a general aspect , an incredible ability to be concerned about you.

Although Mammon could be quite reckless and at times very irresponsible, the two of you have built a solid friendship. Well, at least until that extremely sexy and cool demon appeared on the cover of Majolish fashion, and he looked like your stupid friend.

It seemed that a spark had been lit in your heart and that instead of being extinguished, it became a very bright flame. And although you refused to accept the idea at first, as the days went by, you just couldn't see it the same way anymore.

You started to find yourself watching him without realizing it, admiring his deep blue eyes or how he ruffled his hair when he was ashamed. You could see the overprotective friend and the attractive guy in the same person.

As soon as you realized that your feelings were growing, you took courage to start showing signs of your affection. And as you would expect, Mammon never caught these signals, even though they were all over your face at all times when you were together (and that was already clear to everyone around you), even if you wanted to and a lot let him know, the guy was immune to the obvious ... at least, until that fateful Tuesday night.

You were watching a movie, as usual. Miraculously, none of the other brothers were there, probably because the film was a mix of sweet romantic comedy with really macabre terror. Idea coming from Mammon is clear.

Sitting side by side on the floor, you laughed at the horror scenes (although he laughed to ward off his own fear of the macabre scenes) and he made jokes in the romance scenes, even if they did it only to disguise the embarrassment.

In the meantime, you reached out in an attempt to grab a pillow from the bed, just above and behind Mammon. At that very moment, he stretched his arm right in front of you intending to pick up the bucket of popcorn. That was when their faces got too close and their eyes met. Yes, in the most cliché scene of all.

Your heart raced and his face immediately took on the tone of a ripe tomato, both motionless and anxious, attentive to each other's reaction. He leaned slightly towards you and you were sure he could hear how loudly your heart was beating at that moment. He was so close that you could feel his breath against your skin, millimeters separating your lips. You closed your eyes and waited for the sensation of contact between your lips. But she never came.

When you opened your eyes, Mammon's face was turned away from yours, his face was troubled and ashamed. He said just one "I'm sorry" before getting up and leaving your room. You, however, remained on the ground, still in shock.

The next morning, you had dark circles. You hadn't slept and while you spent the morning hours looking up at the ceiling, your brain and your heart were fighting each other to establish an explanation for what had happened. While your heart said that Mammon must have panicked and ashamed, your brain said you had been rejected with all the letters.

And as soon as you arrived for breakfast, your brain gave the first punch to your heart, because as soon as you offered everyone a good morning and sat down, Mammon looked away from you, clearly nervous and ashamed.

In addition to the absurd silence, which was abnormal for someone as loud as he is, Mammon barely touched the meal, leaving the table in a hurry for school, leaving you and 6 other astonished brothers behind.

And just like at breakfast, Mammon avoided seeing or talking to you for the rest of the week, whether at school or at home. Always on the run, always busy or late for something that immediately required him to be away from you.

Your routine as inseparable friends quickly disappeared. Every time you tried to find it in any way, it just got out of sight, out of reach. At this point, if the human heart were made of glass, it would be possible to say that only fragments remained of it.

The last splinter of hope in your heart was shattered once and for all by the countless punches thrown by the brain until the end of that week, when you finally accepted that besides he doesn't like you, maybe things could not go back to what they were before.

And since that realization brought a void that you didn't know how to measure, you unconsciously tried to put your body in defense mode.

Obviously the brothers noticed the apathy you showed the next day, or the absence of your faithful bodyguard on the following week, or how complete you seemed in the weeks that followed.

Clearly, everyone was concerned about his apparent sadness in the weeks that followed, and although everyone wanted to tear off his brother's skin still alive, Lucifer calmed everyone's spirits, leaving them free to "help" in any way they wanted, as long as did not cause even more trouble between the two of you.

And although he seemed really calm in saying that, he held on to himself to keep the little brother from hanging upside down and whipping him until he got tired (not that this was unusual for Lucifer to do with Mammon, in fact you already did had saved that kind of punishment for more times than you could count).

In the meantime, it was as if the voices of those with whom you shared so many moments were muffled, uttered behind an invisible wall that you placed between yourself and the rest of the world.

And although Beel offered his own chocolates to cheer you up, or Asmo proposed a new beauty routine exclusively for you, nothing seemed to instigate your wounded core, which lasted longer than you could count ... until the day you despondency hit rock bottom.

And once he was at the bottom, all that was left was to go up, wasn't it?

At some point, every open wound closes, as long as it is given the right time for this to occur.

When your brain had the time it needed to make peace with your heart, offering the comfort that one needed and the inspiration that the other wanted, you finally seemed to begin to remove the blockage you had installed around you.

Slowly you resumed your shine, perhaps because you accepted two or three tips from Asmo and perhaps because you slept better thanks to the pillow you got from Belphie, who despite being always very sarcastic about all the reasons, was extremely worried about you .

You reshaped your routine and slowly resumed your life inside the House of Lamentations, almost as if that day was just a sad and distant memory in your past.

However, things didn't seem to have found a way out for his best friend. From the day Mammon ran out of your room, he clearly didn't know how to correct what he had done or how to treat you since what happened. Since that day, he had accepted that he was indeed "the scum" among the 7 brothers. But obviously, he would keep that feeling locked behind a smile even more smug than usual.

Weeks after "breaking up" with your best friend, you lived a more hectic routine; going to the gym with Beel, going to the bookstore with Satan and playing more, much more video games with Levy. Still, a void had not yet been filled and you knew exactly why.

And it was thinking about it that the idea came to you, after an afternoon having tea with Satan. He seemed so excited about the idea of one of his books becoming a movie, quickly spreading to Levy, being followed by Asmodeus, who was dazzled by the main actor and by Beel who was eager to eat all the goodies that the cinema could offer. Belphie just wanted to enjoy the atmosphere for a nap, so it was easy to convince him and Lucifer, well, he concluded that he could finally spend quality time with some relaxing activity.

After all, if things started with one film, then nothing better than another to solve everything. Right?!

Thinking about it made the wound in your heart itch, just like when we scratched the knee in childhood and as the wound's skin closes, we feel compelled to remove it, many times, making that wound bleed again.

And it was only when Mammon accepted the invitation to participate in the movie night, that the last surgical point fell from your wound, now completely healed.

Slowly, you approached again, and the smile from before had returned to your face, without you even realizing it. Likewise, he finally seemed to be himself again. Since that day, in your room, Mammon felt ashamed and confused, and inside his own heart, he was lost about what he should do.

He had refused your feelings while he did not understand how his own worked. Furious with himself and clearly unable to cope with what he had done, he decided to walk away from you, although that was the most difficult thing he had done since he decided to fall from heaven, for the sake of his own family.

And as he watched you become more and more apathetic, he felt more and more like a worm and even though he was more and more afraid of you hating him for it, he was less and less courageous to appear in front of you.

Finally when you invited him to join everyone on that movie night, his heart seemed to start beating after a long time.

Seeing your face showing him a gentle smile made him remove the weight he had imposed himself, months ago, the weight of walking away from his best friend, because he just didn't know what to do to fix what he had done. At that moment, your smile seemed to have become more beautiful than he remembered and much more necessary than he thought.

But, along with the relief of having you by his side again, another feeling seemed to be taking over his heart right now. A bitter feeling started to take place inside Mammon, whenever any of his brothers got too close to you.

Obviously, Mammon had always been protective when it came to you, always wanting all your attention to be on him. But now, what he felt was a deep hurt to see them flirt with you while you ... seemed to respond ?!

That was when the record that he was jealous finally fell. He saw his incredible kind friend and the companion of the brilliant schemes he came up with, but there, between the two, there was a third that he had not noticed before. A third MC, who made his heart flutter when he smiled, that made him jealous when he saw you spend the whole night playing with Levy, that made him excited when he saw you use something more provocative ... excited ?! Was he excited about you ?!

Until then he had never thought about it, but now he often found himself awake at night, thinking about you, and not always in a puritan way.

It was when he realized, when he woke up in the middle of a particularly hot night at Devildom, after a dream, also particularly hot, that what he really wanted at that moment was to be able to have you by his side.

Heart and brain had agreed that he had fallen in love with you and for the first time, he gave himself over to it completely. From that moment on, the Avatar of Greed could only think of you and how he would utter the feelings that were growing rapidly.

During the following week, Mammon searched through all possible gift ideas, always trying to get some extra information about you from the other brothers.

Now that he finally understood his feelings, he was concerned that he had lost some important detail that he could use the moment he declared himself to you, something to symbolize how he felt about you.

And although he collected relatively important information about you from the others, nothing seemed to be good enough, at least until the moment he passed the Akuzon window one morning, on his way to RAD.

There it was, a beautiful prop for couples, a pendant in the shape of the mascot that was in your favorite series. They were a pair, perfectly matched and beautifully decorated with white gold and small diamonds instead of eyes. A small fortune, of course, but one he was willing to pay, as long as it was for you. He would buy Lord Diavolo himself if that was what you wanted.

Once Goldie did the job, he left the store carrying a box, wondering when it would be the best time to talk to you about the feelings he was no longer able to handle.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline rush caused by the amount of zeros on that bill, but whatever it was, Mammon decided he would go to confession that same night.

And so, he went to your room, as soon as everyone had dinner and said good night to each other. As soon as silence reigned in the house, Mammon marched towards his room, the box in his pants pocket. Standing there, in front of your door, he felt doubt run down his spine like a chill, and fear took hold of him for a moment.

And it was while fighting him that he opened the door to your room, without even knocking, just so that another chill would go down your spine, this time by surprise.

There, sitting on your bed were you and Levy, your arms around his neck, his hands sliding behind your back, your lips glued together in a fiery kiss.

It took Mammon a few seconds to process what he was seeing, just like you and Levy, clearly taken by surprise.

- Hey Mammon, I didn't hear you coming in ... is everything okay? You asked when you saw what face he had paled.

- Did you also come to participate in the raid in that game? This time it was Levy who had asked. Certainly he had said something about it during dinner, but Mammon had no mind to think of anything but you. If he had only come to your room ... maybe Levy wouldn't have ...

But that thought was cut off by your voice that said "sorry for what you just saw, we intended to make it official in the next few days", blushing slightly as you intertwined your fingers with Levy's while he confessed that you had been together for a while couple of months.

That was when a reality punch hit Mammon hard. Although on the outside he tried to keep his appearance calm while wishing them well, on the inside he wanted to scream. He finally realized that there was no countermeasure that he could have taken to prevent his brother from reaching you before him, because he himself had given up on that option, months ago.

He was too late to fall in love with you. You had moved on and although it hurt more than anything he had been through, he would never demonstrate it in front of you.

Mammon might be Greed in person, but he would never do anything that could upset the brother he loved so much. Levy was shy and withdrawn and he knew that if you were together, it had been a tremendous effort on his part.

And so it was, in the midst of the pain in his chest, the only alternative was to save what little pride he had left.

- Ahh, I would really like to, but I have a unique opportunity to make money tonight and unless you two nerds have a few thousand grimmns hidden in these battered joysticks, I better get going.

And without even hearing your answer, he left your room at a quick pace, towards his own.

Arriving in the room, he deposited the box on the table and mechanically turned on the computer, still shaking, directing his search to a famous auction site, filled with valuable objects from the celebrities on Devildom. In the description of the item he wrote only "pendant of a broken heart" adding "unique opportunity of acquisition" while a sad smile was drawn on his face.

He looked at the box and murmured to himself:

- If it's broken, at least we'll get rich by selling the shrapnel.

The tears finally flowed.

#obey me!#obey me mammon x mc #obey me mammon x reader #obey me fanfic #obey me imagines #obey me mammon #obey me mc #my writing #obey me! shall we date?#otome game #omingame

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juniperwindsong · 4 years

Text

Necessary Monsters (8/16)

Warning: this chapter will contain M rated themes including alcohol abuse, sexual situations, and some iffy decisions that I'd like to make clear I do not condone. PLEASE NOTE that just because characters act a certain way does not mean I agree with their actions. While I have refrained from including any smut out of respect for people who don't care for that sort of thing, I did write it. So the explicit version of a certain scene from this chapter can be found in my new story, Advanced Dragonology, which is where I'll be sticking all the smutty excerpts I'm not including in the story proper to keep it from being NSFW. It is posted only on A03 here or Wattpad here in order to comply with Tumblr’s content agreements.

Summary: "That was..." "Unexpected?" "Very." "So, does that prove this is real?" "If I say no, will you do that again?"

Proper socialisation is an essential part of a pureblood upbringing, so in his first seventeen years Felix has attended what he considers an excessive number of parties. Which is why it doesn't occur to him to be nervous until he steps up the squat house's ramshackle walk and realises he has never attended this sort of party: a gathering thrown by young people for young people, specifically for the purpose of "having fun". Although, wincing at the loud thumps of what he can only assume is intended to be music, Felix wonders exactly whose idea of "fun" this could possibly be.

The front door is slightly ajar; lucky, since he doubts anyone could hear a bell over all the noise. There's no host to greet him or make the necessary introductions, so Felix is left to stand awkwardly just inside the run-down east end townhouse, hands stuffed in his pockets and feeling entirely out of his depth.

A quick glance around at the crowd of milling teenagers informs Felix he isn't dressed appropriately. Exceptionally casual muggle attire appears to be the evening's dress code from what he's able to make out. Darkness also seems to be the fashion at this sort of party. There's hardly a candle to be seen anywhere, most of the light coming from a single flickering floor lamp tucked into a corner. There's a thin cord trailing from its base into the wall, and Felix remembers this from Muggle Studies as a tell-tale sign of a muggle invention. He puts two and two together, and his eyes widen in panic.

This is a muggle house; a muggle party. What on earth would Juniper and her friends be doing here? Tonks must have given him this address as a joke.

Fumbling behind him for the doorknob, Felix is just considering what sort of retribution would be fitting for the idiotic Hufflepuff, when a sudden outburst of applause draws his gaze to the corner of the packed room. Half a dozen teenagers are clustered around one garishly-dressed person and Felix's eyes narrow as he recognises the spiky pink hair. Tonks, grinning toothily, throws a jacket over her head then sweeps it off with a flourish, revealing hair, still short and spiky, but now electric blue. Another round of cheering and clapping from the spectators, and Tonks takes a dramatic bow, tripping over her own boot-laces. Felix can only stare, indignation flagging in the face of his open shock.

"Never seen a metamorphmagus before?" says a voice near his ear.

Tulip Karasu appears just beside Felix's elbow, leaning in uncomfortably close to be heard over the din. She's wearing muggle clothes as well, and considerably few, at that, but it's hardly the most concerning thing to Felix at the moment.

"I've never seen a metamorphmagus reveal herself in front of a whole pack of muggles, on purpose and in direct violation of the International Statute of Secrecy, no," he retorts waspishly. His voice is almost lost in the room's overbearing babble, but Tulip seems to understand the gist at any rate. She shakes her head with a wry smile.

"They're her cousins, or something. Her father's muggle-born," she says loudly into his ear again. "Besides, muggles don't believe in magic. Tonks could turn herself into a bear right there in front of them, and they'd still say it was a trick. It's fantastic."

Tulip glances around Felix.

"The rest of the entourage with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know," Tulip shrugs a shoulder. "Rowan Khanna...Penny Haywood."

It's painfully obvious, even in the dim light, that Tulip's nonchalant attitude is all a show, but whatever's happening between the tiny Ravenclaw girl and her Hufflepuff counterpart does not interest Felix in the slightest.

"No. I came alone. To see Juniper." Felix's brow furrows suddenly. "Please tell me she's not outside showing off her Comet 260 or something?"

Tulip's enigmatic smile sours slightly.

"Don't worry. Everyone's favorite curse-breaker is currently getting soused in the kitchen. Drinking contest, I think." Misinterpreting Felix's expression, she adds, "Don't worry. She always wins. Always wins everything, doesn't she?" And she saunters off in Tonks' direction without further comment.

It takes Felix several minutes to navigate the dark, over-crowded hallway and locate the dingy kitchen. He's relieved to find it more brightly lit then the rest of the house, and slightly quieter. A linoleum table takes up most of the room, covered in plastic cups full of unidentifiable liquids. A long bench set into the wall lines one side of the table, and at its end sits a girl with curled hair sipping through a plastic straw directly from a sloshing pitcher. A group of mostly male on-lookers eggs her on, giving a raucous cheer when she finishes. The girl pushes the empty pitcher away from her with a cry of triumph, and it isn't until she looks up that Felix is positive it's Juniper.

"Felix?"

He can't quite hear her over the continued cheering, but he recognises his name on her lips, painted an unlikely shade of electric pink. She's smiling, which might have been a good sign if it didn't seem so vacant, and she gestures at him wildly with a wrist full of clinking bracelets. Juniper's fans all turn to see who's captured her attention, and Felix pushes through them primly, seating himself next to Juniper, rather closer than strictly necessary. He shoots his patented prefect's glare at the gaggle of boys, most of whom take the hint and sidle away.

If Juniper notices her audience disperse, she doesn't show it. She hooks her wrist around a plastic cup and pulls it toward her. She plucks the straw from the pitcher with two fingers, and Felix is pleased to see her grip last long enough to drop the straw into the cup, before leaning down and chugging the drink nearly in one gulp.

When she finally comes up for air, Felix leans in close to her ear.

"Can we talk?"

Juniper turns so their faces are suddenly very close.

"I doubt it. It's quite loud in here." She smiles lop-sidedly, but her eyes are still dark and dead-looking underneath a thick layer of blue powder.

"Then, let's go somewhere else," urges Felix. Juniper shakes her head.

"Half the reason I come to these things is specifically because it's too loud to talk," and Felix has no counter-argument for that.

Juniper drags another cup across the table and leaves it in front of Felix, then pulls a third toward herself and inserts her straw once more. At a loss for anything else to do, Felix lifts the drink to his lips, but he can only take a small sip before returning it to the table in disgust. He swallows hard, trying to rid himself of the bitter taste.

Next to him, Juniper smirks. It's a nasty expression when combined with her empty-looking eyes. She dunks her straw into Felix's abandoned cup and leans over it. The drink hadn't tasted exceptionally strong to Felix, just rancid, but three plus a pitcher in less than five minutes seems dangerous. He's about to voice his concern when Juniper looks up.

"But would you like to dance?"

"What?"

Juniper nods at the dark room just beyond. It's full of people clumped together in groups and pairs, and Felix stares helplessly at the mass of bodies, their movements hardly recognisable as dancing. Even if he had the inclination to join them, he wouldn't have the first idea how to mimic them.

"I - I don't...really...I mean - that's not - "

"Suit yourself," Juniper interrupts with a shrug. She has to climb across him to exit the bench, using his shoulder for support, and once again Felix's entire attention is devoted to the sight of Juniper's legs, now covered only in black stockings. Not the kind worn with school uniforms, but the sort full of large, criss-crossing holes, like netting.

Without sparing a backward glance at Felix, Juniper joins a small cluster of girls just inside the other room, all moving in time with the thudding beat, arms rising and falling, close but not quite touching. Perhaps it's the current lack of blood in his brain, but Felix can suddenly see the appeal of the movements, clearly designed to call attention to certain parts of the body, and for the remainder of the song he's caught up in enjoying the sight. Juniper is smiling, and from here he can't see the haunted look in her eyes, and he can pretend it's the Juniper he knows, enjoying herself with friends like there's nothing wrong at all. Until the music changes seamlessly into a song with a more intense rhythm, and several young men take this as an invitation to join Juniper's group. Far from looking harassed, the girls seem to enjoy the company.

One particular boy positions himself just behind Juniper; far, far too close for Felix's liking. He runs distracted fingers through his hair, that primal call to action he associates with danger to Juniper tugging at him furiously, demanding he intervene. He contemplates whether a banishing charm might go unnoticed in the dark, or a stunning spell. He's just considering whether a Bat Bogey hex is too much, when the boy's hands are suddenly on Juniper's waist, guiding her back against him, and a mad rage erupts in Felix like he's never known. He stands, unsure what he's going to do but determined to do something, and his sudden, sharp movement knocks drinks from the table. In the split second he looks away to inspect the spill, there's a small bang, then a loud scream, and when Felix's head whips back round, the young man is on the floor.

The song plays on like nothing has happened, but the dancers around them have all stopped and stepped back, their collective whispers carrying over the music like rushing water. Juniper's chest is heaving, her head flicking warily from side to side. She reminds Felix of a cornered Vipertooth, evaluating its enemies, searching frantically for an escape route, and something about the comparison and the adrenaline still coursing through him activates his instincts. He crosses the room determinedly, grips Juniper by the elbow and pulls her out of the sea of muttering on-lookers, back through the kitchen, and out a door he hopes is an exit.

The warm night air hits him in the face as they step into the narrow alley between this house and the next, mercifully empty except for rubbish bins. Juniper rips her arm from Felix and totters a few steps away. She leans against the brick of the building, hands over her face, still breathing heavily.

"What happened?" asks Felix, voice calm in the way it always manages to be when he's focused.

"I didn't mean to. It - it just...happens sometimes."

"What did you do to him?"

"Just the Knock-Back jinx. I think."

Felix raises a curious eyebrow. "You can use your wand, now?"

Juniper shakes her head behind her hands. "No. Like I said, it just happens. I can't control it. It's like - being a little kid again, when you're angry and the magic just - just comes out." There's panic or hysteria at the back of her voice, and Felix reaches for his most soothing tones.

'It's alright. I doubt anyone saw you. And you're over seventeen, you don't have the trace on you anymore. You're not in trouble."

Dropping her hands, Juniper stares at Felix and the ice in her eyes make him shiver.

"What would they do, anyway? Snap my wand?" She tries to laugh, but it becomes a dry heave. Nerves begin to threaten Felix's composure.

