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lovelyirony · 4 years

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Fic title meme : pulvis et umbra sumus (We Are Dust And Shadows)

On every single document, including the ones that show what actually happened to Howard and Maria Stark, Tony Stark is listed as dead among them.

He is not.

But in not calling in the accident on the abandoned road, Tony managed to find someone else to take his place and escaped.

Tony Stark is dead. A whole family funeral and everything. Obadiah pretends to cry. Tony is at the funeral with shitty dye in his hair and sunglasses that he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Ha.

The funeral is closed casket. All their faces are rumored to be impossible to fix with make-up.

He makes new documents. Anthony Jarvis, from Boston. Airtight background. Likes puzzles. Scored damn high on the SAT, but not the perfect score.

(Killed him to answer some of those questions wrong, seriously.)

Anthony Jarvis goes to MIT and requests a single room. He gets one for one semester, and then the room next to his burns and destroys his as well. So he gets moved to Jim Rhodes’.

Jim becomes Rhodey, and he is the first friend of Anthony Jarvis, and nicknames him Tony.

He grins at that.

There are plenty of times that Tony wants to tell him. The thing about secrets is that they need to be shared. No one really wants a secret, nor do they want to keep it. But he keeps his mouth shut and asks if he wants to go for Thai food.

“This is the third time this week.”

“Not my fault it’s good! I’ll pay...”

“Sign me up.”

Tony and Rhodey gets Thai food. It’s good.

Rhodey lets him in on a secret that Tony had actually known about since his room assignment.

(You remember that guy’s room that caught on fire? Yeah, he swore that his microwave hadn’t been on, and nothing had been plugged in. He was right. But Tony needed an accident.)

In other circumstances, Rhodey would have ignored the offer that he had. He had had his heart set on Air Force. But there was something about the man who talked to him.

“It’s a place called Strategic-Homeland-something I can’t remember,” Rhodey says. “Point is, they’re a big deal and kind of shady, but not in the government shady kind of way. The only thing I can find out about them is that they’re an international company who need engineers, pilots, and basically anyone like you and me. I don’t know how I feel about it.”

Tony nods.

“You want me in on this?”

“I mean, you did tell me a couple of weeks ago that you weren’t sure what you wanted to do after graduation.”

(It was two weeks, three days, and fourteen hours ago. Not like he was counting.)

“...thanks. I’ll check it out with you.”

Anthony Jarvis shows up in a nice suit, stupid sunglasses, and impresses the higher-ups by diagnosing a problem with the engine that others had previously marked as “impossible.”

He’s hired on the spot, same as Rhodey.

Tony Jarvis gets his own keycard, finds an apartment in New York that’s within at least biking distance, and gets started on inventing some cute little toys for the spies in Research and Development.

He brings the laser-lipstick to life, poison-drop-earrings, spyglasses that actually work and have HD, and briefcases that use mirroring technology to change color.

“How did you do this?” Rhodey asks, eyes wide. “I swear this is unreal.”

“Aw,” Tony says. “You sap. I got some inspiration from some old comic book ads. I think I’m gonna try a ring decoder next, what do you think?”

“Almost makes me want to go on missions instead of flying them.”

Tony Jarvis is known for working odd yet long hours. He comes up with results. And he keeps his head down and minds his own business.

This is all to find out exactly who killed his parents. As much as his and Howard’s relationship was...interesting, he still wanted to know.

His desire to know the truth leads to somewhere he hadn’t thought was possible: Hydra.

His hands freeze as he looks at the paper file with thick, black lines all over. The information there was sparse. Howard, Maria, and Anthony Stark all died. It was ruled:

And there’s nothing there.

It wasn’t an accident. Sure he knew that, but there was something far more sinister at play. Why wasn’t it an accident?

He gets Alexander Pierce in his apartment with a man in the corner. His arm gleams in what little light from the lamps outside give off.

“Why are you searching for the Stark files?” He asks.

“Why didn’t you just schedule a meeting? I’m available tomorrow at three,” Tony jokes. “Who’s your friend here?”

“Someone you wouldn’t want to shake hands with,” Pierce answers. “You need to stop looking into this before you find yourself in a situation you don’t want to be in.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Accidents will happen,” Pierce says. He gets up from the table, to the counter. Gets out a glass. And makes himself water. He smiles as he looks to the man in the corner. “Do you want any water, Winter Soldier?”

Winter Soldier remains impassive.

Tony stills.

“So, the legends are true. And Hydra is still around.”