"Juniper," he takes a step toward her, cautious as if she were an injured dragon. "Why don't you let me take you -" But Felix stops, unsure how to finish. Now he thinks about it, he isn't sure where to take her. The same idea occurs to Juniper.

"Where? To Tulip's house? She'd love that. Her parents don't even know she's gone. And I doubt anyone's been in my family's house in years. Unless maybe Jacob's camped out there." She forces another bitter laugh, clutching her stomach tightly.

"What about Khanna's place, then?" Felix suggests, when inspiration strikes him. "Or Hogwarts! Dumbledore won't mind, I'm sure of it. He's worried about you. Everyone is."

Somehow, this is the wrong thing to say. Juniper snorts, and tries to stand up straighter against the brick wall, an echo of anger flaring up behind her dark eyes.

"No. I'm not going back there. You know they're only worried about me because I'm the Cursebreaker." She pronounces the word like some vile epithet. "You think if they didn't need me for information or weren't worried I might turn out like my brother, they'd care about me at all? Dumbledore or Snape or the aurors? They don't worry about anyone else's safety! They don't keep tabs on Beatrice or any of the other students who've been hurt at the school. It's because they need me to take care of everything for them. That's the only thing I'm good for." Juniper wipes at her eyes viciously with the heel of her hand, smearing blue and black lines across her face. "And I can't even do that now, so, really, I don't matter at all, do I?

Felix shakes his head slowly, taken aback by this heated rant.

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is!" insists Juniper doggedly, wrapping her arms about herself as if the night were cold.

"That's not why I'm here," Felix argues, but Juniper only rolls her eyes.

"You're here because they sent you. If you're really here at all. This whole thing could just be some awful dream." Her words dissolve into a groan, and she slides down the bricks to the ground, arms clenched around her knees. Felix watches her in mounting frustration.

"Juniper, do you realise I left my job to be here? Without permission, without telling anyone. Probably, I'll end up sacked when they notice I'm gone, but I came anyway. Because I care more about you. And you know that I never cared about cursed vaults. I always wished you weren't so wrapped up in curse-breaking. I'm not here to help anyone use you for all that rubbish. I'm here to help you."

Juniper looks up at him, eyes still empty but her mouth trembling slightly. "I don't need help," she says stubbornly. Then she turns and heaves against the side of the building.

It's lucky, thinks Felix vaguely as he kneels next to her, that none of this happened three years ago, before he spent time in the wild. He can only imagine how he would have reacted to a girl vomiting in front of him when he was still at school. But Peruvian Vipertooth venom leaves one exceptionally ill, even after taking the cure, and Felix has spent more than his share of days sick as a pig, waiting for the toxin to leave his body. He's helped others on his expedition team, as well, so he lets practice take over, gathering Juniper's hair back for her and producing a handkerchief from the tip of his wand. Felix waits for the contractions in her stomach to subside, wishing uselessly that one of the bins next to them would suddenly turn into a dragon, maw open and flames spitting. Because that's more the sort of monster he'd prefer to rescue her from.

After a few minutes, Juniper climbs shakily to her feet. Felix takes her arm to help her, but she pulls away, letting the brick wall support her weight.

"I'm fine," she mumbles, wiping her hand across her mouth with a grimace. And Felix's temper, so patiently tamed throughout this entire bloody evening, flares unexpectedly.

"Are you physically incapable of saying anything else?" His sudden shout makes Juniper wince. "Juniper: You're. Not. Fine. And the only person who expects you to be is you. And pretending like you are isn't helping you or anybody else. Now, I can't make you let me help you - and you can carry on acting like a bloody idiot if that's really what you want - but you'll have to put up with me following you about everywhere because I'm not going to let this go."

Felix stops, panting slightly. He pushes back a bit of hair that's fallen into his eye. His anger now vented, he feels like a prat for shouting. He knows being angry at Juniper, so obviously irrational, won't solve anything, and he waits for her bitter retort or angry retreat. But Juniper only shakes her head, eyes still closed, and it isn't until tears leak from under her eyelids that Felix recognises her shaking as silent sobs.

"Juniper," he steps forward and reaches carefully for her, and for once, Juniper doesn't pull away. She leans into him, arms trapped against his chest, and buries her face in his shoulder. Felix can feel her crying quietly. "Juniper, I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No," she interjects, voice muffled against his robes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Felix, I - I'm a mess, I know it. I'm such a mess right now. Everything's just - wrong, and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know why I'm like this right now. I don't know - how I feel or - or anything, and I'm - I'm so sorry."

Felix lets her cry, stroking a cautious hand across her hair. Tentative relief trickles through his veins, giddy and intoxicating, but a part of him can't help feeling ultimately disappointed. Supporting a crying, hopeless Juniper is far less romantic in real life than in his fantasy.

"Come on," he says quietly once her shaking has mostly subsided. "Let's get you out of here."

Juniper lifts her head from his shoulder and dabs at her eyes. "I can't apparate," she admits. Her face is too red and blotchy to tell if the confession embarrasses her.

"We can take the Knight bus. I've never actually ridden it before, but I think-"

"No!" Juniper shakes her head frantically, her curls coming unpinned. "No, please - I don't want anyone to see me like this. It'll be in the papers, for sure. That Skeeter woman's been sniffing around me all summer."

Her voice quavers again, and Felix wraps one arm tightly about her shoulder, pulling her against him to support her weight.

"Alright, alright," he reassures her, coaxing her feet forward. "We'll think of something else." They shuffle awkwardly out of the alley. "Aren't there muggle motors that take people places? Can't remember what they're called. Not buses."

"You mean a taxicab?"

"That's it." They turn onto a road lined with houses, but no motors. Felix guides her down the walk in the direction of city lights.

"How do you know about taxicabs?" Juniper asks between sniffles.

"Muggle studies," Felix admits. "You need at least an OWL in the class to work at the Ministry."

They have to walk another block before they reach a street full of lit shops and the occasional passing motor. Felix flings out an arm and one screeches to a halt. He fumbles with the handle on the door, struggling with the mechanism until the exasperated driver climbs out to assist him, mumbling about drunks. The man eyes Juniper suspiciously as she clambers into the back of the motor, giggling through scattered hiccoughs.

"Where are we going?" she mumbles as she leans back against the plastic covered seats. Felix climbs in next to her, eyeing the inside of the car dubiously.

"The Leaky Cauldon," he says as the driver returns to the front. The man glares at Felix from his little mounted mirror.

"You off your face?"

"Do you know, I've never actually been in the Leaky Cauldron before. Except in passing," remarks Juniper. She inspects the shabby room from her seat near the fireplace, lit in spite of the warm summer night. "It's nice."

"It's alright," shrugs Felix. He wishes he had somewhere more impressive to take her, but his room at the Leaky Cauldron is the only place he could think of where Juniper would both be safe and where they might have an uninterrupted conversation. After washing the vomit, tears, and smeared makeup from her face and having a quiet sit by the fire, Juniper seems in strangely serene spirits, and Felix sits across her nervously, wondering how to broach his desired topic.

"You stay here often?" inquires Juniper politely.

"When I'm in England."

She cocks her head curiously. "Why don't you stay at home?"

"I'm not currently welcome there. Not until I'm ready to 'give up this ridiculous dragon nonsense and return to my family obligations,'" Felix quotes wryly, but Juniper doesn't smile.

"I'm sorry."

Felix shrugs her sympathy away. Silence ticks between them again, and Juniper settles deeper into the winged armchair, closing her eyes. With her elaborate makeup gone, Felix thinks she looks pale again. Her hair has come out of it's pins, and something about the way the new length frames her face makes it seem thinner.

"Why did you cut your hair?" he asks.

Juniper sighs. She opens her eyes, but keeps her gaze firmly on the fire. Her fingers fiddle absently with her fallen curls.

"Sometimes, I sort of...space out. I feel like I'm back there - like it's happening to me again."

"I thought you said you couldn't remember what happened," Felix interjects sharply.

"I can't," Juniper confirms. "Not fully. Not like a story I could tell. It's just...bits and pieces. And they sort of...pop into my head sometimes when I'm not expecting. Or I have nightmares - I don't even know if they're about what really happened or if they're just my imagination - but I wake up and I...I don't know if I'm awake." She shudders. "That's the worst. Not knowing what's real. Not trusting myself. I thought - I don't know - I thought...if something were different about me - like my hair - then... maybe, it would be easier to tell the difference between the past and the present. Does that makes sense?"

"Sort of," Felix agrees vaguely, although he's not at all sure it does. "Does it work?"

"No." Juniper shakes her head. "Not when I need it to, anyway. The whole world just feels so...unreal sometimes. Like, for all I know I'm dreaming, and maybe I just cut my hair in my dream." She sighs heavily, and rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes as if they ache. "Maybe all of this is just a dream."

Worry crawls up Felix's spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe I am cursed." Juniper pushes off from her chair and sidles to the window, arms clasped about herself. "Maybe I'm still in hospital and none of this is really happening."

"Juniper," Felix says firmly, trying to call her attention back to him. "You know this is real."

She shakes her head, back still turned.

"I don't know. I don't know what's happening with me. I just feel so..." She leans her forehead against the glass. "I don't know what I feel."

Felix stands, one hand rubbing nervously at the scar across his neck, entirely unsure how to approach this strange admission.

"I think...that's probably normal. Considering," he offers carefully.

"Not for me," argues Juniper, turning from the window and raking her fingers through her hair. "I'm scared all the time. I never used to be scared of anything, and now...I jump at shadows or sudden movement or people touching me unexpectedly." She pushes off from the sill and paces the room in quick steps. "It's like it is in a duel. You know that feeling? When you're dueling someone and your whole body is just ready...ready for action, ready to dodge a spell or attack. All tense, and defensive. But it's like that all the time. I can't shut it off, and it's...exhausting."

On the last word, Juniper leans back against a bed post. "Even when I sleep I have these awful nightmares and I'm more tired when I wake up then I was before. I know it's making me mad. I watch myself acting mad and stupid, and saying these horrid things to people. To my friends. Maybe I have gone mad." She lets her head loll back against the wooden post. Felix approaches her tentatively.

"I think, if you can be worried that you're mad, then you're probably not." He says reassuringly.

"I don't know. None of this seems very likely, does it?"

"None of what?"

"All this? You?" Juniper lifts her head to look at him, gesturing vaguely about the room. "Why would you be here when you're supposed to be Romania. That's not rational, is it? Probably you're just a visual representation of my conscience or better sense or something." She chuffs a mirthless laugh.

"I'm here because I was worried about you," Felix reminds her.

"But isn't that exactly what you'd say if I made you up in my head?" she retorts.

There's something about this abstract train of thought that irritates Felix. It's irrational, which means it isn't an argument he can win with facts. But she's finally talking, perhaps more than she's talked to anyone since the attack, and he's afraid to say anything that might shut her off again.

"So, how can I prove that this is real?" he asks, hiding his frustration. Juniper shrugs listlessly.

"I don't know. Say something...unexpected. Something I couldn't make up."

Felix wants to laugh, wildly. He's full to bursting with things he's never said to her that he's dying to say: that he loves her, that he's never really loved anyone but her, that he'll do anything to make her better again. He screams the words in his head, as if she might hear them if he just thinks loud enough, but he can't force his mouth to speak.

Instead, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her soundly.

A/N If you want the explicit version of this next scene, visit one of the links above, but be sure to return for the end.

It's in no way the perfect first kiss Felix has fantasized about: full of sparks and unspoken declarations of love. Juniper isn't expecting it, so her mouth isn't ready and their teeth clash. A few seconds of decidedly unromantic fumbling, and he pulls away to inspect her reaction.

Juniper's eyes are wide in surprise, but for the first time that day, there's a light behind them Felix recognises. She doesn't move, only stares. She wets her lips, shoulders heaving with the force of her shaky breath.

"That was..."

"Unexpected?" Felix provides when she cannot find the word.

Juniper nods, smiling faintly. "Very." And it's her smile. Her real smile. And her eyes. And the relief is a rush almost as heady as his proximity to her body. Felix's smile in return is small but genuine as he asks softly:

"So...does that prove this is real?"

Juniper meets his eyes the way she always has, quietly confident and determined to get what she wants.

"If I say no, will you do that again?"

This time, it's exactly how he pictured. Juniper's lips are so soft against his, they're almost insubstantial. She pauses after each long, light kiss, lips lingering on his mouth for a moment as if to savor it.

War rages in Felix as he tries to keep himself calm. Somewhere underneath the excitement and relief and joy of finally getting what he's wanted for so long, there's nagging doubts over whether this is really a good idea. But the need for more is stronger. He slides his hands into her hair, pulling her face closer to his to deepen their kiss. There's no resistance. Juniper softens against him, opening her mouth to let him explore. She presses her trembling hands against his shoulders, steadying herself against the onslaught. It's minutes before they break apart for air, still clinging to each other.

Felix wonders if its possible to get drunk from the alcohol in someone else's mouth. It's what she tastes like, and it leaves him heady and unbalanced. It's not at all what he imagined, but what with her has ever been?

Juniper's eyes are glassy as she stares transfixed at his lips, and Felix has to fight a primal urge to press her hips as tightly against his as he can. Some voice at the back of his head is warning him to stop, now, before things go too far. He opens his mouth to find a way to tell her, when Juniper bites the corner of her lip and the words evaporate. Felix grips her waist until she's flush against him, the way he's wanted to do since he saw her at that Quidditch match months ago. She's on her toes to make her body line up exactly with his, and the pressure against his trousers drives him mad.

It's really only minutes, but Felix isn't aware of time as he explores her body. It's another thing he's never managed to picture correctly, but it's better than he dreamed. So focused on feeling everything, Felix doesn't notice when Juniper move her hands until they're against skin. His skin. His shirt is untucked from his trousers, and her fingers slide under the waistband and there's another rush of blood and his mouth is suddenly dry.

We can't, thinks Felix automatically as Juniper's fingers trail across his lower belly, tracing the light outline of muscle. But is there a reason? Or is it only because it isn't usually done this way? There's dates, time spent, he thinks frantically, you have to earn the right. But Juniper never does anything the regular way. And haven't the best parts of his life always started with her dragging him along somewhere unexpected? Then her hands stroke across his hip bones, and Felix's body makes the decision for him.

His hands creep up her legs, where there's more muscle than he expected, and Felix wants to take time to explore them more thoroughly but he isn't in charge of his movements anymore. His fingers are just there when Juniper jerks, and this time her gasp isn't quite the same. There's something less pleasant in it, and Felix's skin turns cold as he pulls his hand back, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't-"

She stifles his apology with her lips, kissing him with new furvour as she fumbles for his wrist, pulling his hand back into place.

"It's good," she murmurs against his mouth. "So good, I've just...I've never actually done...this before."

How hasn't he thought of that? Felix cringes with shame. Perhaps because Juniper was dating Barnaby at the same time he was with Aurelie and so he'd just assumed all relationships follow the same natural progression. True, she and Barnaby were still in school, but that hardly means anything. School can't have changed that much since he left, and students were always finding ways to do this in spite of their prefects' best efforts. It never even occurred to Felix to hope that Barnaby hadn't had her first, he simply chose to overlook that fact in all his fantasies of her. The sudden knowledge that he might be the first, perhaps the only person, to touch Juniper like this is both elating and terrifying.

Felix is suddenly acutely aware of the rickety iron bed, and the peeling paint, and the raucous sounds from the pub below. This isn't romantic. There's nothing about this room or this situation that would make for a beautiful memory. He might be able to see past that, but this is more than their first time, it's her first time. Felix is sure he doesn't understand what that means for a girl, but he thinks, in general, it's supposed to be better than this.

"Juniper,' he mumbles against her mouth. "This-this isn't right."

"What?"

Juniper freezes against him. He can feel her frantic heart beat against his chest, and he wraps his arms safely around her waist speaking into her hair.

"I mean...not like this. You're...this...it's supposed to be...perfect," Felix finishes, thankful she can't see how red his face his. He can feel her giggle, causing her body to ripple against him deliciously.

"Perfect? My life is hardly a novel, Felix."

"Special, then," he insists, his lips now pressed against her ear, searching for a safe place to kiss her that won't add any further fuel to the fire already burning through him. But Juniper turns, on her toes again, so she can press her forehead against his and speak directly at his face in a breathless voice

"It is special. I'm with you." Her trembling fingers slide across his cheeks, burying themselves in his hair. "It should be you. I want it to be you."

If Felix kept a diary, he would have accused her of reading it. How else could she know exactly what he's always wanted to hear? He can't suppress a shaky gasp. His lips brush hers as he asks:

"Are you sure?"

Juniper meet his gaze steadily, eyes dark, but a different sort of dark than this morning. There's something on fire behind them as she nods.

"Positive."

And for all the ways this isn’t how he planned, it's still perfect. Because it's her. It's them. The two of them together, finally joined the way they're supposed to be, as close as two people can get.

A short time later, Juniper shifts underneath Felix as their heart rates return to normal, and he rolls to the side to keep from crushing her. He snakes an arm under her to pull her back against him, not wanting to be away from her body for a second. Juniper curls up half beside, half on top of him, and rests her head on his shoulder, eyes closed and smile tired, and Felix realises she must be nearly as exhausted as he is.

"Juniper," he says softly, trying to infuse her name with everything he's feeling. Any other words would surely sound trite in the wake of what they've just done. Her smile widens, though her eyes remain shut.

"Felix," Juniper answers in a voice as full of meaning as his, and Felix sighs, familiar warmth spreading through his chest the way it always does when she says his name. Only now he has brand new memories of the way she can say his name, and he clutches her more tightly against him, satisfied in finally having one dream play out just right.

Felix wakes up in little waves. There's soft warmth surrounding him he doesn't understand, until the memory of Juniper from last night returns and he smiles. He reaches out to stroke her hair where it lays pooled on his chest and his hands clench against fabric. He opens his eyes. It's a sheet draped across him. And the bed beside him is empty.

Felix shoots up, instantly alert. A quick scan of the room reveals he's the only one in it. Throwing back the sheet, Felix leaps from the bed and searches the floor for his clothes. He has a vague memory of shedding them somewhere around the bed's foot, but they're nowhere to be found. He swivels around, looking for any kind of clue, and this time notices his robes laid across the chair by the fireplace. Definitely not where he let them drop in a careless heap the night before.

An uncomfortable writhing wakes in Felix's stomach as he tugs on his trousers. This is not how he was hoping this day would begin. He fumbles under his robes for his shirt only to find it isn't there. He barely has time to contemplate this new mystery when the door opens and Juniper enters, a tray with two steaming cups and a plate of scones hovering beside her. She starts upon seeing him, cheeks turning rosy, and Felix realises she's wearing his shirt on top of her skirt and stockings from the night before. The look is less openly suggestive than her sheer blouse, but he finds the sight of her in his clothes impossibly arousing.

Juniper's thoughts seem to be somewhere near his own. She grins sheepishly, still blushing, and turns to push the door closed. The tray makes its own way to the little table near Felix and sets itself down.

"Morning," says Juniper, and her voice is almost bright. So much like what Felix remembers of her, and he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He settles for smiling at her as she lifts a mug from the tray. It's a beer mug, he notices, the kind with a large handle on the side and she threads her entire hand through it, balancing the other side with her wrist. His smile falters a little.

Juniper plops heavily onto the edge of the bed, curling her legs up underneath her and breathing in steam from the mug. Felix glances wistfully into the remaining cup, a regular tea cup, and entirely bereft of the coffee he craves. Forgoing drink, he sits down carefully beside Juniper, self-consciousness beginning to twist his stomach into knots. There's no reason he shouldn't be allowed to lean across and kiss her, surely? But something about her sipping tea, eyes wandering everywhere but at him reminds him too much of mornings with Aurelie, and the memories play havoc with his confidence.

"How are you feeling?" he asks uncertainly, watching Juniper sip her scalding tea without a wince.

"Honestly?" She ponders this a moment, before replying candidly. "Awful. Absolutely miserable. The worst I've ever felt in my life, I think." She takes another sip of her drink before adding, "But, if I can admit that, then I guess I'm a good sight better than yesterday, right?"

Juniper looks at Felix as if in confirmation, but he isn't sure what to say. His face is blank, an exact match for his current thoughts. Juniper sets her mug carefully onto the floor.

"Had to borrow your shirt, I hope you don't mind," she says, interrupting the awkward silence, and beginning to undo the buttons. "I had to run a quick errand. And I thought Tom might chuck me out if I showed up downstairs like this." She indicates the ridiculously thin and clinging fabric underneath his shirt that served as her blouse from the previous evening.

"Of course not," murmurs Felix. It's a moment before he processes her words, distracted as he is by her new state of undress, but before he can ask any questions, Juniper continues.

"I may need you to conjure something up for me to wear, if you can. I've got a fair bit to do this morning and I can't do it in this. And I don't really carry my wand much anymore," she admits with a small, resigned smile.

This rouses Felix from his stupor. He scoots across the rumpled sheets to sit closer to her.

"Juniper, it's...good that you feel a bit better, but you really shouldn't overdo it. If there's things you need to do, let me take care of it. You need to take it easy for a while. Get back to Khanna's before that Auror - Moody - finds out."

This time, Juniper's smile reaches her eyes. Which still seem tired and sad, but no longer have the terrifying dead look of yesterday.

"Felix," she begins, then shakes her head as if overcome with what she has to say. "You are...extraordinary. But you can't do everything for me. I've got about a dozen apologies I need to make and they need to be done sooner rather than later. Starting with you."

"Me?" Felix raises his eyebrows in surprise. "What for?"

"Everything." Juniper shifts on the lumpy mattress to face Felix more fully. "Ignoring you. Worrying you. Making you come all the way up here. Just being stupid and selfish. You've no idea how embarrassed I am about all this."

"You don't have to be embarrassed," argues Felix, but Juniper interrupts, face screwed up as if in pain.

"I could have cost you your job, Felix!" she exclaims. "You've given up your whole life for this job, and worked so hard, and this is the second time I've almost jeopardised that. But I promise it's the last." She takes a steadying breath and picks at the fabric criss-crossing her legs. "Look, I'm not pretending like - like I'm better or-or back to normal or anything, I know I'm not. I don't even know what normal looks like for me anymore. I'm sure it's not what it used to be. But, I think...I might be past the worst of it now. Entirely because of you." Juniper shoots him a small, embarrassed smile. "I think... I'm thinking more clearly than I have in a while, and I- I know the direction I need to go, even if it's going to take me forever to get there. So you don't have to worry about me anymore. And I- I just need to know that nothing's changed - between us, I mean."

Everything in Felix's chest crumples. His insides sinking toward his feet, leaving his legs heavy and leaden and his head too light. Keeping upright is suddenly the only thing he can concentrate on. Juniper, still looking determinedly at her legs where she's plucked a hole in the fabric of her stockings, notices nothing.

"I know I've still got a long way to go, and I think the only way I can get through it is if I know that you're - that we're - still friends. That I haven't messed that up being...being stupid."

She finally lifts her eyes to peer furtively into his face, and Felix can't imagine what it looks like now, but it feels like it's been turned to stone.

"Of course," he hears himself say, and Juniper sighs, shoulders relaxing in relief.

"I know it doesn't make up for everything I've put you through, but," she fumbles with the waistband of her skirt, retrieving a small slip of parchment. "I've got a portkey all arranged for you. It's set up to leave in an hour, and it'll actually take you inside the Reserve itself. Or it should. I've got it from a, well, a source that owed me a favour, and he's really only semi-reliable at the best of times, but he staked his hoodie on this portkey working, and that's really the highest promise I could wrench from him."

Felix listens to Juniper prattle on without really hearing. At some point, she pauses, and inspects his face more closely.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Felix can't respond. He doesn't feel anything. He feels nothing when they say goodbye, a brief embrace and an awkward smile all Juniper is willing to bestow. Nor when he arrives in Romania, marching straight to the Peruvian Vipertooth grounds to relieve Rashbold, who is fortunately too exhausted to ask many questions. Felix continues to feel nothing as he takes the next shifts, his body going through the familiar motions without the help of any conscious thought. It's only when he returns to his quiet, dusty room, crawls under the tatty sheet of his camp bed, and buries his face in his pillow that tears finally come.

Read Chapter 9 |Here’s the link to the Masterpost.

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salamanderskin · 4 years

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Any Port in a Storm, a Hornblower fic

In the aftermath of 'The Duchess and the Devil' Archie's self worth hits a new low, not helped by his seizure disorder and a nasty chill. Horatio isn't sure how to help, but he's willing to give it everything he has.

The year is 1798.

The wind whistled through the rigging of HMS Indefatigable, whipping up spray from the sea like handfuls of gravel to join the sheets of rain which lashed at the deck. The great grey clouds that stewed overhead were so low that the horizon was blurred and indistinguishable from the shifting steel surface of the ocean. Although the weather was dramatic; the sails snapped and billowed like washing on a line in the irregular gusts of wind and the masts creaked with a sound as though the ship was crying out under the strain, it was no more than a seasonal squall of the kind almost inspected on this part of the passage back to England.

Every so often a wave would fling itself ambitiously onto the deck and add to the inch or so of water sloshing from side to side in mimicry of the greater ocean, but it was nothing a few men with buckets to bail with couldn't handle. The whole crew was on deck, working to take in sail lest they be driven off course, but without particular urgency; the ratings seemed in fairly good spirits as they wrestled with the great unwieldy sheets of canvas, while the senior officers in their navy jackets and white breeches could be seen moving efficiently among them, with one notable exception. It occurred to the lone figure who stood on the quarterdeck that he did not really, in truth, need to be there.

Horatio Hornblower was getting gradually soaked where he stood. He could feel the wind and wet chapping the skin of his cheeks where they had become unused to the sting of salt, yet he was glad of the taste of it on his lips for it meant that he was back in His Majesty's Navy. No longer on dry land, no longer imprisoned. It meant that he was home. The feeling of freedom he gained from feeling the deck tilt beneath his feet was well balanced against the unpleasant creeping coldness of rain sliding down the collar of his greatcoat, setting him to shivering.

He did not have to be out in the elements. There was nothing for him to do here; the young Midshipman who had obviously been hired during his absence appeared to have filled his shoes infuriatingly well, shouting orders in a clear, confident voice so that the mainsail was taken in just as far as was necessary for a mild storm such as this. Horatio noticed a few tasks done sloppily, which as Acting Lieutenant he would never had allowed, but he knew better than to undermine another officer's authority- it would neither win him friends nor aid the progress of the crew to give conflicting orders. Much as he hated to admit it, despite his long absence, Indefatigable seemed to be running like well-tuned, if somewhat drenched, clockwork. However, although he felt perfectly redundant standing and watching, Horatio knew the feeling would be worse if he were to go below and wait out in the storm in the berth he'd been assigned. Being a sailor meant you were never to lie idle when the wind blew like this. There was work to be done somewhere on the ship, there always was, so lieing in a hammock rocked by the storm would be as unpleasantly foreign to him as the Spanish coastline he had only too recently escaped.

“Mister Hornblower!” A familiar voice called him from his reverie.

The deep and commanding tones of a man well used to making himself heard over the dirtiest of weather made it clear that Horatio was being hailed by no less a personage than Sir Edward Pellew, Captain of the Indefatigable and a rigidly uniformed force to be reckoned with.

“Sir!” Horatio turned smartly towards his Captain, instantly ready for instruction, but the man remained sheltering in a doorway, an expression of disbelief visible from under his impressive bicorn hat.

“I told you that your party are relieved from active duty until we make port. Your presence is not required on deck.”

“I was just seeing-” Horatio began, only to be interrupted.

“Are you insane, man? Get below!”

Any hesitation to obey must have showed on his face, but Pellew had only to open his mouth to begin “That is an order, Lieutenant Hornblower” for Horatio to know that he had disobeyed his Captain as much as would be tolerated, and not without some relief he retreated to join his superior out of the rain.

“Despite your obvious doubts, I am quite able to run a tight ship despite the unforseen absence of one junior officer.” Pellew remarked as they walked together back in the direction of the Captain's quarters. His tone was cold and Horatio re-experienced the familiar awe he felt in the presence of the Captain. It was always coupled with a sense of unease in that Horatio could never be sure whether or not the man was joking.

Pellew seemed serious, though, when he asked “What is it about that crew of yours, Mister Hornblower? I just had to tell Midshipman Kennedy exactly the same thing. You both seem determined to catch your deaths to no obvious gain.”

“It won't happen again, Sir.” Horatio replied, almost but not entirely sure he had caught a slight twinkle in the man's eyes under his steely frown.

As they neared the berth Horatio had been assigned, Pellew seemed to wax thoughtful, lowering his voice somewhat. “I shall have to have a word with you about your Mister Kennedy, perhaps when we are docked.” As if responding to the promise of a safe harbour soon the deck lurched slightly under their feet. Pellew barely moved but to his shame Horatio found himself staggering, his legs unused to the motion of a ship beneath him and not helped by the cold rain which felt as though it had seeped into his muscles.

“Yes, now is perhaps not the time.” Pellew mused. “But we will reach Plymouth tomorrow afternoon. Now go and get out of your wet things for goodness' sake, man. That was a waste of a perfectly clean, dry uniform.”

“Sir.”

Horatio had no sooner touched his hat then Pellew was gone, heavy cloak flowing smartly out behind, leaving Horatio to wonder exactly when the fellow officer with whom he was now sharing a berth had become his Mister Kennedy.

* * *

There was a lamp burning in the tiny berth and its light made leaping shadows on the wooden walls as the Indefatigable's restless motion set it swinging from the hook where it hung. Horatio stepped inside gratefully.

“Hullo Archie.” He said softly. “You look as wet as I feel.”

Archie Kennedy turned around sharply at the sound of his voice, as if startled, but visibly relaxed when he saw who had disturbed him. The warm glow lit upon a figure only a little shorter than Horatio himself and broader in the shoulder despite months of starvation.

Horatio could not help but notice that the lamplight was kind to Archie's tanned complexion, turning both the blonde hair and fair skin golden. His face still carried the hollow, haunted aspect Horatio had found upon him when they finally found each other after, but in the lamplight he looked better than he had in months and it was easy to see that he would make someone a handsome husband one day, God willing. He was indeed thoroughly drenched by the rain- his coat, hat and boots may have been set aside to drip but his navy-blue jacket showed black at the shoulders where the rain had soaked through.

There was a pause before Archie looked up and said, “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Captain Pellew ordered me off the deck.”

“Ah. You too. So it wasn't that he didn't want me commanding his men.”

There was a lot that Horatio could say to that, but he didn't. He recalled all too clearly the conversation they had shared as Archie lay nearly dieing in the sickbay of the Spanish prison.

“Well, don't you want to get back, hm? Stand on the deck of the Indie, hear the wind in the rigging-”

“-and hear how Horatio Hornblower rescued his shipmate from prison.” Archie had looked up at him from the sickbed, and those eyes, which had been glazed and misfocused suddenly lit right on him, blue and bitter.

“It won't be like that, Archie.”He had said.

But Archie had almost laughed, finding some warped humour in his own helplessness.

“It will be just like that.”

“Archie...” It was a soft, useless syllable as in their tiny shared berth on the Indefatigable, Horatio settled for touching his friend lightly on the arm when their paths crossed whilst setting their wet things to dry.

He never did know what to say when someone decided to bare their soul to him, and Archie's bitter comment made him feel more foolish than anything else. It wasn't that Archie Kennedy was disgraced- Captain Pellew had been grieved when he believed Archie lost in action and both grateful and amazed to find him still alive- but as long as Archie believed himself of no value, there was little Horatio could say to heal the wounds on his soul.

It was enough that Archie did not shrug off the gesture, and Horatio let that be a scrap of comfort as he settled into his hammock and tried to get warm enough for sleep to take him. Despite the blanket he couldn't seem to shake off the chill of the storm in his bones, though perhaps it was only that the could hear the creak of the masts and feel the uneasy rhythm as the weather tossed the ship. Archie felt it too, Horatio could hear the even rhythm of the man's breath break and flicker with the chattering of Archie's teeth, though it could just have easily have been the sound of his own.

The storm seemed to be easing. The wail of the wind had died down so that it was possible to make out the rain drumming on the wooden sides of the ship like thoughtful fingers and the two hammocks swung in a steadier, more lulling fashion as the rhythm of the sea reasserted itself. Despite this, their brittle exchange had left Horatio with an uncomfortable awareness that something wasn't right.

This damnable bitter weather would do his friend no good at all, weak as he was.

“Aren't you cold, Archie?” He asked into the dark, meaning to offer his blanket. Archie did not reply, did not even move.

“Goodnight.” Horatio said eventually.

Though Archie did not reply, when he reached instinctively for the man he found Archie's hand was also outstretched in the darkness. He took it and for a single, blessed moment he squeezed and Archie squeezed wordlessly back. As shivering cold seeped into blessed sleep, Horatio Hornblower decided to be grateful for small mercies.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time they made port in Plymouth and the sun was just struggling to break through a thick bank of white cloud. Horatio Hornblower was glad for the warmth of the rays on his face and he closed his eyes momentarily, breathing deeply of the cold, brisk air which carried all the familiar smells of the dockside.

As he looked to his companion he saw that Archie was doing the same. The light made Archie's hair glow golden and even kissed some colour into the man's palid face.

Any decision to walk further along the dockside was curtailed when first one drop of cold rain and then another fell onto Horatio's face and dripped down his long nose.

“I think we must take that as a sign and repair to an Inn. I have no desire to be soaked to the skin on two consecutive evenings.”

Midshipman Kennedy looked fit to argue, but then he shivered and nodded his head in resigned agreement. “I had really hoped my return to English soil might be a little more glorious” he said, ruefully.

“Come now, to the men on the Indie you appear to have returned from the dead. Let that be sufficient.”

“Aye. That will have to do.”

They walked along the main street in silence for some time, heads tilted down to keep of the worst of the rain. The orange lights of various establishments resolved themselves out of the gloom and dissipated again as the men passed them by, intent on finding an resting place at least one level up from the kind of grog-shop where the ratings were doubtless already drowning their sorrows. Horatio moved forwards with purpose, Archie a pace behind him as though they were already Lieutenant and Acting Lieutenant, but he supposed it was the first time in three years Archie Kennedy had been somewhere more crowded than the Indefatigable. After three years of foreign jails it was unsurprising that Plymouth was a little more than he was ready for.

As they moved onwards Archie fell further and further behind, lagging in pace as he looked around him with something between satisfaction and apprehension.

Horatio looked back with concern. “I fear returning to your duties so soon has overtaxed you. Dr Hepplewhite said-”

“To hell with Dr. Hepplewhite.” Archie said in frustration. “It's good for me to stretch my legs. If only I wasn't so damnably light-headed.”

Here Archie paused, those blue eyes looking away from Horatio with an anxious flicker of his eyelids. Such was the misfocus of his expression that Horatio wondered if the man was likely to take a fit, and if he did, whether Horatio could catch his friend before that blonde head hit the cobbles. However his fears were unfounded and Archie merely pinched at the bridge of his nose with a murmured “-never mind. Lead on, it's freezing out here.”

They only moved a few more yards, boots splashing in the water pooled between the uneven cobbles, when he halted again, leaning one hand against a wall in a way that was clearly supposed to be casual. He seemed about to say something then shrugged, steeling himself to walk a little further and only opened his mouth to husk a cough into one fist and swipe the raindrops from his eyes with an dispassionate “Damn this rain.”

Horatio was at his side in a moment.

“Are you quite alright, Mister Kennedy?”

The man's answer was to suddenly dip his head into both hands to sneeze discretely, once and then a second time, shielding his face with his wrist.

“hp'Kff!” A breath. “Hffsch!” and a murmured “I beg your pardon.” before Archie faced him again.

“God bless.”

They walked a little further, turning down a wide street that Horatio remembered from a previous visit. On either side tall buildings listed up, their chimney pots making a forest of silhouettes against the darkening sky. A light wind blew the rain into their faces and made him turn his collar up and squint. It was nothing compared to a storm at sea, but it was chill and unpleasant. Behind him Archie did the same, repressing another sneeze into the back of his wrist.

“ht-chsch! - -Chsch!”

“God bless.” Horatio said again, paying full attention to his friend's plight now so that he turned his head to catch Archie's eyes, only to find them averted from him, hazily unfocused. Archie held an expression of exquisite irritation for a fraction of a second before his head was forced into his hands by another set of sneezes.

“Hp-chsch! Ht- chsch! Hffsch!”

“God bless you, Mister Kennedy.”

He noticed that Archie retained one broad hand gathered awkwardly at his face and when he drew a breath it was an unpleasant, damp sniff. The poor man sounded as though the rainwater had made its way into his very bones. Archie sniffed again, and then a third time.

Horatio kept his face fixed firmly away, determined not to notice his companion's embarrassing state but with a growing sense of irritation. For goodness sake, did the man not have a handkerchief to his name? Archie may have been out of society for some time but even in prison he had always been a gentleman. Yet before Horatio's frustration could fully form itself out of nebulous distaste, Archie addressed him.

“Thank you. Could you-” The voice was low and awkward. Archie was not looking at him, either. A pity then that he had a frog in his throat and had to start the sentence a second time.

“I don't suppose I could trouble you for your pocket handkerchief, Mister -snf- Hornblower?” he said sheepishly.

Suddenly Horatio understood- as a prisoner of war, Archie had lost everything but the uniform he had stood up. And there he was doubting the man's propriety! He could have kicked himself.

“Of course, Mister Kennedy. Here-” He produced the requested item from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pressed it into Archie's hand, averting his eyes as the man blew his nose wetly.

“I seem to have misplaced mine somewhere on the march across France. And to think I hadn't noticed the loss until now.”

The gentle flippancy of it made Horatio smile even as he shook his head, tutting teasingly “In that case we shall make repairing the situation our first priority tomorrow morning.”

Indeed, the hoarse edge on the man's voice, coupled with that damp, persistent sniffling made Horatio suspect that this action might be necessary for other reasons than propriety alone.

* * *

Since their time as midshipmen together, the two had long been used to sharing quarters that were less than pleasant, not to mention that less than a week ago they were still sharing a tiny, filthy cell in a Spanish prison. Horatio's newly acquired Lieutenant's pay furnished them with a good deal more space than they had been used to over the years, but he hardly noticed the clean wooden floor, or the double bed which was absurdly spacious to those used to consecutive hammocks, so relieved was he to get himself and his companion in front of a warm fire. Horatio moved instinctively to its warmth and spread his hands in an attempted to rub some life back into his deadened fingertips. He sudden heat, though gentle, made his joints feel as though they themselves were burning as he flexed his fingers.

Meanwhile, Archie alighted on one of the two rather thread-bare wing chairs which flanked the grate. He seemed excessively drained by the walk up the stairs, the trek across town and the force of the elements- his face was pale and despite the cold a little sweat dampened his forehead where it should have been protected by his hat. He'd loosened his stock a little and Horatio could see his friend's pulse flicker there like a butterfly under a glass.

Horatio removed his own hat, boots and coat in short order, before slipping out of his uniform jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair.

A sudden sound broke the quiet of the room and startled Horatio from his thoughts, but snapping his head around he realised that it was only Mister Kennedy coughing spasmodically into one first. Though it began as a husking clearing of the throat, once he had started the man seemed hardly able to stop. The sound went on too long, and Horatio did not much fancy the tight, painful sound as it shook his friend's shoulders, doubling him over where he sat so that he braced one arm against his thigh to steady himself.

“I beg your pardon, H-horatio-” Archie tried to say, but the words seemed to prickle his throat and only set him coughing again, harder and more deeply than before.

“Water?”

Without waiting for a reply, Horatio crossed the room to fill a pewter mug from the jug which stood, as he had hoped, on the narrow dresser. Archie took it from him and gulped gratefully, the shudders subsiding, though Horatio thought he could see Archie suppressing a wince at the first, painfully overeager swallow.

“There...” The word left his lips and Horatio was surprised at it, meaningless and as such, useless, as it was.

He patted Archie's shoulder again, once more possessed of the need to reassure himself that Archie was real, was truly alive and, warm and solid beneath his fingers. Archie seemed to the relish the touch, too, relaxing against Horatio's body for a luxurious moment where the man stood beside his seated form. Those blue eyes drifted closed.

“Better?” Horatio asked at last. His words broke the spell and the other man straightened somewhat before bending down and beginning to untie his boots.

“Yes, thank you. You'll have to excuse me Mister Hornblower, I don't know what's come over me.”

Had Archie Kennedy always taken refuge in formality, or was it a recent defence upon finding himself back in the navy now that his closest friend was a superior officer? Due to their close friendship, he'd been wont to employ Horatio's title and full name with a hint of irony, but was that what was happening here?

“Shh. Come on, Archie, get those wet things off. You're making me cold just looking at you.”

Much as he hated the necessity, his friend responded to a direct command better than to any amount of hinting, and looked down at his damp jacket as if for the first time. He was soon stripped to his shirtsleeves and drew his chair closer to the fire.

For a long time there was stillness. Horatio bustled about the room; receiving his sea-chest when it was brought up for him and donning his other jacket, retying the stock at his throat into a neat knot that would keep out the weather, he found his eyes were drawn again and again to the figure by the fire. The warm light was kind to Archie's boyish features for all that it picked out the shadow under his eyes and cheekbones. It turned his hair to true gold and Horatio noticed now that the curls were over-long around his friend's face. Perhaps Archie would allow him to cut it? The thought of such closeness, of an excuse to bury his fingers in the silken stuff, made him smile.

Archie seemed to catch him staring, and there was surprise in his eyes to see Horatio standing over him in full midshipman's uniform.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I am to meet with Captain Pellew at six.” Horatio said, mustering all his formality and newly-acquired Lieutenant's authority not to add “to discuss you, I expect.”

He didn't need to add that information to see Archie's expression close down, the haunted, bitter look acquired in prison washing over his usual open expression.

“I dare say the Captain will want an opportunity to congratulate you properly. After all, not only did you pass your Lieutenant's exams with an act of supreme courage in saving several ships of the royal fleet, you rescued all your men from a Spanish prison along with a handful extra. You're certainly back on form.”

Sarcasm would be too strong a word, for that was a strategy Archie Kennedy would never resort to, but there was certainly a resigned edge to the praise. When had the man learned to be so bitter? Horatio answered himself- perhaps during the beatings, or when you were to preoccupied to even notice him trying to kill himself.

“It's more likely he wishes to dock my pay to make up for the loss of La Reve.” Possible, though not likely, indeed. Horatio hoped that saving a handful of prisoners considered missing in action would outweigh his losing the first ship he had ever been in command of to the Spanish dons. “I shan't be gone long. Do you want to walk along the dock with me, get some fresh air?”

“I'm fine here.” Archie said. Then, “I've got in the way of your successes enough of late.”

The bitterness in the man's voice made Horatio want to shake his shoulders, whilst the equal and opposite resignation sparked in him the desire to clasp his friend to his chest. Archie coughed again and touched a hand to his throat in a delicate, unconscious gesture before running it frustratedly down the bridge of his nose.

“... I didn't mean that.” He said at last. “I'm not myself.”

Before Horatio could respond, Archie's breathing hitched audibly and he turned away again, fishing Horatio's handkerchief from his pocket just in time for him to smother a sudden sneeze into it.

“hp-chsch!”

“God bless y-” Horatio offered, but Archie only interrupted him with another.

“Chsch-uh! Hd-Chsch-uh!!