“And if you aren’t careful, you won’t be,” Pierce says. “Don’t bring any of this up. Or this won’t be the last time you see Winter Soldier. I know your moves, Jarvis. Don’t think you can surprise me.”

They exit the apartment. Tony realizes that Pierce took his glass.

And he laughs.

Because this? Not according to plan, but god he’s gonna have fun with it.

It starts with telling Rhodey who he actually is.

It does not go as planned.

“So let me get this straight. I’ve known you for years and you just. Never told me?” Rhodey asks. “Why not?”

“To be completely fair, no one knows besides a man in Wisconsin, and he’s from Wisconsin,” Tony says. “Also I was drunk. Drunk me is a terrible person who would sell me for a buffalo nickel.”

“I’m still mad, even if that’s funny,” Rhodey says, trying not to smile. “So. Why tell me now? I’m assuming you need something.”

“I would like your help,” Tony says. “It is not required but I am toppling a secret organization living in SHIELD and I think if I get your help, I will most likely not get fired by the end of this. Fury likes you, he hates me.”

“False, he mildly tolerates you. You’ll be fine. Probably. Who else should we get to help?”

Tony had originally planned for no one.

But then there was Pepper Potts.

She had been deemed by the media as “crazy” for accusing Obadiah Stane, longtime-CEO of Stark Industries, as ordering a hit out on the Stark family.

She had been booted from the company--anticipated--and then Hydra had ordered a hit on her.

Slightly unexpected.

Point is, Rhodey brings her into the apartment and tells Tony casually that the grocery store had run out of his usual hummus brand, was the generic okay?

“That’s like asking if I’m okay with blue pens,” Tony curses. “Also, is that Pepper Potts? Why is she here? Did you run into her at the grocery store?”

“No, as I was coming back. Did you know that she has a hit out on her? Fun times.”

“Oh my god, will someone explain to me what’s going on here?!” Pepper seethes. “I was just trying to get my yogurt without anyone taking a picture of me and some random fucking guy had a knife thrown at me and then this guy took me to your house!”

She then rants for ten minutes about the “questionable design choices going on in this establishment, who honestly thinks shot glasses are a decoration?!”

“Are you done?” Tony asks. “Because if you want to help with a conspiracy plot, you need to be done.”

She is.

Pepper does not get a job with SHIELD. In fact, she mainly just decides to take care of the redecoration in Tony’s apartment.

“You will be paying me for this.”

“Why would I do that? You’re using my money to buy everything. You’re living here rent free for now.”

“Because I’m helping you make better life choices. I also want new shoes.”

What Pepper does is provide very valuable access to Stark Industries: she knows the ins and outs, what employees do and don’t do, and also is very helpful in telling Tony what he needs to do when he takes the company over.

“Who said I was going to take it over?”

“Me,” Pepper says. “Also because I reviewed every single old document and the company was specified to go to next-of-kin. You are. And you’re not dead.”

“My death certificate is literally framed,” Tony says, pointing to his graduation photo that Rhodey took. He had swapped out his official diploma with it as a joke. No one had seen it. He thought it was hilarious.

“Yeah, but they can do DNA testing,” Pepper says. “This is like the twenty-first century Anastasia except this time they don’t find you with metal detectors!”

“I don’t like that you know that story as well as you do,” Rhodey says. “But I’ll leave you a credit card for furniture and groceries. If you get rid of my drinks in the fridge I’m literally never forgiving you.”

“Noted, and I don’t need forgiveness,” Pepper says. “But they’ll stay there.”

So begins the plot.

Pierce doesn’t know three things, which is a lot of things not to know:

1.) Tony Jarvis is not Tony Jarvis.

2.) Rhodey actually likes Tony and most of the time him saying that he would “kill Tony in a variety of ways, starting with sporks and moving forward...” is mostly (mostly) a joke.

3.) Pepper Potts resides in their apartment and is having fun telling Tony she bought new silverware.

“Why did you buy new silverware! It was fine!”

“I recognized all of these forks and knives from restaurants. Why did you steal them from restaurants?”

“They can replace them!”

“Don’t. Anyways now your spoons match and you don’t have the shitty ones from different places. Also I painted the bathroom.”

“My landlord is gonna kill me.”

“I made her cookies and discovered that she likes going to concerts. You’ll be fine.”

(Pepper is a goddess. You can’t convince them otherwise.)

Pierce doesn’t know any of this, but he still holds a key piece of blackmail: Tony Jarvis shouldn’t know about Hydra, and he’ll do anything to make sure that he doesn’t lose his job.