The breath he let out afterward was heavy and tired-sounding, and he did not dare remove the cloth from his face but glanced away from Horatio awkwardly. Horatio, who had winced at the way each release seemed to tear through his friend's throat, found now to be a convenient time to go and retrieve his boots from the other side of the room. He had never much liked blowing his nose in front of people either.

When he returned, Archie had composed himself but he looked more tired than ever. Something about the discomfort on his features wrenched at Horatio's heart- Archie had been getting well and looking so much better, but today's exertions had brought all the gauntness he had found on the man's face in the prison cell back into his features, even if only to a lesser degree. Archie was fine, he was alive and well and here in the room with Horatio, and Horatio was being ridiculous, but the distant expression reminded him of that day when it had rained, and a preoccupied Horatio had heard Archie's voice fade out of the conversation only to turn around and find the man unconscious. Through his own neglect and selfishness Archie had nearly died, and Horatio would never, never let that happen again, he- Horatio mentally shook himself. Why did the man resting by the fire, his broad chest rising and falling with restful breathing, conjure in him such a wild, desperately protective streak? He was being absurd.

He thought he recognised the stuffed-up cadence of his friend's voice now, though- the rasp of it made him want to brew a cup of hot tea with honey- and the reaction unmanned him. He longed to put his arms around Archie, to smooth his hair as he had done so easily when the man had been feverish and shaken by nightmares back in prison. For no logical reason, sharing affection then had been permissible, inevitable even, and he could not restrain himself, but then he never could, not with Archie. Until now.

“God bless you.” He said again, now that the man seemed to have finished, and then, feeling faintly ridiculous “Archie you- you sound as though you're catching a chill.”

The man made to protest, but he was shivering now despite the warmth of the fire, and his first attempt at speech came out so hoarsely it nearly set his coughing again. Eventually he said,

“It would be just my-” Half way through the admission, the man's usually well enunciated voice took on an airy, congested and thoroughly ticklish quality and he interrupted himself with a desperate, resigned “excuse me, Horatio-” After giving his warning the desire to sneeze seemed to back away, teasing his senses such that he did not dare lower the handkerchief from where he held it just in front of his face. “-just my- hk'KSSCh!”

“God bless you. You're shivering.” Horatio observed, crossing the room again to stand by his friend's side.

“I congratulate you on your perspicacity, sir.”

That was a favourite expression of Captain Pellew's, harking back to the time when they had only just been transferred to the Indefatigable. Archie had always had a keen eye for a foibles of superiors, and an actor's talent for mimicry, and his bright wit made Horatio grin now as it had then.

“You should be resting.”

“I think I'll read a little first.” Archie said.

“Is there a law which keeps you from doing that in bed?”

“Perhaps not,” Archie's voice was light enough as he said it but waxed serious as he turned to look at Horatio, eyes narrowing. “But I cannot let you go to the Captain, Horatio.”

Horatio swallowed. Could Archie know that the Captain intended to discuss Horatio's exploits and thus Archie's too?

“Why's that?”

The man's tired face lit slowly into the grin he knew so well.

“Because you look as though you slept with your head in a sack. Come here.”

Horatio laughed in relief as Archie rose and directed him to the newly vacated chair, returning a few minute's later with the comb from Horatio's seachest.

Horatio schooled his body to relax as cunning fingers loosened the strip of black silk ribbon which was standard-issue for an officer in His Magesty's Navy, and draped it over the arm of the chair. Archie took Horatio's dark hair in one hand, working the comb from root to tip in a motion that was rhythmic and efficient without ever being rough.

The simple touch took him back years. In his days new midshipman he had relied on the more experienced Archie to tie his pigtail for him, and in truth he still didn't have the knack of it, for all he had been forced to learn the skill when he believed Archie lost in action. During those first cold weeks after Archie's “death” every time he wrestled with the ribbon was a painful reminder, the cramp in his fingers from repeated attempts beating a muted counterpoint to the ache in his heart.

“I might have to pull.”Archie said sympathetically as he leaned in to get to a stubborn knot in Horatio's curls, so that his words were accompanied by a rush of warm breath. The other man's breath touched the sensitive spot behind Horatio's ear in a way that was deliciously ticklish, sending bolts of lightning running down his neck and side. It was only then that Horatio began to remember how his younger self had enjoyed having the older boy tend him in this way, how good it was to have Midshipman Kennedy run his fingers through Horatio's hair each morning. When they were in prison, with Archie so sick, Horatio had repaid the favour but that hadn't been the same. Of course he would tend a friend who was ill, and Archie would do the same for him, that went without saying. Something about this touch was different. He was a grown man now and didn't need Archie's help to keep himself presentable, but Archie himself had offered this assistance, this affection, as small as it was.

“Ship shape and Bristol fashion.” Archie said at last, when Horatio had placed the hat firmly on his head and straightened his rain-soaked lapels as best as he could. “You look-”

His features slipped into the expression of confused anticipation which was now familiar. His eyelids fluttered and the corner of his mouth twitched in an expression that appeared so distinctly ticklish that Horatio knew his friend could not hold his composure for much longer. Archie's hand made a curious gesture, cast briefly towards his pocket in frantic desire for the handkerchief until he seemed to realise, mid-motion, that there was no way he would get there in time. Instead he hovered it infront of his face as his breath drew an agonised, preparatory “hheh” before his body flinched in on itself like a book snapping shut.

The result was an appropriately sharp “ngkTSCH!”

The man's expression in the aftermath was one of perfect, miserable frustration, yet Horatio knew instinctively that it was not directed at himself. Archie seemed to feel that the events of the last three years had used up some store of weakness and left him loathe to express even a fraction more, though his body compelled him to it. Horatio did not much like the sound of repressed, husky coughing that the outburst generated, nor the moment of dizzy disorientation in Archie's eyes as he straightened himself, already apologising.

Alas, time was fleeting, and with an eye to his pocket-watch Horatio contented himself with an affirming slap to Archie's shoulder as he passed him in the doorway, finding nothing more succinct to say than a conciliatory “Get some rest.”

If there were things unsaid between the two men that hung in the silence as the door shut, Horatio studiously ignored them, setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders against the next challenge of the day.

* * * *

Upon entering the Inn, it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. There was no chaos, no musketshots, no crowd of people, none of the sights and sounds of carnage to which Horatio Hornblower had been hardened by way of a career in the Navy, yet the sight that greeted him was enough to set his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest.

There was a small knot of people hanging around in an awkward fashion and at their centre was a wing-chair containing a slumped figure in naval uniform. The low light of the parlour glinted on brass buttons, on a tangle of golden hair hanging loose and upon the creamy skin of the man's throat where his jacket and shirt had been opened, evidently to give him some air.

“Archie?”

Horatio needed only to take one pace into the room to see that his suspicion was correct.

Archie's limbs hung loose and heavy, his head tilted right back to rest on the back of the chair in such an uncomfortably unnatural way that it was obvious he must have been carried bodily into the room and bundled into the chair by a well-intentioned, though clumsy, stranger. At the sound of his name he lifted his head a little to meet Horatio's gaze. The heavy torpor of his movements coupled with a familiar slackness of his features told Horatio all he needed know.

He turned to the bystanders for confirmation, lighting on the man he recognised as the Innkeeper.

“He had a fit?”

Horatio intended to explain in as few words as possible that Mister Kennedy was prone to fits on occasion but that they passed quickly, and providing he hadn't injured himself in the process the man would be himself again very shortly. However, he wasn't given a chance. The Innkeeper took one glance at Horatio's uniform and rounded on him.

“You, you're his mate what's sharing his room? Frightened the life out me, he did. Just walked out the door, took three paces and fell straight down on the pavement jerking all over the place. Has he been drinking?” The question caught Horatio off guard. “Drinking? No. It's-”

The man wouldn't let him continue. “Can't you snap him out of it? I thought he was dead, he went that still, and that's bad for business. Puts the customers right off. Hit his head a good crack too.”

The Innkeeper showed no sign of ending the tirade he had started, indeed he seemed to warming to his subject, appealing to the few bystanders that Archie's behaviour was both deviant and inconvenient for a man who has a business to run. His impertinence was infuriating but not so urgent as Archie's need and to this end Horatio allowed the words to wash over him as he came to kneel beside his friend. He spoke Archie's name again, more insistently, and Archie gave him a weak smile. He looked a state; his expression was glassy and fixed, his skin greyish against the white of his shirt whilst a cold sweat stood out in beads across his face.

“I happened again, didn't it?” Archie said. His voice was firm but slightly slurred, murmured as though his lips were too heavy for him to move.

He sounded resigned rather than surprised, and who could blame him. Horatio had hoped that after that last, painful episode in prison, Archie had somehow grown out of the fits he had suffered as a younger lad. Evidently Archie had felt the same way.

“It seems so.” Horatio replied as casually as he could.

He moved his fingers gingerly across Archie's face and into his hairline, sifting through the golden silk of his hair to see if he had indeed struck his head in falling. The hair on one side of his head was damp and gritty with dirty water, where he must have lain in a puddle, and as Horatio's fingers navigated Archie's jawline they found bruising already coming up swollen and red, and a lump a little behind the man's ear from which a minute trickle of blood painted his fingers. He winced in sympathy, but truly it was nothing a cold compress wouldn't fix.

The Innkeeper became aware he was being ignored and got Horatio's attention with a hand on his shoulder.

“Shall I send for a physician?”

Horatio looked at Archie, who shook his head fractionally, eyes signalling an urgent no. Doubtless he just wanted the drama of it to be over as soon as possible, and Horatio could empathise with that.

“There's really no need. I am sure he shall be quite well within the hour. ”

“I don't mean to take a liberty, but 'you didn't see him kicking and moaning like 'e was possessed. Gave me quite a turn, he did-

Horatio's patience finally snapped.

“You do take a liberty, Sir. I will take Midshipman Kennedy to his room.”

Something of the Captain he would one day be was in Horatio's voice. Both the Innkeeper and the few onlookers dispersed and left two men alone in the parlour. Only then did Horatio kneel on the rug to look his friend in the eye.

“Can you stand?”

Archie nodded, allowing Horatio to loop an arm around his back and help him upright. With only a little weight on Horatio's arm the two made their way up to their room.

They were forced to stop, half-way up the stairs as Archie stiffened against him, turning his head to sneeze away from them.

“hh'KFffschuh!' Archie had no force to give it but also none to contain it and the release makes them both stagger. He doesn't even repress the sound, just turns his head weakly away in soft, wet exclamation. “--hh...Itschhuh!”

Horatio braced this time to keep them steady. “So you're still doing that?”

Archie looked up to confirm “...'fraid I haven't ---iiht-KFFSchh- haven't stopped.”

They paused until Horatio was sure that Archie was indeed finished sneezing for now, before resuming the short journey upstairs. The fire had warmed the room nicely and the beds looked inviting as Horatio helped his friend lower himself onto one of them. Archie took his own weight on his hands and lowered himself to slump on top of the covers, shoes and all. His eyes were closed.

Horatio hovered, hands twitching anxiously at his sleeves.

“I- do you need anything? What can I do?”

Archie's shoulders moved in a minute shrug and his eyes opened, blue as the ocean. Even half-comatose after a fit his smile managed to be self-effacing.

“I'll sleep. Don't look so worried. You should be used to me by now.””

As he spoke he half rose, kicked his boots off against the foot of the bed and started on his jacket. The man moved as if still in a dream and his fingers fumbled with the brass buttons. Horatio came to his aid without being asked. Archie shied minutely from the the man's deft touch and Horatio could feel him steeling himself not to protest as he was undressed down to his undershirt.

Silence fell like a reverie induced by their proximity to each other, broken only by Archie's congested breathing. He did not meet Horatio's eye and turned even further away when ticklish coughing overtook him again.

“Hmm. Definitely catching cold, on top of everything else.” Horatio thought out loud.

Archie shrugged, sniffling back congestion to murmur, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Come on, get under the covers. I'll have them send you up some tea.”

“I- thank you.”

Archie did so and there he remained quiet for the rest of the evening. He managed to drink the tea, laced with a dash of brandy that made him splutter, then true to his prediction fell back into the heavy, drugged-seeming sleep which usually followed a seizure.

Horatio did not find rest so easy to come by. As twilight darkened into night he lit a lamp, a maid came up and stoked the fire to a bright glow and he sat in its glow, trying to read. The rain began again. It came in fickle flurries that waxed and waned as they were buffeted by the whims of the sea breeze. Again and again the noise drew Horatio's attention from the page and left him staring first into the middle distance and then at his sleeping companion. Archie had turned his face to the wall and was snoring softly. His breathing sounded hoarse and painful and every so often he would snuffle himself into half-waking only to relax again.

Lieutenant Hornblower listened to those sounds for a long time, nursing a sympathetic ache in his chest at every sound of discomfort. Eventually the lamp burned low, the fire was nothing but hot coals and the mounting shadows made even the pretence of the reading impossible. Only then did Horatio change into his own nightshirt and climb into the other bed. Sleep took a very long time to reach him.

* * * * *

Horatio Hornblower did not know how long he had slept, only that something had awakened him.

The rented room was dark when he woke and the red glow in the grate provided a little heat but only the barest suggestion of light, such that room appeared in shades of black and crimson. His eyes and mind adjusted to the strange room at the same time and he realised what had woken him- the sound of the man in the next bed first crying out and now coughing convulsively.

“Archie-? Archie, are you alright?”

Hortaio looked over at the next bed and the huddled shape under the sheets. After a moment his friend rolled over to look at him, his head half-shrouded under the covers for warmth. Mister Kennedy was awake, then, but breathing as though he'd been running. His hair was mussed and his face pale, eyes ringed with shadow. Evidently he hadn't slept as well as Horatio had hoped.

“Mmhm?” Archie made a thick, uncomfortable little noise as he spluttered his throat clear.

“You were thrashing about.”

The man shifted. His voice was painfully hoarse. “I'b sorry, Horatio. I didn't mean to wake you. I think I was dreaming and then I-”

Archie paused, breath suddenly shivering. His every feature gathered in a quick, ticklish grimace and hung there until broken by a gasp of surprise as he shuddered with sneezes directed down towards the mattress.

““---hh! …iih’KFFSCH! --- iih'KFFSCh!--HFFSCHuh!”

“God bless you.” Horatio winced.

Archie tried to smile, tried to sniff and then just doubled into his cupped hands again. “uh-HFFSHu!...”

“And God bless you again.”

“I'b sorry. Excuse be.” Archie tried to blow his nose but only started coughing once more. He managed to splutter out “do we have any water?”

“Of course. Let me-”

Kicking himself for not having thought of it before, Horatio rose and filled a glass. He sat on the edge of Archie's bed to offer it and drew back the covers to take a better look at his friend.

At first Archie Kennedy drew back from the incursion of colder air then he breathed deeply in relief and tugged at the collar of his nightshirt. Horatio did not like the waxy cast of his skin at all.

“May I?”

He placed a hand on Archie's forehead, trying to gauge something. It was warm and moist with sweat but was it too warm? A quick comparison with his own dry cheek was not conclusive. The man had his head under the blankets after all. Damn it all, Horatio didn't know how to do this. He was more comfortable with a musket in his hand.

“Do you feel feverish?”

Archie considered, and then shrugged and shook his head. “I don't think so.”

Sitting up, his knees were raised to his chest and his blonde head rested on them as though he was too tired to hold it up. Under the white shirt his back kicked in and out with accelerated breathing, gradually slowing until the only movements were the tight runs of shivers that made his whole thin body shake. He wrapped his arms around his knees and drew in closer, eying Horatio's own thin shirt as he asked-

“Aren't you cold?”

Horatio shook his head. “I think it's just you.”

He could only watch his friend shiver for a moment longer before his expression softened. “You look dreadful. Come here.”

Horatio rearranged the covers and swung his legs around so that he was the right way on the bed, half propped on one elbow with his head at the pillow end near Archie's own.

Those blue eyes were wide and surprised in the dark. “What are you doing?”

“You're taking ill and you won't sleep while you're shivering like that. I'm warm. Lie down.”

He actually had to give the man a gentle shove to get him to settle back on the bed. Even then he felt Archie wincing away from him, turning his head from Horatio's gaze and into the pillow as though afraid to look at him. Perhaps there was no wonder. It was difficult for Archie to trust to touch, even to friendly touch; Horatio had learned that when they were in prison.

“It's alright. It's only me, Archie, I won't hurt you.” Horatio tried to reassure him.

Archie did not relax. On the contrary he suddenly flipped over to present Horatio with his back, shoulders tense and drawn away from any contact.

“No-” he murmured. “I have... to...”

Horatio could almost hear the irritated squint taking over Archie's face, the ticklish twitch of his nose as prepared to- “--hh! Hd'CHsch!-CHSch!-CHsshhuh!”

He felt the tight quake of the man's shoulders as he seized into the handkerchief again and again. The sound was thick and congested and finished with a useless attempt to blow his blocked nose.

At length Archie resurfaced somewhat, enough to offer a hoarse. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. God bless you.”

But the sneezing must have startled Archie into wakefulness again and he refused to be soothed. “Horatio... you won't get any sleep if you stay here with me. Besides you might catch this.”

“I doubt it.” Horatio considered. “But I don't think turning over will make much difference at this point. We shared a berth all the way home. Do you want me to stay here?”

A pause. Archie Kennedy's voice was hesitant in the dark.

“I- Yes. Please. It's just-” He coughed. He was all but in Horatio's arms and yet his voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away. Perhaps from back in prison or from earlier times still. Horatio remembered how they were both relentlessly bullied on their first voyage together. He had shaken it off, but he doubted that Archie had. The words seemed to be coming from the mouth of the seventeen year old Horatio had met all those years ago, bloody and beaten and shaken by seizures in the night.

“-I'm tired of this. The fits, catching ill again. I don't mean to-”

He sneezed again suddenly, a ticklish, exhausted “ngkTSCH!” buried wetly into the crook of his arm. He let it serve as the end of his statement and simply sighed.

When Mister Kennedy kept his face averted, Horatio drew closer. It was only partially to offer his warmth. The tired, pained sound at the end of that sneeze ignited a curious magnetism in Horatio's chest that wouldn't be satisfied until he lay as close as he could be, with his breast pressed to Archie's back and their knees awkwardly touching. His face was buried in the nape of the man's neck and his next words were addressed to the blonde curls behind Archie's ear. He could feel his lips brushing cloth and flesh when they moved.

“You nearly starved to death, then half-drowned. Now you're under the weather. Is that really a surprise? None of that was your fault.”

The tenderness in his own voice surprised him.

Archie's shoulders shook, fractionally. He drew a tight, shuddering little sniffle which might have been related his cold and might not; one quick hiccupping sob, swiftly quelled. And because Acting Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower had no idea what to do about this, he lay quite still and counted the man's breath in and out. He never did know what to do when someone bared their soul to him.

The sickness, that he could handle. He wasn't much of a nurse but that at least he could help, and if that caring soothed some other pain for both of them, some ache that was present in him too, that was mystifyingly, intensely Archie, then that was to the good.

It didn't take long now for Archie to fall asleep, leaning back into Horatio's warmth. His breathing gradually stilled to a steady, not unpleasant snore that made Horatio fancy Archie's nose would be a burden to him come the morning. For now, though, he slept, and Horatio did the same.

END.

#sickfic #archie kennedy needs a break #horatio needs to be less repressed #god I loved this series so much #this was a blast from the past

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dragonologist-phd · 4 years

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Prodigy: Chapter 1

Sometimes, a family is three deadly Archons who care about each other a little more than they'd ever be able to admit.

(AO3)

Bleden Mark was an archon of immense power and skill, and he resented being assigned to babysitting duty. Tunon didn’t call it that, of course. He referred to it as ‘evaluating the potential of promising trainees to select those who would best serve the glory of Kyros’. He’d always been fond of stating things in the most dramatic fashion possible.

Whatever the wording of the task was, it required Bleden Mark to spend his time- which, he reminded Tunon, was incredibly valuable- watching over the children that Tunon called soldiers and deciding who would be advanced to higher positions above the completion of their training, and who would serve as cannon fodder. If he was luck, he might even unearth a few traitors in the ranks; that would at least be good for a little entertainment.

Unfortunately, the newest batch of candidates was devastatingly boring. Even Tunon’s newest favorite, a pet mage who he’d singled out as showing high potential, was a disappointment. Perhaps Mark shouldn’t have expected much to begin with; Tunon had always favored obedience over creativity.

Oh, his new star pupil was talented enough. Powerful, even. She’d make a perfect little war mage, and she’d serve Kyros well.

But she was predictable. That much was obvious from the beginning, when Bleden Mark watched her sparring sessions with the other mages from the shadows. The girl threw arcs of crackling lightning at her opponents with a flawless, textbook technique that allowed Mark to mentally calculate her every move and stance ten seconds before it happened. In fact, he was able to pinpoint the exact moment she left herself open to attack- and so was her opponent, who took advantage of the opportunity to release a wall of flames in her direction.

The opponent was no exemplary mage either, and the girl recovered- although not without a few burns and a singed robe. But even as she narrowly snatched up her victory, Bleden Mark couldn’t muster up any genuine admiration. He could certainly see why Tunon liked this girl, but it took more than flashy magic and raw force to impress him; he appreciated cunning, and it didn’t appear that this girl had much of that to offer.

Or at least, that’s what he thought until he caught her in the act of stealing scrolls from the restricted section of the mage’s library.

Lilith did not steal. She intended merely to borrow.

And what was the difference, so long as Tunon never knew? This section of the library was so rarely used, anyway. At least someone would be getting some good out of it for once.

“Whatcha got there, kid?”

Lilith whipped around, fingers still locked tight around the scroll in her hands. The first thing that struck her about the man in front of her was the crimson red of his face paint, the only flash of color standing out from his otherwise dark figure. Then she noticed the way he didn’t quite seem to be all there, the way shadows clung to his silhouette and caused him to flicker in and out of clarity. That was when she realized who was standing before her: the Archon of Shadows.

Bleden Mark raised an eyebrow, and when Lilith didn’t immediately answer- it was strange, she usually had no shortage of retorts, but at this moment her voice seemed to be caught in her throat- he grabbed the scroll from her hands. The movement was so quick that Lilith barely had time to realize what was happened before he was once again on the other side of the room, studying the scroll’s contents.

“A spell like this is a bit above your station, isn’t it?” he mused, and Lilith’s hands tightened into fists at her sides, fingernails digging into her palms.

The barb did, at least, finally help her locate her voice. Lifting her chin high, she replied, “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

The Archon studied her for a moment, then snorted dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure you can, kid. And I’m sure your teachers would agree and are completely aware of your intent to learn it.”

Panic shot through Lilith’s veins, but she did her best to keep her voice steady. “They are.”

“Don’t lie to me, kid.” The Archon’s teasing smile vanished. “Especially not when you’ve been caught in the middle of the night with your hand in the cookie jar.”

“I-” Lilith started to protest, but faltered. He was right about one thing; there was no use denying her intentions. “I was going to put it back.”

The Archon tilted his head, remaining silent for a moment. At last, he said, “Of all potential thieves, Tunon’s favorite little mage wouldn’t have been my first guess. Aren’t you afraid of invoking the Adjudicator’s wrath?”

“He won’t be angry if he doesn’t find out.”

The Archon’s answering laugh was so loud that Lilith jumped, but he didn’t seem worried about being overheard. “That’s a bit more to the letter of the law than the spirit, don’t you think?”

“I…” Lilith faltered, unsure of how to respond. Were this Tunon, it would be easy- just sing the praises of the law and nod along with every compliment paid to Kyros. But Bleden Mark was hardly anything like Tunon.

“Just tell me this, kid,” the Archon continued. “Why risk it for this spell?”

“It’s not about that specific spell,” Lilith said. She chewed her lip nervously and looked down with a sigh. “Not really. I need to be stronger. The instructors won’t teach me more, so I’m going to learn on my own.”

She’d always been leagues ahead of the other mages. Always. Always smarter, more powerful, a natural at arcane warfare. And rightly so; it was her entire life, and had been for as long as she could remember. That life had taught her one very important thing- a person survived by being the best. By learning everything they could and performing it to perfection.

But lately she’d been slipping. Not enough to cause an issue, not yet, but she could feel it coming. The others were catching up to her. Mastery of the paltry magic her instructors taught her was not enough. Storm spells like the one held in that scroll were just that type of power- not the classroom variants, but real wartime spells, the kind that could cause explosions on the battlefield. That was the kind of real power Lilith needed.

She didn’t have the words to express any of these thoughts out loud, but as Bleden Mark held her under his scrutiny she wondered if he just knew. At last, he said, “This won’t make you stronger.” The certainty in his voice stung, but Lilith tried not to show it as he held the scroll out in front of her. “But if you want it so badly, come and take it.”

It was a trap. It was obviously a trap. But dammit, Lilith needed that scroll.

Before she could think about it too long, Lilith summoned a spark of lightning in her hands- even the Archon of Shadows could be paralyzed, couldn’t he?- but before she could test that theory he was gone. Lilith’s sparks crackled uselessly into thin air, and then he was behind her, delivering a kick to her knees that sent her sprawling across the floor.

“Is that the best you got, kid? Flashy lights and a temper that makes you stupid?” He shook his head. “That’s not gonna win you anything.”

He leaned down, holding out a hand as if to help Lilith up, but she’d had enough of his tricks. With a huff she pushed away and hauled herself to her feet, ignoring the aching in her knees and the massive blow to her pride. “If you’re so wise, then what’s your secret?”

He chuckled, dark eyes glinting cruelly from behind the red paint. “I don’t have to be strong when my opponents are weak. Now run along before your teachers come investigate what’s making so much ruckus.”

Rage boiled inside Lilith’s chest, and she could feel the static crackling along her skin, but she forced the storm to remain inside. He was right; she had to be gone from here before anyone found her. “Are you…are you going to tell Tunon?”

“You know, I haven’t decided yet. I like to keep my options open. Let’s see how well you take my advice.” And then he was gone, as if he were never there to begin with, and Lilith was left with nothing to do but return to the mage barracks.

The next three days were spent swinging between fear that Tunon would call her to the Court for punishment and the strange, nagging desire to know just what the Archon had meant by his ‘advice’. Lilith ran over the encounter in her head, remembering his words. I don’t have to be strong when my opponents are weak.

On the third night, she returned to the library to pull an atrophic spell from the records, and this time no shadows came to stop her.

The little mage didn’t seem to know when to give up.

Bleden Mark watched her next sparring match with no small amount of amusement. He was almost impressed by how swiftly she’d adapted to her new strategy. Almost- she still threw her lightning around with more reckless abandon than was necessary, but the youngsters always had always loved their dramatics. Mark could put that aside and admit that her new trick of weaving shades of atrophy through the air alongside her lightning was something that warranted approval.

By the time her opponent realized what she’d been doing, it was too late. His energy had been sapped away, and he could barely maintain a standing position, let alone an offensive one. He moved to put one last surge of effort into an attack, but before he could form the spell the girl’s staff whistled through the air, connecting with his knees with a loud crack.

Mark waited until the arena had cleared before materializing at her side. “You’re a fast learner.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, then tried to cover her surprise by crossing her arms and raising her chin defensively. “I know,” she retorted in a tone of forced authority.

Young and stupid, Mark thought. From the perspective of an Archon who’d been around for centuries, that statement was true of just about everyone. Still, it fit this girl more than most- barely fifteen, but proud and brazen and utterly convinced of her own talent. And, unfortunately, not entirely wrong on that last point.

“Interested in learning more?” Mark asked. It wasn’t often that he took on new students; it was even less often that those students made it through the training. Tunon wouldn’t be fond of Mark snatching his favorite pupil away, but as the girl had pointed out already, the Adjudicator didn’t need to know everything.

The girl studied him warily, taking her time to answer even thought they both know what her answer would be. “I don’t trust you,” she said plainly, and Mark chuckled.

“Good. There might be some brains in that head after all.”

The next time Bleden Mark met with Tunon, he concurred with the decision to promote the War Mage Lilith to Fatebinder.

Tunon was pleased. He saw only the girl’s skill and willingness to serve. He didn’t see the ambition that would either get her killed or, one day in the far future, make her a very real threat. Mark didn’t feel the need to enlighten him.

Either way, it would be interesting to watch what happened.

#tyranny #tyranny fanfic #ch: lilith #fatebinder lilith #bleden mark #remember that found family fic ive been threatening to write forever?#well it was gonna be a oneshot but the first part ended up over 1500 words so now its multichapter

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palenumbness · 4 years

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Ideas to reform the bathroom. Styles and decoration.

It is true that most bathroom renovations are carried out for a matter of functionality. However, there is no reason to neglect the aesthetic and design part of it. In this article we give you some ideas to reform the bathroom .

The bathroom is one of the most used rooms in the house. That is why when renovating it is important to know how to combine style and functionality. It should be beautiful, but also practical.

We are going to start by offering you some ideas for your reform. Later we will talk about the styles that are more fashionable and we will also give some touches on decoration.

Ideas to reform the bathroom The concept of "bathroom renovation" can have different implications. With these words, we can refer to a comprehensive reform or, simply, to the modification of some of the elements that make up this room.

Next, we are going to break down the different parts in which reform can be divided to offer you ideas about each one.

New toilets Today the market offers a wide variety of toilets in which, in addition, the design is taken into account.

Sinks The most common in bathrooms are freestanding sinks or sinks embedded in a cabinet. However, you can also opt for a suspended sink in the air.

To give your washbasin a different touch, you can use an old dresser or a restored table as a base, which will give it a special touch. If you are looking for something more groundbreaking or different you can use the structure of an old sewing machine or even a bicycle. The only limit is your imagination.

Toilets The toilet is usually placed at ground level. However, nowadays the minimalist style is very fashionable and in these cases, the toilet is usually placed suspended. This option looks very good aesthetically, but you should know that toilets tend to have a higher price.

And if you like technology and can afford a higher outlay, you can indulge yourself and install a smart toilet.

This type of toilet includes many amenities, such as the automatic lid and seat flushing, remote-controlled lid opening, a heating system for the seat, drying systems, etc.

Others Another type of toilet, which you can decide to include or not, is the bidet. As in the case of the toilet, you can place it anchored to the floor or suspended. However, and although it is not very expensive, more and more people dispense with it.

You can also choose to place your washing machine in the bathroom to establish a kind of washing area.

To create a sense of order and cleanliness, you can place a couple of baskets to separate dirty white clothes from colored ones. The effect will be complete if you put a hob over the washing machine.

Finally, it would be necessary to talk about the installation of a bathtub or shower tray, but it is a topic that we prefer to deal with in a specific section.

Bathtub or shower? What is better, a bathtub or a shower tray? It is a recurring question when it comes to reforming the bathroom. The decision will depend on several factors: available space, water consumption, functionality ...

Why install a shower tray In general, today people tend to opt more towards the option of the shower. The shower trays have a cheaper price, in addition to being more accessible and therefore more functional. This is especially important for people with reduced mobility.

And there are still more advantages: they occupy less, which is very positive especially if your bathroom is rather small since it allows you to save space. And typically, using the shower uses less water than using the bathtub. Although this will depend, as is evident, on the time it takes to shower.

In any case, if you are interested in the option of installing a shower, you can opt for a prefabricated tray or build a built-in shower.

Obviously the prefabricated shower tray is the best option if you have little money, and it is easier to install. However, opting for a built-in shower will ensure that it is perfectly adapted to your bathroom.

What are the advantages of a bathtub? Despite the popularity of showers, there are still those who bet on the bathtub.

It is true that the usual thing is that you consume more water, but it guarantees you a moment of relaxation when you need it. In addition, children enjoy playing in the water so, in this case, it is always a wise decision.

In particular, vintage bathtubs are very fashionable today. In fact, it is considered that one of the elements that bring more personality to a bathroom is the old bathtubs, with legs.

Another popular option is modern bathrooms with a built-in tub and bathrooms with whirlpool tubs. On the other hand, if you don't have much space, you can opt for a corner bathtub or a hydrotherapy bathtub. The choice is at the mercy of your preferences and your budget.

Despite everything we have discussed, you do not have to choose. Another perfectly valid option, as long as your pocket allows it, is to incorporate both elements in your bathroom in order to enjoy the advantages of each one.

Trendy wall and floor materials Wall and floor coverings can dramatically change the look of your bathroom. However, there are many options to choose from and it can sometimes be difficult to know what is best for you.

In the following list we tell you which are the most common coatings for bathrooms and which options are most used for tiling bathrooms :

Ceramic stoneware: This type of material is one of the most common, since it is quite inexpensive and of good quality. It is characterized by its great durability and easy maintenance. Tile: This is another of the most sought-after materials for covering bathrooms. It has great resistance and durability, it is very easy to clean and you can also find countless different designs. The only downside is that it can be a bit expensive, especially if you have to include the cost of labor. Porcelain stoneware: It is very similar to ceramic stoneware, although it is more resistant and durable. Its price is also higher. Glass: You can also choose to cover your bathroom with glass tiles. It is a very modern option that guarantees a very original aesthetic. Vinyl: It is a perfect material for low-cost bathroom renovations, and it resists humidity very well. It is also very easy to place, and without works. Tile paint: It is another inexpensive alternative; You only need to give the wall a couple of passes and the aesthetics of your bathroom will change completely. In the market, you can find specific enamels for these cases, very easy to apply, and with great resistance to high temperatures and humidity. Wood: Wood is your ideal alternative if you want to achieve a natural and cozy image. You can use it to cover the walls or the floor, and you can also combine it with other types of coverings. Resin: Although you may not have ever considered it, the resin is a material that can create excellent decorative effects. Apart from its great versatility, it offers wide opportunities in terms of pigmentation. Natural stone: It may involve a higher investment, but it is another of the most common solutions in terms of coatings. It has great durability, is heat resistant, and is also very easy to maintain. Its biggest advantage is that no two stones are the same, so the result will be unique. There are also many types of stone to choose from: marble, limestone, slate ... How to improve bathroom lighting Electrical installation is usually another of the fundamental aspects in the reform of the bathroom. It is not only a matter of complying with the regulations established in this regard by the authorities; a poorly lit space can be uncomfortable and not very functional.

You must take into account some issues such as the distribution of the plugs and the light points. You can combine different types of lighting: a ceiling lamp that works as a general light accompanied by spotlights at the height of the mirror.

If your bathroom is lucky enough to have windows, take advantage of that natural light as much as possible. Try not to place blackout curtains or glass that obstruct the entry of light, and avoid leaving objects in front of the window.

Natural light always brings greater warmth, as well as being very useful to save on bills.

Finally, you can add a slight touch of color if you install a lamp that creates contrast with the general tone of the room.

Plumbing renovation An essential element in order to have a functional bathroom is the plumbing installation. Therefore, if you are thinking of renovating your bathroom, it is very convenient to also renew this installation.

In addition to the practical issues, this reform can be an opportunity to change the aesthetics of your bathroom. An increasingly used trend is committed to leaving copper pipes insight as an aesthetic resource.

Don't forget about the joints! Perhaps you do not intend to carry out a comprehensive reform and do not want to change the coatings in your bathroom. However, tile joints tend to take on an old and dirty look that you can modify to improve the aesthetics of the room.

It is very simple: it is about removing the old and damaged silicone and applying putty. If you want to take advantage and give it a more original touch, you can decide to paint the joints in a striking color.

Bathroom and dressing room together If you have enough space, do not hesitate to integrate the dressing room into the bathroom. With this, you will achieve greater space in the bathroom and more storage space in the closets.

For this reform to be a success you must take into account several issues:

Separate the environments in such a way that, even if they are in the same room, the bathroom area and the dressing room area are perfectly delimited. When it comes to cabinets, use materials resistant to humidity and temperature changes to ensure greater durability. In the case of having windows on a single wall of the room, it is recommended that the shower and toilet area be located on that wall. This way you will have more usable space in the dressing room area. To get natural light to reach the dressing area, the best solution is to put a transparent glass screen in the shower or bathtub. Take into account the space you have in the dressing room area to put hinged or sliding doors in the closets. Reserve a space to place a mirror in which to see yourself. Designs for bathrooms You may have made the decision to give your bathroom a full face wash. If you need ideas to renovate this room, you may be interested in knowing some of the styles that are more fashionable today to direct the entire reform in the same aesthetic direction.

If you want to find out how to change the aesthetics of your bathroom, keep reading. We reveal some of the most current trends. Read this article if you want to know the trends in tiles.

Modern bathroom How can you get a bathroom with a modern aesthetic? Look for elements with unique and original designs, such as large mirrors, and try to make a difference.

For starters, you can play with the lights and shadows to add dynamism to the room. You can also consider installing sensors to activate the light with movement.

On the other hand, the most common is to choose predominantly neutral colors such as gray, different shades of blue, white, and cream. You can then create a striking contrast by incorporating brightly colored tiles and mosaics into a single wall.

The use of water-repellent paints and decorative vinyl is also very fashionable.

As for the sanitary ware, we have already talked about smart toilets, which can be a very good choice if your reform is aimed at getting a modern bathroom.

If your budget is not enough, you can also achieve a modern and sophisticated image by installing suspended toilets.

For the coverings, the most common option is tiling; they are easy to clean and inexpensive. However, you can also decide on vinyl floors, which we have already talked about.

Minimalist bathroom "Less is more". This is the motto you must follow if you want a minimalist bathroom. Its main characteristics are the straight lines, the pure volumes, and the reduced color palettes. In short: simplicity.

The most common color range in this type of bathroom includes dark colors, such as black and brown. In this way, a certain contrast is achieved with decorative details, which usually use more vivid colors, such as red, green, or orange.

In relation to the surfaces, you should know that they are usually smooth and shiny. In minimalist bathrooms, wood gains prominence thanks to the warmth it brings to the room. It is common to find combinations of wood and concrete since that marked difference between hard and soft materials is very aesthetic.

Another characteristic of this style is the ethereal appearance of furniture and toilets. Shelves and shelves usually have invisible anchors to create the sensation of floating. To complete the effect, you can choose to install a suspended toilet.

The shower tray is eliminated and in its place, walk-in showers are very common. In addition, it is convenient to choose a transparent screen.

If you are more of a bathtub or, at least, want to include one, it is important that it has its own prominence. A good example could be a spa-type bathtub.

Within the minimalist style, the Zen aesthetic is very fashionable. In this case, light colors (ocher, gray, and beige) are usually chosen and little industrialized materials are used, such as natural wood and stone. For example, the shower tray can be replaced by wooden support.

Finally, it remains to be noted that lighting is a very important element in minimalist bathrooms. Indirect light is usually chosen to help create a soft environment.

In general, the minimalist style is an option to consider, especially if your bathroom has small dimensions.

Classic bathroom It is possible that you have more traditional tastes and that your dream bathroom has a classic look. Next, we are going to give you some keys so that you can achieve this type of aesthetic with your reform.

In the choice of colors, you should opt for neutral and soft tones such as beige or brown. Other common options are white, mauve, pink, or cream shade.

The gold is the other great protagonist often seen in faucets, mirrors, and other accessories. In relation to this, it is important that you choose sand or white color for the towels, so that it combines. A classic tap is easily recognizable.

On the other hand, the favorite material is a marble . You can find it both on tiles and on countertops. However, it is possible to include wood, especially when it comes to floors.

And focusing on the coatings, you have several options: waterproof paint, special wallpaper for bathrooms, or decorative tiles.

Whatever you choose, think that a differentiating element of classic bathrooms are those walls divided into two differentiated areas. The area closest to the ceiling is the one with lighter shades, while those closer to the floor are dominated by dark tones.

Another relevant issue is that of furniture, which must function as decorative ornaments in themselves.

We also have to talk about toilets. To guarantee a classic aesthetic, look for sinks with solid feet or recessed in a countertop, and finish rounding the image with a clawfoot bathtub.

To finish you can play with different lights, cold and warm. The placement of wall lights is very common, but if you want to go further you can install a pendant lamp or a crystal chandelier.

Industrial style bathroom This trend gets its inspiration from North American factories and warehouses. It is characterized by using untreated materials and by exposing elements that in other styles remain hidden, such as pipes and installations.

The colors that predominate in this type of bathroom are white or ecru, black, and gray. There are also usually copper-colored brushstrokes in the pipes. In fact, copper and brass are two materials that are associated with this style and can also be used in accessories: toothbrush holder, soap dish, brush ...

As for coatings, micro cement is very popular for walls and floors. For the walls, you can also opt for wallpaper that imitates the texture of concrete. And, if you want another type of flooring without leaving the industrial style, you can choose to put tiles with vintage air.

Of course, the furniture must respect industrial aesthetics. It is important that they are original in their forms. For example, an iron lamp can be perfect for this type of environment.

As a last detail, the toilets are usually made of white porcelain, but keeping a vintage aesthetic. In the case of the toilet, you can choose one with angled finishes and an almost square shape, more industrial.

Eclectic bathroom The last option in terms of style that we want to tell you about is the eclectic bathrooms. This style is very personal and there are no established rules: it consists of mixing different objects to achieve a unique design.

In this regard, accessories are of great importance. You can combine objects of industrial aesthetics with gold mirrors, and add towels and shower curtains with bold prints.

In addition, with the wide variety of toilets that the market offers today, you will surely be able to find those models that adapt perfectly to you.

And, if you want to do something new and different with lighting, you can place a colored spotlight.

We cannot offer you many more tips to achieve an eclectic bathroom, since everything depends on you and your tastes. Your creativity is the only limit.

If you need any kind of Bathroom Renovations contact Echo Bathroom Renovations

#bathroom redesign #bathroomremodel #bathroom renovations #bathroom

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possiblypeachy · 5 years

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tea & schemes. (7)

―; summary: who knew that fight clubs could be so romantic?

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 3.3k

―; warnings: light swearing and a wee bit of violence.

―; A/N: good lord this chapter made my heart do the big !!! i just love them and i hope someone else does too :,,)) even as the writer of this i feel like im torturing myself so please take this and like... coo over it with me im begging--

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

― ❊ ―

To say that Florence Abberline had any idea how underground fighting rings operated would be the biggest lie of the century. The only thing she could correctly assume was that there would be blood and lots of noise. On both of these counts, she was right.

The building itself appeared to be some kind of disused warehouse, converted into a space for men (and the occasional woman) to tap into their more primal side and beat the ever-loving God out of another person. Honestly, she wouldn’t have expected anything less and, despite being perhaps the only woman here in a dress such as hers, Florence was simply itching to get in view of the ring. Nothing was more therapeutic than watching round upon round of fighting-- well, she assumed at least.

A shove came to her arm and man, waving a bottle of something in the air, swept across her peripherals. She grimaced, abstaining from passive-aggressively ‘bumping’ back into the man, and leant into Jacob-- a necessary gesture to be able to hear one another. “I feel like I’m going to be mugged.” Her eyes drifted to a woman dressed in red; she had been eyeing up the rings on Florence’s fingers since she’d walked in here. “I’m certainly not getting into the ring to fight for my possessions either.”

She felt a hand just above the hump of her hoop skirt and his body shifted to her side, obscuring Florence from the staring woman’s view. “I reckon you’d have a good chance in there.” When she shot a harsh glance at him, he was grinning back down at her. “You’d floor them with your looks alone.”

“By that you meant that I am dazzlingly beautiful rather than anything nasty, I hope?”

“Of course, dear Flor. I certainly didn’t mean that they’d take one look at the Hell in your eyes and piss their poor britches.”