Tony has been recording their conversations for weeks.

(Pierce thinks he doesn’t design things to get around the available technology. Pathetic.)

He also has bugged Pierce as well as his house, and figures out that Winter Soldier is going to be on assignment within the DC area in an effort to kill some higher-up on the foodchain that was SHIELD.

Well.

Tony has always wanted to go and see the cherry blossoms a little more up close.

Pepper, of course, doesn’t like that they left his boots on.

“This couch is new and red,” she says. “Take off his boots!”

“He is unconscious and probably won’t be in the next fifteen minutes,” Rhodey says. “We are not touching him and possibly shortening that fifteen minutes.”

Winter Soldier wakes up to three faces staring at him.

“Mission failed?” he asks, voice robotic.

“Nope, you just got a new one,” says the man on the right. He is wearing a t-shirt. Winter Soldier thinks that in this situation, a t-shirt is not the best option.

(Of course, he’s not supposed to think. But they don’t have to know that.”

“Can you take your shoes off?” says the woman in the middle. “Please. You’re getting germs on the couch.”

He’s confused.

“Who am I killing?”

“No one, yet,” says the man on the left. “Do you know who you are?”

“Winter Soldier.”

“No, like a name? I’m assuming you’ve had a name at some point.”

“Someone has called me Mr. Freeze before.”

The man on the left snorts. Man on the right taps his arm lightly.

“Well, um, okay then. How do you feel about the name...aw shit. I can’t think of a name for you when your mask is on. Can you take the mask off?”

He takes it off. It’s nicer to breathe.

The man in the t-shirt pauses.

“Okay. So your name is Bucky Barnes. Do you know that name?”

Something clicked. But he doesn’t know what.

“Sounds...familiar.”

“Cool! So that’s your name now, do me a favor and don’t google it. I’m Tony, this is Rhodey, and this is Pepper. If you don’t take your shoes off, you’re going to be scared of her.”

Newly-named-Bucky highly doubts that he will be scared of Pepper because she is built like a twig and she is wearing high heels.

(He is wrong about ten minutes later when she forcibly throws a fork at him.)

“Why am I here?” he asks. “Should I be checking back in with Handler Pierce?”

“No,” comes the consensus from everyone else in the room.

“Technically, he thinks you went rogue and went back to Russia. He’s organizing a team to go get you. We hired an actor to play you. It’s been entertaining. He got some plums. Do you like plums?”

“Why is that relevant?”

“It’s vapid and not interesting at all, Tony loves questions like that,” Rhodey says. “Now come on. We need to get you actual shirts. Also some body wash.”

Bucky Barnes learns how to be a person. He stares at himself in the mirror for an hour and smiles slightly when Pepper calls him “vain” and pushes him aside to grab her hairbrush.

He then learns that Hydra is trying to overtake SHIELD and they have a slight window with Pierce out.

This involves two things:

1.) Tony Stark coming back from the dead.

2.) SHIELD panicking that they didn’t know this secret and taking another look at the paperwork, in which case Hydra will be found out.

These are both easier than anticipated. Tony can act like a showman better than anyone, and has been carefully growing a goatee that is eerily reminiscent of his late father’s. Of course he’s had to switch it up.

The media is going crazy. SHIELD as well. They’re scrambling to find paperwork that proves that it happened, and they find that the “accident” was no accident. That Howard hadn’t been working for the “enemy” at the time.

The enemy was in the building, and they had blended in seamlessly.

This all happens on a Wednesday, by the way. Pepper has it marked on the calendar and everything. Rhodey made his coffee.

Bucky is busy slamming people into drywall and listening for any word from Rhodey, who is also slamming people into drywall.

“You know, you’d think we’d get something like a suit of armor for this,” Rhodey pants out, slamming another guy out of his way.

Bucky nods.

“Best I can offer is a grenade.”

“Where in the fuck did you get a grenade?!”

“Supply closet. Second floor. What, you didn’t check?”

“No sorry must’ve missed it--of course I didn’t fucking check the second floor closet!” Rhodey yells.

Bucky says he’s stressed. He should calm himself.

Rhodey chucks a particularly nasty Hydra agent out a window.

(Bucky thinks Rhodey is probably the coolest person he’ll ever meet.)

Tony is fashionably late to the take-down of the century. He’s already foiled a lot of plans, and taken a key-card for Project Insight to work.

He waltzes in and nearly gets hit by a mug.

“So, how’s the party going?” he yells over to Pepper. Pepper is still in her heels. She looks like a goddess still, as usual. It is a Wednesday, after all.