Florence’s jaw shifted to one side, faux offended, and a laugh slipped past her lips. “You must have a bladder of steel then, Jacob, because the sheer amount of times I’ve had to look at you like that is astounding.”

“No. Actually,” He shuffled them through a particularly small gap, during which Florence realised Jacob didn’t smell half bad. Then, to herself, she cursed; what kind of observation was that? “my trousers are just very thick. Evie tends to have the same effect so they’re a needed precaution.”

She snorted when she laughed next, bordering on her hysterical pig squeal of a giggle. The curl of Jacob’s lips made him look like the cat that got the cream but, between manoeuvring them through the tight crowd and trying to ensure greedy hands don’t pick at Florence, he didn’t have the chance to glance down at her to see if that dimple was pressing into her cheek again.

The cheering became rowdier and more… animated the closer they came to the ring and, every couple of steps, either Florence had to duck out of the way out of an arm or Jacob had to move his body to act as a human shield. Despite it all, she didn’t seem dampened by the less-than-gentle hospitality and had taken to looking upon the fighting in wonder. Could Florence throw a punch? Certainly. Could she throw a punch like that? Most certainly not.

Blood splattered across the floor just as the pair reached the side of the ring, blending quite seamlessly into the already stained stone below. Florence flinched slightly, less in fear of the fighting and more in fear of getting anything on her dress and having to explain it to Freddy later. She could already imagine the look on his face if he saw her here, though she suspected that circumstance wouldn’t occur; Freddy didn’t tend to attend underground fight clubs for leisure.

When Jacob muttered something to a man in green, who had been whooping and hollering at the side of the ring, a small gap was made for himself and Florence. It was a… cosy space; Jacob was at her side now but had to tuck a portion of his body behind her, shoulder against hers and hand still on her back. At least it meant for easier conversation.

“Who’re you rooting for?” He asked, leaning down to her somewhat and pointing toward the ring.

Her eyes flickered between both fighters; one was a particularly tall bald bloke who seemed to employ brute strength over any other strategy, whereas the other was a smaller brunet-- a nimble man, it seemed. Just as Florence went to speak, the larger of the two landed a bone-breaking hit to the brunet’s nose and, through a sympathetic grimace, she pointed to him. “That one. It doesn’t matter how fast the other guy is; baldie’s tall so he has a long reach.”

Jacob hummed but Florence couldn’t hear it. Hazel eyes continued to watch the fight and, for the brief moment in which she gave a quick glance up to his face, Florence realised that Jacob had a particular passion for this sport.

“You really love this, don’t you?” She asked but Jacob, too captivated by the deadly dance going on within the ring, didn’t answer her. Two fingers, readied like a little spear, prodded at his ribs to get his attention and he made a rather unlikely yelping noise as a reaction. Holding back the beginnings of laughter, Florence asked again: “You’re quite enraptured, Jacob. Like a good bit of fighting, do we?”

He nodded his head, frowning as though he was weighing up his own opinion. “You could say that, what with me being the champion here and all.”

Although he didn’t yet allow his gaze to dart toward her to gauge her reaction, the squeeze to his bicep and the wide eyes in his peripherals told him all he needed to know. “You’re the champion?”

“Yep!” His eyes finally met hers and he couldn’t even consider keeping up his smug facade any longer, breaking out into a grin. “The majority-appointed king of the ring. See? I told you King Jacob had a lovely ring to it.”

Florence laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, your majesty, calm down with the ego-boosting.”

“You think calling me ‘your majesty’ will do anything to help that--”

“M’lord!” The pair turned to see a top hat swimming through the crowd. Florence gave Jacob a side glance but said nothing until the disembodied voice finally… well, became embodied. “It’s so good to see you here today.” A man appeared; he was a bit taller than Jacob but a lot lankier and seemed to hop towards them like a pleased little rabbit.

He was a performer then, Florence assumed.

“Hello, Robert. How are things in the ring this afternoon?” A hand came out to shake the man’s shoulder in greeting but his eyes flickered to Florence. At the same time, a wave of recognition crashed across her expression and she looked Robert up and down. As it turns out, Jacob was right; he did have a peculiar sense of fashion.

Robert sighed in perhaps the most dramatic way a man could, throwing his arms up at his side and walking-- no, floating-- around them to be closer to the fighting. “Terribly boring, Mister Frye. There’s no life in the ring-- no zest!” Behind his back, Jacob and Florence gave each other a look before Robert turned around again. “There is one way the afternoon might get more interesting?” He let his sight drag to Jacob, a light in his eye that hinted at his true intentions.

“I wasn’t planning on fighting today, Robert.” Jacob gestured to Florence beside him. “I was just introducing Miss Abberline to the glorious world of underground brawling.”

Robert looked from Jacob to Florence, sizing up how close they were standing with a smile. “There’s no better way to impress a lady than demonstrating your raw masculinity, m’lord! Imagine it:” He pushed between them, an arm slung over Jacob’s shoulder while his other hand swept across Florence’s vision, “he’s in the ring, all scowls and sweat and muscle. He lands another crippling punch and the crowd goes wild! He looks out into the masses and spots her-- his good luck charm. He may already be the champion of this ring but his only true desire is to be the champion…” He leaned closer to Jacob, pressing a hand against his own chest, “of her heart--”

“Woah, Robert, maybe we should slow it down with the whole--”

“Sounds splendid.” Florence interrupted, shooting Jacob a devious little glance as he removed Topping’s arm from around his shoulder. “I think I’d enjoy seeing you in the ring, Jacob.”

He huffed a small laugh out through his nose but had no time to retort. Robert broke out into a grin, gesturing with great vigour toward the ending match. “Wonderful! See, m’lord? Even the lady encourages it.”

Jacob opened his mouth once, closed it again, then looked between Robert and Florence, defeated. There was a moment in which they were both simply staring at him and he sighed. “Well, I’m not one to deny my adoring followers.”

Florence gave him a half-smile, amusement dancing in the honey of her eyes. “You’ll have to prove to me that you’re worthy of your title, King Jacob. I’ll be here, looking pretty and being a-- what was it?-- good luck charm?”

He laughed, already being ushered away by Robert, and pointed to her. “If I win, you have to call me ‘your majesty’ until I’m satisfied.”

The dimple in her cheek appeared, grinning at his daring, but he was now too far away for her to offer a definite answer. Florence only held her hands up, shrugging playfully, before Jacob disappeared into the crowd.

Oh, what fun this would be.

Before Jacob had even emerged again from that shady backroom that he’d been all but dragged into, Robert had begun to energise the crowd with promises of the champion and “life-changing bets”. Florence was glad that a few of the Rooks still surrounded her, keeping her safe from the rowdiness of the masses behind her-- and ensuring no fingers sneak toward her and snatch away her valuables.

There was cheering from one end of the room, presumably the reaction to Jacob finally making his way to the ring. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed slightly, Florence began to scour the crowd in hopes of spotting him. When she noticed a few men slapping someone on the back-- that someone being Jacob, she grinned and waved hoping to gain his--

Wait.

Her smile shifted into a rather conflicted expression.

Was his chest bare?

Despite there being plentiful men here wearing nothing besides trousers and the hair on their chest, Florence had a strange feeling that seeing specifically Jacob like that was a level of intimacy that they hadn’t achieved yet.

‘Yet’? Goodness, Florence Abberline-- pull yourself together.

However, before she could pull her eyes to a safer zone, her sight caught onto his-- what were they? Tattoos? She squinted again, subconsciously leaning closer to the ring that he’d just entered to figure out what they were. One was most certainly a bird of some kind but the other one was so small that Florence couldn’t quite--

It was then that she realised that the tattoos were slowly getting closer to her, which meant that Jacob was too. Her gaze snapped upwards to his face and she was met with a self-satisfied grin, one of his brows raised. With wide eyes, Florence shook her head, going to tell him that she wasn’t ogling she was merely studying his tattoos, but a bell began to ring and it drew Jacob’s attention away.

Damn it all. She wasn’t going to hear the end of it.

His usually relaxed demeanour hardened into something altogether far more intimidating as soon as the ringing stopped. Robert shouted something but Florence couldn’t hear it over the roar of the crowd, encouraging the other men to “get a good hit on Frye!”. The fight had started, she supposed.

Now, not to say that Florence had ever doubted Jacob’s abilities but… well, that’s exactly what she seemed to have done. She had presumed he had a good knowledge of weapons and how to use them-- not his bare fists. He was a lot faster than she’d anticipated and seemed to have a rather strange sense for when an attack came toward him; Jacob had not yet taken a hit, despite a few men laying, immobilised, on the cold floor below.

Speaking of which, surely it was unfair to pit one man against so many?

The crunch and crack of someone’s leg gave her the answer to her own question: one man wouldn’t stand a chance in the ring against Jacob and even those who fought in groups were fools.

Thanks to her wondering, Florence hadn’t realised she’d started to cheer for him, as though it were second nature, at the side of the ring. It had begun as a gentle clapping then evolved into a wide grin spread across her face. At one point, when Jacob had floored two men-- both taller than him-- at once, a loud cheer erupted from her, the root of the noise deep within her chest. The volume startled the rook beside her and Jacob himself, it seemed, since his eyes flickered over to where she stood.

At that exact moment, a skinny little man punched Jacob in the side, hoping that it would distract him enough to land a hit on his stubbled jaw. Unfortunately for him, Jacob caught the man’s wrist before it could connect with his face and slammed his own fist into the bloke’s gut, winding him. Florence didn’t even have time to feel a sting of guilt for pulling Jacob’s attention away from the fight. Hell, he didn’t even seem all too fazed by the hit he got before.

She continued to cheer, though perhaps more quietly this time, and she could feel her heartbeat through her veins. He was doing so well and the only way she could describe the bursting in her chest was pride. In a way, perhaps she’d become a bit star-struck; Jacob Frye, a renowned and celebrated fighter, was her friend, had decided to bring her here, went out of his way to speak to her-- it made her feel so very special. God, how stupid.

The next few rounds came and went in the blink of an eye. Florence wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline that was making the world go by so fast or if it was the fact that she was simply enraptured with the whole ordeal. By the time she got home, she’d likely still be shaking with excitement; she’d just have to tell Freddy that she read a particularly interesting book in the library-- one about fighting, as to drip a small portion of her actual day into the story.

Three rings of the bell marked the end of the fight and, as suspected, Jacob stood victorious with little more than a reddened cheek, a bruise forming below his collarbone, and bloodied knuckles. Robert hopped-- as is his way-- into the ring to declare that Jacob had defended his rightful title; Jacob seemed very pleased with himself, for want of a better word.

Moments later, he clambered over the barrier between the crowd and the ring, sweaty and breathing heavily, patting his forehead with a little rag to remove, at the very least, the sheen on his face. Despite all this, he broke out into a grin as he made his way to her. “How’s my good luck charm, then? Did you enjoy--”

In an act that surprised the both of them, Florence, without much thought, pulled him into a tight hug, balancing on her tiptoes slightly so she could comfortably bury her face into his neck. It was a gesture borne of gratitude or congratulations or… something like that. One half of her regretted making such an idiotic, rash decision but the other half felt Jacob’s hands on her back, a thumb rubbing gently across the fabric of her dress, and she smiled.

As she pulled back, hands gliding from the nape of his neck to his shoulders, Florence was grinning and Jacob seemed to mirror it. “That was glorious, Jacob! I mean, the precision of your hits was--”

God, the light in her eyes was beautiful.

“-- astounding and when you countered that blond bloke? Amazing! How did you know to--”

Would it be too forward to kiss her?

“-- dodge at that moment? It’s like you have some… superhuman ability. I’m still--”

Oh, he wanted to kiss her.

“-- shaking from it all and I--” She paused, sighing through a small smile and averting her gaze for a moment to think. Florence didn’t notice this but, at the same time, Jacob seemed to lean towards her, following the movement of her head. When she looked back to him, she became acutely aware of how close they were, how one of her thumbs absently traced the curve of his neck, how she could feel his breath on her skin.

Jacob’s gaze flickered down to her lips.

Florence felt her heart skip.

Did she want to kiss him?

Her lips parted and honey eyes searched hazel ones for any signs of dishonesty-- something that she should’ve looked for with Thomas-- but she found nothing besides warmth and a sense of... adoration?

Fuck.

Her hands moved from his shoulder back to their previous position on his neck. Using this as leverage, she pulled herself back into the hug and quietly hoped that he wouldn’t be able to feel the stammering beat in her chest.

Oh, God preserve her; she did want to kiss him. She wanted to take Jacob’s stupid face in her hands and kiss him.

What a predicament.

Florence Abberline was falling in love again.

“Thank you.” She whispered to him but she wasn’t sure why. For bringing her here? Perhaps. For making her feel special? Maybe. For prying her heart open again with little jokes and smiles? Just as likely.

A few moments passed in which they both felt like they had missed an opportunity but they found comfort in one another regardless. Then, Florence finally pulled away fully a soft smile forming on her lips. “Well, I do believe that I should be on my way home, lest Freddy start thinking Willard’s stolen me away.”

“Give me a moment to… well, dress--” She huffed out a laugh, dimple making its mark in her cheek, which encouraged Jacob to grin too, “-- and I’ll walk with you.”

“Oh, Jacob, you don’t have to. You’ve already done plenty--”

“I insist.” There was a certain genuineness to his smile that made her cave.

“Well, who am I to turn down a king, hm?” That devious little light reignited in her eyes again.

He breathed out a laugh and mirrored her impish smile. “Remember our bet? You have to call me ‘your majesty’ until I--”

“Hold on. I never agreed to this bet--”

Jacob had begun to back into the crowd and, thanks to this, he cupped a hand to his ear, “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to hear you, my loyal subject.” Florence’s jaw protruded in annoyance, crossing her arms beneath her chest, but a begrudging smile played at her lips. “I suppose you’ll have to wait until I return, eh?” Then, he turned and was swallowed by all the tightly-knit people.

She shook her head, watching after him with a certain look of disbelief in her gaze.

She liked Jacob fucking Frye.

God, how her brother would hate that.

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed: syndicate #ac: syndicate #jacob frye #jacob frye x reader #jacob frye x oc #evie frye #frederick abberline #florence abberline #writing #genuinely distraught with myself that i didn't make them kiss #i could've #and i thought about it #but no #not yet #there needs to be sufficient pining

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robot-unicorn-attack · 5 years

Text

CHAPTER 01 – SNOW

(written by @ayzrules)

… CHAPTER 01.

The Neon Demon was pretty much exactly how she remembered it - the music was too loud, the lights were too annoyingly strobe-y, and the people were just as plastered.

Marivana, Ice, and Sky (whose real name was Seraphina) had all arrived fashionably late, of course, and after the usual barrage of greetings and niceties (which Marviana was usually able to get out of without much fuss after the first ten minutes or so - thank the stars that she was Snow, now, instead of Snow Princess, otherwise she would have been stuck exchanging pleasantries for the entire damn night – Marivana found herself a drink and a comfy chair on the raised dais reserved for the racers, and waved her publicist away to let her get in all the socializing she could want. The security detail that TWILIGHT had assigned to each of their racers were mixed in with the party-goers, preferring, as many Ice Worlders did, to remain discreet

Gods, but she hated these kinds of parties. The Neon Demon marketed itself as some kind of classy, high-end nightclub, but when it came down to it, all of these “luxury” nightclubs were basically the same as the trashy underground clubs she’d snuck into as a high schooler with a fake ID from one of her friends. It was just sweaty people and booze, though the people in the clubs Marivana frequented at the behest of TWILIGHT wore outfits that cost more money than her parents had earned in a lifetime. And the booze was also considerably more expensive.

Speaking of expensive outfits, though; Marivana grimaced, just slightly, as she adjusted her gown, the edges of the jeweled bodice digging into her skin. No matter how many of these diamond-encrusted gowns her agency forced her into, Marivana would never be able to get used to all the jewels. Tolerate or ignore for a short period of time, maybe, but there was no way that she’d wear something like this every day. She felt a good hundred pounds heavier just sitting in one of them. That, plus the heavy diamonds dangling from her ears and the gigantic diamond headdress her stylists insisted was a must, meant that Marivana was considerably weighed down. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was…annoying. Very much so.

The jeweled bodice in question was laden with more diamonds than Marivana could count, arranged in a way to make them look like artfully jagged shards of ice. Perhaps the most eye-catching part of the gown, however, were the sleeves; diamonds that had been cut and polished to look like icicles jutted out from the wide strip of fabric covering the tops of Marivana’s shoulders. Adding to the effect were the huge earrings bedazzled with crystals and diamonds and arranged to look like snowflakes. It made her pretty hard to miss - though there was also the matter of the headdress, of course. Marivana couldn’t wait to get that monstrosity out of her hair – both literally and figuratively.

Marivana let her gaze flit idly towards the other side of the room, past pyramids of glowing drinks and curved sofas and crystally curtains. Her publicist, Lanie, was chatting it up with one of the department heads at Galaxy Cosmetics. Figures. Marivana had GC to thank for the diamonds in her eyes; they probably wanted to have her come in for a promo event or something. And Marivana spotted a few of the managers from her agency, as well as from RISE and LAZER, scattered around the dais, sipping on drinks and making small talk with other people involved in the business.

She hadn’t, however, seen any racers yet (besides Sky and Ice) - not until her eyes landed on Nyx (whose real name was Sol) sauntering over to someone sitting not too far away from Marivana. Marivana took a brief moment to roll her eyes, just out of spite - Nyx’s whole image was just so annoying. It was always so loud and so in-your-face. Marivana was of the opinion that she saw quite enough of Nyx on the race track. She didn’t need to be seeing anything related to her off of it, too.

Nevertheless, Marivana glanced in the direction that Nyx was walking, her diamond-blue eyes following the black spikes that extended out from the sleeve of the other racer’s one-shoulder dress. The sight of one of the RISE racers (Flower, it had to be; neither Supernova nor Sunbeam would have ever been dressed in something so....girly? Holo-butterflies and all) gave Marivana pause. Nyx is going to talk to her? she wondered to herself, briefly. Her agency’s going to be pissed. Though it’s not like Nyx cares all that much about what her agency thinks, anyway.

Just then, Lanie popped up, almost out of nowhere, positively giddy about....something. She took a moment to flip her glittery golden locks over her shoulder before looking Marivana in the eye.

“Marivana.”

Marivana raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Yes?”

“Guess who just booked you the gig of a lifetime.”

Marivana shook her head, unable to stop herself from letting out an amused huff. “Stars above, Lanie, you say that every damn time. Of course it was you. And I don’t think you can have three hundred `gigs of a lifetime`, for your information.”

Lanie waved her off. “Semantics. Anyway, do you want to know what this thing is or not?”

“If it involves me interacting with people, then no.”

Lanie rolled her eyes but forged on. “Oh, shush.” She lowered her voice, casting a furtive glance at their surroundings, before continuing, her eyes bright. “The marketing department at Galaxy Cosmetics - the Galaxy Cosmetics -”

Marivana snorted. “Lanie, I know what GC is. Or did you forget that I was the one being operated on when they put in the diamonds?”

Lanie rolled her eyes, again. “Stop interrupting me. Anyway, GC wants you over for an ad, sometime in November.”

“And you agreed to it? Lanie, you know how busy November is. The IW Circuit starts in December? You remember that, right?”

“That’s why I arranged for it to be at the beginning of the month. It’ll be your last ad of the year.”

Marivana nodded. “I see. Vanya and the others still trying to earn their money back from the diamonds?”

Lanie flipped her hair over her shoulder again, already typing away at her holo-pad. “You know how expensive that procedure was, Marivana, even with the deal that Vanya cut with the execs over at GC. They want to squeeze all the money they can get out of it. Thank gods for the sponsorship stuff, though.”

“Mm.” Marivana went quiet as Lanie started talking into her earpiece. Her eyes wandered around the room again, just in time to see Nyx walking away from Flower.

“...anyway, it’s all in the process of being booked, and everything will be finalized within the next week or so,” said Lanie, and Marivana brought her attention back to her publicist. “And now I...ooh. And now, I have to go.”

Marivana glanced at the entrance of the club, where the CEO of Equa Industries - AKA one of the premier manufacturers of robot unicorns - had just walked in. Marivana arched an eyebrow, amused, at Lanie’s reaction. “Goodness gracious, Lanie. Most people react that way when they see someone attractive. You react that way to corporate executives.”

Lanie snorted derisively, flipped her hair a final time. “Well, I’m not ‘most people’. You, for that matter, aren’t either.” She winked, and stood up. “I’m about to book you the gig of a lifetime, Snow Queen. And after that’s done, I’ll get you a drink to celebrate.”

“That’s the three hundredth and first ‘gig of a lifetime’ to date,” Marivana called out as Lanie strode away, smiling despite herself.

Marivana found that Lanie always put her in good spirits. Although the others at TWILIGHT certainly didn’t appreciate Lanie’s bluntness (“She’s so Lava World,” one of the other publicists had complained), Marivana liked how honest Lanie was. Her publicist had no patience for superficial artifice, and Marivana was glad. Gods knew that there was already plenty of that in the RUR industry.

And besides, Marivana rather liked Lanie’s dry wit and scathing sarcasm.

After Lanie drifted off to sweet talk the CEO of Equa Industries, Marivana decided that a change in scenery was in order. She stood up, with more than just a little difficulty, considering how fucking heavy all the diamonds were, and skirted along the edge of the crowd towards the crystally curtains that she'd noted earlier.

Marivana had just arrived when she caught the tail end of the most disgusting "pick-up line" (could it be called a pick-up line if it was more like straight-up harassment?) she had heard in a while. The recipient of the crude remark was none other than Flower herself, RISE's newest addition to their team.

Marivana rolled her eyes and strode purposefully over to the man as he continued to be, quite frankly, a piece of shit. As she closed her hand over his shoulder, she realized that he was Aindrew Clenym, one of the creative directors with GC. She knew almost nothing about him, besides the fact that he was, uh, married.

Marivana pulled him away from Flower, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary, and adopted the icy Snow Queen expression that TWILIGHT had her wear for every promo and photoshoot that they did. She used two fingers to gingerly pinch at the fabric of his collar. "Hey, Aindrew," she said, feeling the sudden absurd urge to laugh out loud - if only Lanie could see how Ice Queen she sounded, right now. Her publicist would want to get the entire thing on tape and make it a new promo video, or something equally dramatic and ridiculous.

"How’s your wife?"

Aindrew rolled his eyes, snorted. Marivana nodded, glanced over at Flower-she seemed surprised, but otherwise unharmed-then turned back to Aindrew and narrowed her eyes. "You want to leave her alone?"

It took Aindrew a moment to meet her steely gaze, and when he did, Marivana almost rolled her eyes in his face. He was so drunk. “Listen, buddy, this diamond headdress weighs something like fifty pounds, and I’m more than capable of knocking you out with it if you want to try me. Leave.”

The man took one look at the massive headdress, decided against testing Marivana’s supposed strength with said headdress, and walked (more like stumbled, he was so drunk. And where the hell were his shoes?) away.

Once Aindrew was gone, Marivana sat down, slowly, beside Flower. She cast another glance at the Sky World racer, arching an eyebrow. “Your bodyguard goes on break and the wolves descend.”

“Thank you for that," said Flower, and Marivana let a faint smile ghost over her lips before laughing softly, adjusting the crystals and diamonds dangling from her ears.

“Of course. Hi there. I’m-”

“Snow- !” the other racer blurted out. “Oh my god, I know. I’m a huge fan of yours.”

Marivana was a bit taken aback by how....frank? the other girl was being, especially to someone she was technically going to be competing against, but she had to admit that it was also quite flattering, when other racers from the Big Three reacted like that to her.

“‘Marivana’, I was going to say- but thank you. Do you know Nyx well?” Marivana asked, letting her gaze float in the direction that Sol had walked off in.

“We’ve spoken before, years ago. Danced, also.”

“I see…" Marivana trailed off, focusing on Flower once again. "I’m sorry, your name has slipped my mind.”

"Flower."

Well, duh, Marivana thought to herself. “No, I-” Marivana paused to laugh, again, this time a bit wryly. “I know your nickname. I meant your actual name.”

“Oh- Aura. Aura Philyra.”

Aura. The name was quite pretty, as far as names went. And much better than a stupid nickname like 'Flower'.

Just then, Lanie came back over, appearing out of thin air to wink, hand her an icy blue drink, and saunter off again, without saying a single word. Huh. I guess she set it up with Equa Industries, then, Marivana mused to herself.

She took a dainty sip of the drink. "And where are you from?"

“Ice World.”

Ice World? Both of Marivana’s eyebrows shot up, an incredulous expression flitting across her face. “Really? You don’t strike me as someone from Ice World.”

“Oh. No?”

Marivana resisted the urge to let out a derisive snort. “No. I buy it as much as I buy the little fairy story your management made up for you.”

“Ah, well. I’m actually embarrassed now.”

Marivana shook her head. “Don’t be. Every racer has a gimmick," she replied, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, but mine is...stupider than most. But at least the clothes are pretty.”

Marivana smiled, bemused. “They certainly are.” She paused, appraising the other racer. “So, you’ll be racing this week?”

She watched, intrigued, as Aura almost blurted something out, then settled for something different. “Yes. I can’t stop trembling. Everyone keeps telling me how important this race is- like I need to be told.”

Marivana’s lips twitched upwards into a small, sympathetic smile. She set her drink aside.

“Give me one of your hands?” she asked, and when Aura obliged, Marivana ran her fingers lightly over her palm, before clasping it in her own hand, briefly. “Powdered chalk. For your nerves. You’ll want a light coat of it over your hands, to keep them from getting clammy while holding onto your reins-”

Just then, Aura's tattooed security detail came back. Marivana took that as her cue to go. "I’ll see you soon, Aura. I’m sure,” she said, and strode past the bodyguard without so much as deigning to give him a second glance.

Marivana settled back into her original chair, and not two seconds later, Lanie was there.

"Marivana!" she hissed, glittery hair flashing in the dim lighting. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Marivana answered coolly, taking a sip of her drink.

Lanie scowled. "Don't give me that bullshit, Mari. What the hell were you guys talking about? I haven't seen you smile that much since the time you met my three-year-old niece."

Marivana hummed quietly, took another sip of her drink. "Does it matter?"

Lanie let out a huff. "Uh, yeah? One, I'm like, your only friend. And two, what the fuck am I going to tell the paparazzi when pics of you two being all buddy-buddy get out?"

"My god, Lanie, you're so dramatic. Calm down. All I did was get Aindrew to stop bothering her."

Lanie made a face. "Aindrew from GC? Ew. Just, ew."

Marivana nodded solemnly. "My point exactly."

Lanie crossed her arms and gave Marivana a scathing glare. "You still haven't answered my question, Marivana. Why were you all smiley? You're the Ice Queen, for crying out loud! You can't just randomly smile."

Marivana met her gaze, evenly. "I hope you know how ridiculous that sentence sounds," she said in response. Marivana contemplated Lanie's question - why had she done...that?

"She kind of reminded me of Shimmer," Marivana found herself saying, unsure of what exactly had prompted her to act so un-Snow around Aura.

"Your first unicorn?" Lanie asked, skeptically.

"Yeah. She was always skittish before a big race."

Lanie gave Marivana a look. "You do realize that the unicorns are, uh, robots, right? They don't feel anything."

Marivana bit back an indignant reply. Yes they do, she wanted to say. Marivana grew up riding robot horses; wouldn't she, of all people, know if a horse (or a unicorn, for that matter) could feel anything? But saying something like that was more than just a little bit dangerous, around all these people who profited off the assumption that robot unicorns were just as Lanie said - robots. Machines.

So Marivana sighed, sipped at her drink. "Right." She paused, for a moment, then changed the subject, hoping that Lanie would be willing to start blabbing about her niece, again. "So, you never told me how Ruby has been doing. It's been years since I've seen her. What's she up to?"

Thankfully, Lanie was all too capable of going on and on and on about any subject in the universe. Her baby niece included.

Taglist: @ayzrules @bebemoon @jay-swagsby @filthysoulls @shiftyprincess@kzombi3 @now-on-elissastillstands @interluxetumbra

#ch 1 #writing #aliciasssss #marivana #snow #mari story #ch1

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jonknottauofficial-blog · 4 years

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Acting Course: How It Will CHANGE Your Life

The benefits of taking an acting course are insurmountable. A course in acting effectively displays and drills the importance of in-depth preparation and knowledge of material that is necessary for success. By applying the lessons learned in an acting course, the participant will be better equipped and prepared to deal with situations and assignments in future classes and real-world scenarios.

As stated by acting professor Robert Smith at the University of Kutztown, “eighty percent of success in acting is merely showing up.” After hearing this from the short grey-haired professor, my classmates and I thought we were in for one easy ‘A’ and a relaxing semester: we were wrong. Although Prof. Smith’s principle may seem like a strengthening reassurance, and it was, there was still twenty percent left to go; and that remaining twenty percent would be one of the hardest journeys some of us would ever take. Fast forward three weeks: *Banging on desk*, “learn the (insert expletive here) lines.” The two ghostly white faces of the students in the front of the class encapsulated our collective thoughts, oh no, what the hell course did we take?

Although eighty percent may be acceptable for some, if a class in acting teaches anything, it is that there is no such thing as good enough. The term, “You didn’t come this far to get this far,” becomes highly accentuated in an acting course and in dramatic fashion. My fellow classmates and I watched in horror as our professor screamed in the faces of fellow peers, cursed out others for lack of preparation, and even accused some of the male participants of lacking testosterone. It didn’t matter how confident any of us were, when it was our turn to perform in front of the class, we were all terrified of the condescending humiliation that was certain to follow; and being fresh out of high school, where teachers are all but bound and gagged by etiquette and RRR, we were deep over our heads. Many of us didn’t return to the next class.

It is very possible that the professor could be severely reprimanded for some of the phrases thrown around the classroom; however, teacher etiquette and professionalism is the topic of another paper and not the point here. This professor, mean as he was, was simply trying to prove a point: there is always more to learn and there is always room for improvement. This mantra seems quite commonplace amongst the artist types. A choir instructor in high school continuously lived by the phrase, constant never-ending improvement. Now, after being verbally defecated on for the infinite time, I began to get the big picture. The lessons being taught were never about acting, art or music. Not one of my classmates needed to pursue a career in acting to reap the benefits of this course. The work ethic applied and instructed in an acting course is the figurative playbook to a successful life.

To be successful in an acting course, it is necessary, at the very minimum, to have lines prepared and memorized. To some, a task such as memorization may seem like the final step and end goal of preparation; however, to an actor, memorization is only the first part of the journey. This acting course depicted how an individual must be willing and able to dive deep into their work with the intent to acquire an encompassing understanding of content. This class made it clear that there was no good enough and there is always more work to be done. By applying this concept of work ethic to other college course and life, it will become second nature to identify the amount of preparation necessary before the real work even begins.

When it comes to acting, there are an infinite number of factors and points that the actor must pay attention too. Everything from facial expressions, tone of voice, movement, set, subtext, super-objectives and much more all play a significant role in the journey to accurately portraying a character. None of these aspects, each just as important as the last, can be honed and worked on until the lines are memorized and understood; and memorization is no light task; however, it must be completed prior to the real work beginning.

When applying this idea to the real world, its beneficial nature becomes clear. To some, when completing a task or assignment, the bare minimum of work may seem like 100% completion. When applying this acting principle however, the true nature and scale of some assignments becomes clear. Many of us, when we think a project to be complete, have only just begun the possible work. By understanding that there are tiers to the work process, and that certain tasks have prerequisite work required, the level of efficiency, when structuring a workload and plan of attack against an assignment, increase.

One of the key ingredients of success in an acting course is time management and working well with others. Everyone is busy with course work, sports, clubs, jobs and any number of other activities afford to the twenty-first century. To effectively time manage in an acting course, the individual must not only manage their own time; but be aware of their fellow cast member's time as well. The ability to adapt and work as a team to complete work in a timely manner is paramount. By applying this skill, to the real world, it becomes easier to schedule and complete group projects. The ability to cooperate and work with individuals of varying skill sets, knowledge base, and talent is essential to success in the real world. As depicted in an acting course, everything is team based. Everyone from fellow actors, directors, stage crew, costume crew, producers and so many other individuals are necessary for success. A course in acting teaches how to effectively operate and work well with all different types of people.

Finally, the willingness to seek help and assistance is of utmost importance in an acting class. Help can be related too many topics, from line memorization, to acting advice, to simply not understanding the words and context of a script. The ability to understand that there is always more to learn; and the ability to leave ego at the door and look for help is essential. It is easy to think that we know everything; after all, a thought like that is far more palatable than admitting to our deficiencies. However, as previously stated, the role of every member of the team is essential to a finished product. So, if we are slacking in our own part, it negatively affects every other member of the team. This is not a problem as long as we actively pursue the answer to our problem and our own personal betterment. This preemptive and self-motivated nature is integral to various different real-world jobs and applications. As high-performing and operating members of society, it is imperative that we can diagnose our own shortcomings and take the necessary steps toward improvement. This characteristic will become second nature after a course in acting.

One does not need to pursue a career in acting to receive value from a course centered in the artform. The lessons, skills, and personal character building provided within an acting course is invaluable. Overall, the takeaway is the push to go farther; and perhaps the number one key to success gleaned from an acting class is to never settle, because there is always more work to be done.

#acting #self improvement #hustle #how to succeed #personal improvement #how to act #people #interaction

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warsofasoiaf · 5 years

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Hergrim and the Westerlands Campaign, Pt. 4

The Lycian Way, or probably smarter to say the earlier part of the Achaemenid campaign (since the Lycian Way is actually a road now), is one of the examples where we get the trope of the young commander using unconventional movement to cover great distances without observation, but now that I think about it, Sogdian Rock might be a better example, dramatically similar even if radically different in objective and intent.

Assuming you were thinking of the march from Phaselis to Perge, I don’t think it was so much covering great distances without observation (since the distances weren’t all that great and the Thracian road builders must have been observed) as it was about changing the strategic situation. So far as I can tell, the only truly viable road for an army into Pamphylia was via Milyas and Termessos. Alexander first reduced Milyas, then looped around and built a better road through Mount Climax (the old road was apparently known as the “Ladder”, which suggests how arduous it had been) so that he could enter Pamphylia, secure the coast to prevent Persian reinforcements landing and then tackle Termessos as he headed towards Phrygia. His picked troops he sent along the shore during a natural break in the storm that allowed them to get most of the way past the watery hazards and threaten any force seeking to block the main army debouching from the pass.

Perhaps a better example would be Cao Cao’s rapid march through the Lulong Pass, a disused mountain pass which, although once containing a frontier road, was little more than a track at the time and thus not considered viable. By marching with minimal armour and baggage, Cao Cao was able to exit the mountains, travel through Xianbi land (a nomadic tribe who were enemies of the Wuhan, allies to Cao Cao’s enemy Yuan Shang) and make some progress into enemy territory before they were confronted and a battle forced.

There’s a difference in that Cao Cao was able to move undetected for so long because he was traveling through lands hostile to his opponents, and he was discovered well before the 200 li the chronicles mention, seeing as that’s approximately where the battle took place (around 80km from Liucheng). Conceptually, though, they’re very similar campaigns insofar as movement is concerned.

Sorry, this was a mistake in communication on my part. I had meant that when Tywin was moving west, Robb could assemble his troops and unify them as a counter to your earlier point. I don’t think he would be so disunited and his troops tired when Tywin returns, given how much enemy territory Tywin has to march through.

Ah, I see what you meant. My counterpoint is that Robb still has to bring his followers together - and they’re spread over hundreds of miles - with quite excellent timing so that they’re assembled and in place to lead Tywin on a chase nearly as Tywin arrives, otherwise logistics becomes another factor. Timing is critical, and will still involve some kind of rapid convergence - if not the sprint I originally imagined - in order to balance logistical and tactical factors.

On thing that just struck me is that, assuming that Robb’s mostly ravaging the northern Westerlands in order to fight in the (relative) south, he’s cut off his own best line of retreat in the event that something goes wrong. It doesn’t have any bearing on the lead up to the battle, I just thought it was an interesting observation on how Robb has either been think or, conversely, hasn’t been thinking.

Sadly we’re back to the whole books vs. history thing. I have faith in Robb because it’s what he does in the books with Ashemark and the Crag. I’m personally in agreement, castle networks are phenomenal when it comes to having even small numbers of men disrupt the activity of a large force. It bugs me a bunch on pretty much every campaign save in the North, where the unfriendly locals and large distances soothe my heart.

Agreed pretty much 100%, I’m just saying that the storming of a castle is not necessarily indicative of a small garrison, let alone an under-strength one.

At the same time, we do see Tywin being maneuvered in a rather predictable fashion. Robb’s and Brynden Tully are unconventional movers, Tully has a great deal of experience given his tenure in the Ninepenny Kings, I think it’s feasible to get Tywin to bait Tywin into deploying suboptimally and him committing his reserve to bolster, with Robb using that opportunity to attack from an unexpected direction or split a line.

I don’t disagree that Robb could conceivably maneuver Tywin into a poor position - although I do think it’s less likely than the other way around, given that Tywin is on home soil, has access to far better intelligence thanks to the ravens and can have bridges broken as necessary to funnel Robb or slow his progress - but I don’t believe that Tywin would be hasty in deploying his reserves or, for that matter, that he would deploy all his reserves at once. Tywin is extremely cautious. He could have forced the Red Fork well ahead of his plan to do so, but spent considerable time (perhaps more time than he really had) probing the fords and, presumably, looking for a hidden trap. Even if Robb managed to bait Tywin into sending most of his reserves on a fool’s errand, Tywin could still keep back enough men to match any reserve Robb could hope to muster. Remember, he has at least a thousand more good cavalry than Robb in addition to some hundreds of poor quality cavalry and no compunction at all about spending the lives of the latter profligately.

I disagree that not finding out is so strange though. Robb isn’t sending his people south to make contact, and Jaime is on hostile soil which helps explain his intelligence gaps. He’s using his fast element to pacify resistance while his infantry settle in for the siege of Riverrun. It’s an absolutely stupid idea, but I think as Jaime is intended as a character to be reckless and stupid as a commander so that he can grow in the 3rd novel, it’s…serviceable.

I was thinking more in terms of Tywin than Jaime, since his scouts were in contact with Robb since before he’d even left the Neck. Jaime I can buy more or less regarding limited scouting and over reacting to the raid.

I’m honestly not sure that Fairmarket would be a thing at this point for Jaime. The city is a five-day trek east of the Whispering Wood, Jaime is heading north from Riverrun. He may have swung east to Fairmarket, certainly after that, I could see him wanting to rest his troops and seize materiel, but I think he hasn’t reached that far yet.

The Battle under the Walls of Riverrun probably took place some time just before Robb left Moat Cailin, based on the battle beneath the Golden Tooth being a little under two weeks before Robb leaves Moat Cailin. The Neck is somewhere around 270 miles long which, in light of the logistical difficulties of the Neck and the narrowness of the road, is probably 27 days of travelling. Add another five or six days (depending on speed) to get to the Twins. Call it 33 days to be safe.

That’s more than enough time for Jaime to invest Riverrun, including fortifying the camps and starting on pontoon bridges, and dispatch 1500-2000 men to take Fairmarket and establish a strong garrison there to keep an eye on the Freys and Mallisters, as well as to control the best crossing of the Blue Fork in that area, before Robb even reached the Twins.

Similarly, I don’t think the plan depended on all the cavalry being killed or captured, but the ground picked is pretty good for inflicting a high number of casualties and preventing them from fleeing south back to Riverrun. Moving them north across the Tumblestone and into a forested valley makes it difficult for the cavalry to retreat as a unit, as does attacking from multiple sides, especially to the south.

And what happens if there are stragglers or squires and baggage behind Jaime’s main force, along with a small protective detail? Jaime’s days out from Riverrun, and either his men and horses are going very hungry, he has detachments out on the flanks foraging or he has a slim baggage train?

That’s a bit of a rapid pace for an infantry. Without spending time on foraging, scouting, and establishing a camp (since Clegane has been burning much of that territory), though I guess with a forced march given the urgency I could see it. Tywin’s infantry are going to be beat, even with the rest day.

Agreed, it’s a fast pace. A more plausible is 10-12 miles when going through the ravaged territory and 12-14 miles through territory that is relatively untouched. I tend to use the maximum plausible speed where possible when trying to prove a point, just to show that even under ideal circumstances my point is still valid.

There definitely was damage done, if Lady Mormont driving herds of cattle back to the Riverlands is any judge. I will say, that’s one thing that bugged me about the books. Bypass the Golden Tooth, that’s fine, but how are the cows getting back. Ignore that both cattle drives and marching armies generate a great deal of dust, cattle are big and difficult to drive on hard terrain. *shrug*

The most likely route would seem to me to be up into the Westerlands salient and then across the hills into the Riverlands. The hills are probably marginal country used for raising sheep and cattle anyway, and I doubt Lady Mormont had more than one or two hundred men, so feeding men and horses isn’t the struggle it would be with a full army.

100% reciprocated boss. If I ever get a manuscript off the ground, you would probably be one of the first people I pay for editing.

Maybe not editing, but I’d be more than willing to help checking out the military elements.

Onward into the breach!

Oh, you misunderstand. It’s the depiction of it that gives Alexander one of the reputations of being this unconventional movement wizard. Cao Cao’s movement being exaggerated way before the 200 li is sort of the same effect. It’s a brilliant move, but heroic mythmaking makes it into something different entirely, and GRRM likes to use some of the heroic mythmaking for his fantasy story, which was part of my original point with the whole Birnam wood deal.

This is a weird thing because I get all sorts of conflicting information on the Westerlands-Riverlands northern pass, in impassibility and defense. Do the Westerlings control that stretch of land, can you drive an army column through it? Another reason why an atlas would be awesome.

Agreed pretty much 100%, I’m just saying that the storming of a castle is not necessarily indicative of a small garrison, let alone an under-strength one.

Noted, I’m just pointing out that the lack of sallies and trying to figure out why they didn’t utilize the castle network that they had.

Tywin is extremely cautious. He could have forced the Red Fork well ahead of his plan to do so, but spent considerable time (perhaps more time than he really had) probing the fords and, presumably, looking for a hidden trap.

I normally agree that Tywin is a cautious commander, but his notorious blind spot comes when Lannister dominance and supremacy (joined at the hip with his own) is challenged. The Clegane plot is evidence of that, he lucks out significantly in Robert not being around and Eddard capable of influencing him at court, and in Clegane attacking a royal banner at the Mummer’s Ford.

According to the PrivateMajor Timeline, Whispering Wood happens 22 Dec and Whispering Wood happens 9 Jan. Figure that Jaime spent some time resting his troops and investing the siege, and I think he doesn’t have enough time to hit Fairmarket.

I wouldn’t be surprised again if Jaime did go slim on the baggage train explicitly because he was said to be aggressively hunting down raiders and didn’t want to bother with such trivialities. I agree that if that was the case, it’s overegging the pudding, unless Jaime’s later chapters were going to have him get gritty with the baggage train metrics.

Maybe not editing, but I’d be more than willing to help checking out the military elements.

Yeah, that’s what it would be. An extra set of eyes never hurts, and it’d be useful to see the military elements from both trained and untrained eyes to better simulate different readers.

This is a good discussion, I hope the readers are getting as much from it as I am.