“As fine as it can be,” Pepper says. “We’ve met some resistance. With Pierce gone there’s little infrastructure. You got his plane delayed, correct?”

“Even better. Got it sent to London. Motherfucker is gonna be there for a while,” Tony says. “Also may or may not have said that he was a threat. SHIELD branch there will investigate, find out some questionable things in his file that he will swear up and down were never there.”

“Good,” Pepper says. She launches a stapler at someone’s head. “Do you think we’ll have time to pick up takeout for dinner?”

“Depends on whether or not Deputy Director Hill is Hydra.”

They see Maria Hill pass by in a blur, yelling as she jumps onto a man and sends him crashing down over a railing.

“Lovely, she isn’t!” Pepper cheers. “By the way, I was thinking about redoing our kitchen.”

“‘Our’ kitchen?” Tony says, ducking a bullet and drawing out his personal lipstick-laser, firing it with expert precision. “I told you the living situation was temporary.”

“Oh please, you have an extra room.”

“Which was an office!” Tony tells her.

“Like you can’t have your office at Stark Industries,” Pepper says. “I expect to hear how the reveal went over dinner. Also, please hire me back. I don’t wanna be your interior decorator for forever.”

“Neither do I, you like modern art. Disgusting.”

And so the fighting resumes.

It is done by five-thirty-two, with an official surrender from Pierce.

“Thank god, I already ordered Chinese and they said it’d be here at six,” Rhodey says.

They all sit on the red couch.

Shoes on.

Tony tips four hundred percent.

“So what are we doing tomorrow?” Rhodey asks.

“I am not moving for six hours,” Bucky answers. “Also maybe getting a library card.”

“This is the first thing you want out of the icebox? A library card?” Tony asks, laughing.

Pepper laughs.

“I have errands to run. You can come with me and we’ll swing by.”

“What are the errands?”

“Getting a kitchen mixer and also making sure that my plates match my napkins.”

“A travesty if it doesn’t happen,” Rhodey deadpans. “Pass the lo mein, Tony. You’re hogging it.”

“I had to fight on a Wednesday and run,” Tony says. “Today isn’t cardio day.”

“Literally hate it when you speak,” Rhodey says. “Absolutely abhor your language.”

They go to bed, although it’s more of laying on the floor.

Sure, Tony will have to deal with retaking a business that he knows a bit less about and Pepper will have to be trained (again) and also fight against being made CEO (but she won’t fight much). Rhodey will get a new job with SI because it’s not like Tony will let him work at SHIELD (Rhodey tries, Tony will get him fired at some point). Bucky just...he needs to get a bit more than a library card.

But that’s for tomorrow.

#BUCKLE IN BOYS WE GOT A LONGGGGGG ONE #bucky barnes #tony stark #rhodey #pepper potts #yes this took all day yes i didn't proofread it #but i love this so much #lovelyirony writes

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ala-mhinyan · 5 years

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II :: Bargain

{{ TW: Extortion + Misgendering }} {{ Feat Mentions of: @monsutanokami, @talesfromthegameff14 and @dunrai-ffxiv }} The letter had arrived by hunting hawk around midday, right as C’tolemy was finishing up his chores to the village and was preparing to return back to Eorzea proper. The trip home had been...strange, to say the least. It was his first return back to home soil after the incident at the Pack company house that had turned his long, curly mane into a curly mess that barely brushed his shoulders. His kin didn’t look him in the eye whenever he addressed them, a silent blessing that both soothed his fraying pride and rankled deep his conviction. It had made the morning hard and midday harder. By the time he had everything ready?—He was more than willing to return home. It wouldn’t feel as though he had disappointed everyone who had even glimpsed at him there.

There—Eorzea? Everyone thought the ‘new look’ was something cute or something he would settle into by the time the eighth sun had passed—not that that was anything better to feel anyway. He’d lost the one thing that was -his- when he fled Kushal. The one thing he’d poured himself into to maintain and had actually come to be a source of pride—gone in one night. One moment of battle. He can still smell the scent of burning flesh and hair every time he turns his head too fast, catching a section of curls that brush past his cheek. His stomach turns and he has to close his eyes.

They’ll never understand.