-SLAL

#hergrim #war of the five kings #submission

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truthbeetoldmedia · 6 years

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10 Best Moments from Season 1 of “Anne with an E”

Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Canadian children’s series, Anne of Green Gables, has been adapted many times in the more than a century since it was first published. When recreating a story that has been part of the childhoods of Canadians and other children around the world for generations, there are certain elements that must remain the same and others that can be invented or updated to keep the story fresh and captivating.

Anne with an E (or just Anne, in Canada) is the CBC’s most recent adaptation of the classic, in partnership with Netflix U.S. It stays true to the essentials of the original work with pristine casting, beautiful cinematography, plotlines and dialogue that are lifted right from the novel. But it also took the chance to modernize the story in a way that makes it relatable and necessary in today’s world, by including a “Progressive Mothers Sewing Circle” and multiple conversations and conflicts around feminism, choice, and education.

Here are 10 of the best moments from Season 1 of Anne with an E:

Anne’s journey to Green Gables - 1x01 “Your Will Shall Decide Your Destiny”

Anne Shirley’s (Amybeth McNulty) romantic descriptions of Prince Edward Island throughout the series made it an ideal place in the hearts and minds of many young readers, and the sweeping shots and attention given to Anne’s enrapturement as she travels with Matthew Cuthbert (R.H. Thomson) from Bright River to Green Gables capture this sense of wonder beautifully.

This journey also introduces us to Anne, through the eyes of Matthew: she’s talkative, full of big words and bigger ideas, and in possession of an imagination of the likes Matthew — nor anyone in Avonlea — has ever seen before.

All of this is perhaps best captured as Anne and Matthew ride down the Avenue, a lane shaded by drooping cherry trees blooming with white blossoms, which Anne promptly renames “The White Way of Delight.”

Of course, Anne’s overwhelming happiness at finding a home in the most beautiful place in the world is overshadowed by the viewer’s knowledge that Matthew and his sister Marilla (Geraldine James) had expected a boy instead, something Anne has not yet realized and is sure to ruin her dreams of feeling wanted and loved.

“She’s my daughter!” - 1x02 “I Am No Bird, and No Net Ensnares Me”

If this moment didn’t melt your heart, you’re made of stone.

After Marilla sends Anne away for theft — which they soon learn was a wrongful accusation — Matthew chases her to Bright River, then to Charlottetown, then across the strait to Nova Scotia; he sustains an injury to the head upon almost spotting her in Charlottetown and he fruitlessly looks for her at the orphanage, before finally finding her at a train station where she’s collecting money by selling stories for a ticket to Halifax.

Anne is unforgiving when she first sees Matthew again, understandably hurt and unwilling to give him a second chance. A well-meaning stranger gets between them, worried that Matthew means her harm, but Matthew quickly dissipates the situation with a single sentence: “She’s my daughter.”

They’re words that Anne has been longing to hear and believe her entire life and she forgives Matthew immediately, wrapping her arms around him in a hug, and together they return to Avonlea.

Marilla talks to Anne - 1x02 “I Am No Bird, and No Net Ensnares Me”

Marilla is not one to wear even a sliver of her heart on her sleeve, and talking openly to Anne — who is so different from Marilla that she doesn’t even know where to begin — doesn’t come easily to her. Anne has no idea how her brief absence affected Marilla and instead assumes that Marilla doesn’t want or even like her, and it’s only because of Matthew that she concedes to keeping the child around.

Marilla does her best to smooth over her rocky beginning with Anne, in a speech made even more sweet by how obviously difficult Marilla finds it. “Anne, will you forgive me? I am very sorry, Anne. [...] You’re a truthful girl, Anne, even now, and that is an admirable quality. This was my fault. And all that you went through because of it. It’s a wonder you came back to Green Gables at all.”

An adult admitting their wrongs and asking a child for forgiveness is refreshing to see, especially given the time period. Proving that she does have a heart, and a heavy sense of remorse, does much to repair Marilla’s relationship with Anne, and although Anne will never feel the same sense of kinship with her as she does with Matthew, they grow to love each other deeply.

The PMSC (Progressive Mothers Sewing Circle) - 1x03 “But What is So Headstrong as Youth?”

Now that she’s adopted Anne, Marilla is invited to join the PMSC by several other mothers of young girls, a society that discusses and believes in progressive matters, such as girls’ education and equality between women and men.

It’s a clever opportunity for the show to discuss modern ideas in a 19th century setting, and Marilla, an older woman with a conservative bent, is a good viewpoint to see it from. At Marilla’s first meeting, the women discuss books and feminism and being a modern women in a modern world. Marilla is quite out of her depth, but is more than willing to listen and learn and even change her own ways of thinking.

Later, Marilla has a lively debate with her neighbour and friend Rachel Lynde (Corrine Koslo) about the PMSC, of which Rachel is no big proponent of, asking if the women “took turns shouting atop a soapbox” (a common misconception of feminism, even today).

“There was a lot of civilized talk about women’s education and social reforms,” Marilla replies.

Even Matthew chimes in on the discussion when he comes in to tea: “I reckon every new idea was modern once, until it wasn’t.”

Gilbert’s introduction - 1x03 “But What is So Headstrong as Youth?”

In almost any iteration of the Anne of Green Gables series, Gilbert Blythe (Lucas Jade Zumann) is nearly as essential to the story as Anne herself is. For generations, his character has been the object of countless fictional crushes and Anne’s relationship with him is a main driving force of the plot; such a character deserves a hero’s introduction.

And a hero’s introduction he receives. Anne’s on her way to school when she’s confronted by Billy Andrews, who threatens her for unintentionally spreading rumours about his sister. That’s when Gilbert appears, who immediately diffuses the situation by greeting Billy as a friend and suggesting they get to school, while Anne looks on in (surprisingly) wordless shock.

Anne runs from Gilbert and they’re not properly introduced until they reach the school, where she finally finds her tongue, tells him her name, and realizes that he’s the famous Gilbert Blythe as he’s immediately swarmed by his admiring classmates.

Gilbert has always seen Anne differently than everyone else, and feels a pull to her from the start. Where everyone else — including Anne — believes her to be homely and judges her harshly for coming from an orphan’s asylum, Gilbert says, “Why do I care where she’s from? A cute girl is a cute girl.”

(Later, when the class laughs at Anne for her dramatic reading of a poem, Gilbert only sees it as admirable: “She’s good. Invested.”)

Anne and Marilla discuss Anne’s future - 1x04 “An Inward Treasure Born”

After several weeks off, Anne is ready to go to school again. But she’s still concerned about what the minister told her earlier in the episode, about her not needing to go to school and becoming a wife instead. Ever since she heard that, Anne has been contemplating what it is she would like to be when she grows up.

Marilla is progressive enough and loves Anne enough to view the minister’s thinking as old-fashioned, and tells Anne that she should decide for herself what she would like to be and set her mind to it.

Gentle moments like this one between Marilla and Anne are rare, which makes them all the more touching when they come along. Marilla is new to parenthood, and while she certainly struggles with some aspects of it (and Anne is no easy child to raise, either), this is something that comes surprisingly natural to her. She always seems to know just what to say to ease Anne’s mind, and her unwavering faith in Anne’s intelligence and goodness is raw and honest, when she chooses to express it.

“You’ve got a good and nimble mind, Anne. I don’t see why you should limit it. In my day, we didn’t get to choose. I think you should make your own decision.” This statement means a lot, especially coming from Marilla, who wasn’t given the opportunity to choose her own path due to her family situation.

Anne saves Minnie May’s life - 1x06 “Remorse is the Poison of Life”

Anne’s experiences as an orphan prior to coming to Green Gables have her poorly adjusted for many things, but have taught her many things no child should be expected to know — including how to deal with croup.

When her dearest friend Diana’s little sister, Minnie May, falls ill on a night when both her parents and half the town are in Charlottetown to see the premier, Diana (Dalila Bela) goes to Anne for help. Anne immediately sends Matthew into town to fetch the doctor, while she accompanies Diana back to the house.

What follows is an extremely tense scene in which Anne does everything in her power to save Minnie May’s life — including employing remedies from old wives’ tales — while Diana and her Aunt Josephine (Deborah Grover) look on in shock.

The moment Minnie May coughs and breathes again after several minutes of choking silently on phlegm is an exceedingly powerful one. Anne’s role in saving the little girl’s life — when the doctor arrives, he confirms that Minnie May would have died otherwise — causes Diana’s mother to forgive her after the unfortunate currant wine incident of a month before and allow the two to be friends again, and raises her esteem greatly in the eyes of Aunt Josephine.

Anne and Gilbert talk about grief - 1x06 “Remorse is the Poison of Life”

For several months after the incident in which Gilbert called Anne “Carrots” and she responded by smashing her slate over his head, Anne holds to her promise not to have anything to do with him unless absolutely necessary. It’s not until Gilbert’s father dies and Anne feels that this is something she can relate to him about — after all, now they’re both orphans — that she makes any effort to actually talk to him.

Unfortunately, Anne isn’t a natural when it comes to sympathizing and not only does she not pick up on the fact that the last thing Gilbert wants is to talk to someone, but she manages to say exactly the wrong thing.

“Being an orphan has its challenges but you already have so many advantages, you’ll be much better off than I was. And...I didn’t know my parents. They died when I was a baby, so I couldn’t fend for myself the way that you can. And I don’t remember my parents at all, but you’ll always be able to remember your father. You know, when you think about it, you’re really very lucky.”

Later, Anne realizes that Gilbert has lost someone in a way she never has since she never knew her parents and thus never mourned them; however, when she arrives at Gilbert’s house to tell him this, he has already gone.

“I choose myself. That way I’ll never be disappointed.” - 1x06 “Remorse is the Poison of Life”

While out on a walk to “take advantage of the winter air,” Aunt Josephine comes upon Anne in her clubhouse, yelling aggrievedly to no one about Gilbert Blythe.

“What you heard just now had nothing to do with romance,” Anne assures the old woman, which leads into a discussion about Anne’s future and how all the other girls at school dream only of becoming a wife, and Anne herself has so many other ambitions.

Aunt Josephine is perhaps uniquely situated to give Anne advice, having never gotten married herself but spent her life living with the woman she loved (a relationship Anne hasn’t yet realized extended far past the realms of friendship).

“I have the following thoughts to offer,” Aunt Josephine says. “First, you can get married any time in your life, if you choose to do so. And two: if you choose a career, you can buy a white dress yourself, have it made to order, and wear it whenever you want.”

Aunt Josephine’s words do much to improve Anne’s mood, and she promptly exclaims, “I’m going to be my own woman.”

Gilbert and Anne meet in Charlottetown - 1x07 “Wherever You Are is My Home”

While in Charlottetown pawning goods in the hopes of saving Green Gables, Anne runs into Gilbert, who’s there to work on the docks. Anne is inexplicably happy to see him again, and the two go for coffee together.

Anne finally gets the chance to apologize to Gilbert for what she said after his father’s death, even if it’s an apology he doesn’t need to hear. The two strike up a truce and at last seem to form the beginnings of a friendship — with Anne even admitting that she’s missed him (although, supposedly, only in school).

Neither of them seem quite prepared to leave the other without knowing when they’ll see each other again (even Jerry notices the long looks that pass between them) and when they do eventually meet again, it’s easy to assume that a fundamental aspect of their relationship will have changed.

Season 2 of Anne With An E premieres September 23 on CBC in Canada, and is already available on Netflix in the U.S.

#Anne with an E #Anne #Season 1 #Anne Shirley #Gilbert Blythe

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hekate1308 · 6 years

Text

Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now

More Siren!Cas Au. Enjoy!

Dean sometimes forgets that he’s human. Not in any dramatic fashion – he doesn’t try to snare anyone or explode people who annoy him or anything like that. No, he just automatically thinks of himself as part of the monster group of their suburban paradise, maybe because not only do mostly monsters live in their neighbourhood, but because...

Well... in a way, monsters are easy to get. It’s people who are difficult.

He’s reminded of that again when he’s trying to explain to Mr. Adler why it will take a while to get the parts for the car he wants restored.

Most days, he loves the fact that he could finally open the shop of his dreams. When he’s dealing with assholes like this, though...

“Mr. Adler, I have told you that –“

“Oh, Dean, sorry, I didn’t realize you were busy” Gilda apologizes, stepping into his office.

“It’s quite alright.”

And it’s then that Mr. why-can’t-I-have-my-vintage-Lamborghini-yesterday proves just how big of an asshole he is, mumbling “fucking fairy” under his breath.

Dean is about to deck him when Gilda asks gently, “Do whom do you address this insult, please?”

Adler stares at her. “What?”

“It could apply to both of us – to Dean because of his marital status, and to me because I am, indeed, a fucking fairy. In case of the latter – you should learn to treat others with more respect, yet I don’t care that much. If it’s the former... I suggest you leave the premises quickly.”

Adler stares at her, mouth wide open, before he all but flees.

“Nice one, Gilda” Dean says.

“I’m sorry if I scared off your customer.”

“Guy deserved it, and I still have the Lamborghini. He’ll be back. But what were you planning to do? Making buttercups grow around his feet?”

“Something like that” she answers pleasantly, but they both know the threats of a fairy are to be taken seriously at all times. They are not nature spirits for nothing.

It also means Dean is rather more important to Charlie’s girlfriend than he realized.

In the end, he invites Gilda to lunch.

That evening, Jody knocks at their door. Dean knows just from the expression on her face that Adler is enough of a bastard to –

“Sorry Dean, but there has been a complaint.”

As the only human Sheriff brave enough to take care of monster stuff, Jody has long been a respected member of their community. Dean lets her in.

“He called Gilda that?” she fumes after he’s explained. Dean nods.

“I’m not surprised. Guy’s a jerk. She put the fear of God in him, but that’s it.”

“Good to know. I’ll let Mr. Adler know what the police thinks of people who curse at innocent citizens.”

“I think” Cas says quietly after Jody has left, “It’s because we haven’t been citizens all that long. Fifty years ago, monsters weren’t even considered animals.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t even born then! This is ridiculous.”

“I wish everyone was as wonderful as you, my love.”

Dean blushes fiercely.

He’s gotten used to it, really. There are quite a few people who will stare and sneer and take jabs at him once they find out he’s dating a siren. Some of them assume that Cas keeps him around like a hypnotized pet to feast on, which... ew.

Sometimes, he wryly thinks what Sammy would think of all this and smiles. The brother he walked out on because he wanted to study and was convinced Dean would only end up like dead... He certainly couldn’t have seen this coming.

Warm arms wrap around him. “I don’t like that look on your face” Cas whispers against his neck.

“You can’t see my expression.”

“The window... there’s a reflection.”

Dean chuckles. “My very own Sherlock Holmes.”

“My Boswell.”

He shakes his head. “I was just thinking about Sammy and Dad and... you know how it is.”

Cas nods. “My family stopped speaking to me as well.”

“I’m still very sorry about that. Cas, if there’s a way...”

“I have everything I could ever want.”

A thump on the roof. Dean rolls his eyes. “Even with –“

“Hello boys.”

“Crowley. What the hell were you doing on our roof?”

“Relax, it’s close to Halloween. Just thought I’d put up some extra protection. Excepting yours truly, of course.”

Of course. Life wouldn’t be the same without their demon neighbour being able to zap in whenever he wants.

“Good thinking.”

Halloween can be... chaotic. And by chaotic, Dean means even for them, and that’s saying something. There’s just something about having so many monsters and magic practitioners in one place that seems to make the pull of the night even stronger.

This year, it almost ends in tragedy.

At first, it’s fun. They throw a party – even Rowena attends it in a sparkling red gown – and they’re handing out candy to the monster and a few brave human kids who come to their door.

It’s about ten pm when Jody calls. “Dean, there’s something – I can’t explain it. But there are about three square inches in the street that have just – disappeared. There’s nothing there. As if one was blind...”

Dean listens carefully, then turns and explains the problem. Several enthusiastic voice pipe up, but it’s Rowena who calls out, “I know! It’s a soul eater. Takes the soul and leaves nothing. Don’t let anyone near it.”

“Good God” Jody mutters. “Halloween. Alright, will do. Could you just hurry, please?”

“Of course.”

“Hasn’t it been hundreds of years since the last soul-eater came to earth?” Crowley asks as he, Dean, Cas and Rowena stroll down the street.

“It has, but with the recent concentration of people like us all in one place... the world is turning into something more magical again. Normally I would be happy about it, but a soul-eater always means business.”

“How do we defeat it?” Dean asks.

“That’s the tricky part” Rowena says. “The spell has to be performed in the vicinity of the creature, but it would attack anyone who dares come near, unless...” She trails off.

“He has something else to snack on” Dean says flatly.

“Afraid so.”

“Let me guess. They like human souls the most.” Just his freaking luck.

“Don’t worry” Crowley says smoothly, “Yes, it will try and devour your soul, but that takes a while,. And I’ll interfere if there are any problems.”

“As will I” Cas adds quietly, “Although I wish you didn’t have to do this. What if I –“

“Sorry, Lorelei, it will feel that you have power over other souls, and if there’s one thing a soul-eater doesn’t like, it’s another predator.”

“I don’t prey on people” Cas insists.

“That may be” Rowena replies, “But you still have the powers. And the soul-eater will know that. You probably shouldn’t even go near it.”

“But Dean –“

“Hey” Dean says, taking his hand. “You heard Crowley; I’ll be fine. And you have to help Jody keep the humans away from that thing. It’s Halloween; there’s bound to be some trouble makers around.”

“I trust you, Dean” he says, drawing him into a kiss. “But if you don’t come back to me, I’ll have Rowena resurrect you so I can smite you.”

“You two break my non-existent heart. Can we go deal with this, please?”

“Yeah, yeah Crowley” Dean mutters, pulling back. “Way to ruin my dramatic hero exit scene.”

“There’s not going to be an exit, didn’t you hear me?”

“How do you three get anything done?” Rowena complains. “Now let’s go before we waste the whole of Samhain!”

For the first time, Dean wonders why she suddenly decided to spend the night with them instead of joining a coven for the celebrations. It must be some form of honour, a witch choosing to celebrate Halloween with you.

By the time they reach the street, the soul-eater – the nothing – has grown. Jody has organised several men and women to keep others away, a necessary precaution since “we’re all drawn to it. No one can explain it.”

“A soul-eater with snare magic.” Rowena clicks her tongue. “Castiel, you should definitely stay away. It won’t like your powers at all.”

Jody isn’t all that much in favour of their plan when she hears it. “I’m an officer of the law, I should –“

“Exactly. And you’re the only officer who thought to call us, who ever looks out for the monsters. If we want this to work, if we want humans to grow accustomed to us, we need people like you.”

“You’re human too” she says softly.

Dean grins. “Yeah, but I hardly count as one anymore. Just ask Adler. Just – Jody, we can’t afford to lose you.”

“And you’re expendable?”

“No, but I’m the only human here who has a lot of experience with the supernatural.”

She sighs and acquiesces. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll still shoot you.”

“Get in line, Cas already plans to smite me.”

The power of the thing, Dean muses as he steps closer, truly reminds him of Cas’ snare, back when he was still affected by it, but it’s not quite the same thing. A siren’s powers, whether they use them deliberately or not, are still there to provide them with food and leave the victim unharmed. Perhaps it’s all a bit... unethical, but it’s not evil.

This thing, however? There’s a malice buried deep in the call that makes Dean’s feet walk right up to it.

He takes a deep breath. Concentrate on the important things, Crowley said. Hold on to your soul.

Demon’s creeping in the shadows behind him, so the soul-eater won’t notice him.

And then he feels it. An almost indescribable sensation, as if something’s chipping away at his very core, as if things are slowly growing less important...

He shakes his head. The important things.

Quick. What’s important? His job. He likes his job. He thinks – he’s not entirely sure what he does –

No. Sammy. Sammy’s important. But then why can’t he remember where he is, exactly?

Quick, man, the important –

Important –

Something falls in front of his feet. Dean looks down.

A small black feather.

Feathers, Crowley’s voice says in his head, and there it is.

Cas. Cas, his boyfriend, the love of his life, the siren he’s going to propose to, he decided not so long ago. Their friends already agreed to help him...

And suddenly, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Cas in the morning, eyes sparkling under his bed head, making coffee –

Cas, laughing as he watches the ghoul children play fetch on the street –

Cas, holding him close at night, writing stories on Dean’s skin –

Cas.

The sensation vanishes as suddenly as it has come, and Dean blinks, noticing Crowley next to him. “I assume the feather was your idea?”

The demon nods. “Thought you might need a little reminder.”

Dean clasps his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

“Dean!”

He turns to find his boyfriend hurrying over and opens his arms to receive him.

“That was very brave” Cas says as he kisses him.

“Please, have you seen yourself?” Crowley grins. “Dean, you should be sorry you missed it – Cas felled a six-foot drunk body builder who wouldn’t listen.”

“I just did what I had to do.”

“And as always you were amazing” Dean tells him, “I’m sure of it.”

After Jody has thanked them, they return to the party, arriving shortly before midnight.

“Well” Dean says, getting them drinks, “No one can say we didn’t have a scary Halloween.”

“Yes” Cas answers, looking down. Dean frowns.

“Cas? You alright?”

He nods, looking up. “It’s just – Dean, if you hadn’t met me, you wouldn’t –“

“I wouldn’t be the go-to person for soul devouring if we weren’t dating, is that it?” Dean shakes his head. “You know what, sunshine? I’d face one of those things every day if it meant I get to keep this.”

He means it, too.

Cas looks at him, his blue eyes sparkling and, as always, full of love. “And I’d have my whole family denounce me again and again if it led to the same.”

“See? We’re well-matched.”

He kisses his boyfriend and thinks of the ring he’ll create.

#my writings #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #siren!cas #creature!cas #destiel au #crowley #rowena #jody mills

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