The details of the letter are more important; it was a parchment paper carefully rolled and tied off with a deep red string. A stamp on the far right end tells him all he needs to know—a wolf’s head holding a dagger. He retrieves the letter from the hawk, brushing it’s feathers with the back of one claw and thrusts his arm up to send the beast on it’s way. It spirals up and flutters away, headed toward Rhalgr’s Reach, disappearing beyond the spires long after Tolemy’s gaze has shifted back to the parchment in his hand. He unravels it with a sharp tug, reading the single line at the center of the parchment: ‘Kugane. Now. Bring your mask.’ C’tolemy resists the urge to grimace at what he reads, neatly rolling the parchment back up as he strolls to the center fire pit and tosses the letter into the flame. He watches until he is sure the trail burns away with that parchment before turning away from the fire, gathering his things and waving goodbye to his kin. A pull inward, a focus of swirling aether and he plunges into the lifestream.

< Kugane: Midday >

The ripple splits, black and purple aether crackling as C’tolemy emerges from the teleport—straightening up the Hingan wolf mask that hides his face. A quick pit stop home allowed him to bathe, change clothing and grab the dreaded mask before teleporting back here. There was no worry of anyone catching his activities at home; they weren’t home at this time. Never were. It’s what made these meetings so guilt-wriddlingly convenient. His attire would place him as a native of the land and at this point? He may as well be. The trips to Kugane to meet his ‘friends’ have been increasing in frequency lately and, as such, have made it known to his lovers that something is going on that the Seeker is hiding. Just the thought has his stomach churning again, a hand coming to rest over his gut in a placid attempt to soothe the guilt. ‘Soon,’ his mind whispers, ‘You will tell them soon.’

His feet take him through the well-populated city, navigating the crowd with practiced ease until he comes to a stop in front of an establishment donned ‘The Golden Rook’. A glance about him and he slips into the eatery, murmuring quiet acknowledgement to the greeter that meets him. The hyur woman gives him a once-over and guides him through the low-lit restaurant to the very back room and right up to, what appears, to be a blank wall coveted by a decorative plant. She brushes the fern aside, slips her hand into the small opening hidden behind it and pulls open the false wall, revealing a simple sliding door. That too, is slid open and C’tolemy bows his head in thanks, slipping through the dark entrance that leads him down a flight of steps into a darker room lit only by candle. In the center of the room sits a male miqo’te behind a low table, similar in size and stature to Tolemy, dressed in similar attire with a similar mask sitting on the table.

The man doesn’t bother looking up at the sound of footfalls, busy working on a letter while C’tolemy comes and sits opposite to him, removing the mask and setting it to the opposite side of the other man’s mask. It’s a careful dance that he plays well. Finally, as if addressed, the man lifts his pale blue gaze to smile upon C’tolemy.

“Well met, Lupa. You made it here safely?”

“Yes. What is it you ah calling me ‘eah foah, Nameless?”

The man smiles politely at his long friend of many years, fox-faced and polite despite the hell he wreathes around his person. It is never a good thing when Nameless calls for you. He retrieves a rolled up parchment, similar to the one that was delivered to C’tolemy earlier and holds it out toward his golden friend. C’tolemy doesn’t move to take it. “You’ve been assigned to pick up another contract for The Syndicate. You’ve been doing well with the last three I gave you—despite the little mix up on your last kill. I assure you, no one will be there to rob you of your meal, Lupa.” A snarl pulls at the edge of Tolemy’s lips but he doesn’t let it show, golden eyes turning sharp. Akuno, that kill-stealing bastard… The Seeker breathes in deep and shakes his head.

“I ‘ave no desiah to pick up anothah contract, Nameless. I ‘ave no desiah to retuhn to being Lupa. That is behind me. I onleh did these few because you said you ‘ad no one else that could and I owed you a favoah. Th’favoah is paid, Nameless. I want nothing more of this.”

The Keeper sitting across from his doesn’t change his eerie smile, nor shift the parchment away from Tolemy. He sits unmoving, smile ever present, letting the silence grow. Just before it begins to unsettle, he speaks up.

“Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy the contracts I gave you, Lupa?”

“Theah wheah enjoyable, yes. But I do naught desiah that life anehmoah.”

Nameless cocks his head at this particular response, leaning back as he sets the rolled parchment onto the table. A curious look colors his expression, that smile still never moving.

“Tell me, Lupa. Does Gyr Abania mean so little to you now?”

C’tolemy stiffens, that snarl riding his spine once more. “What ah you on ab—” “It must be so. For you to deny contracts from me, from someone who has only ever had your revenge in mind. I was the one who signed you to the Ala Mhigan Resistance. I was the one who gave you every garlean contract that passed beneath my fingers. I was the one who has always given you special privilege to do what you must for your country without the consequences any normal person would face. It must not mean as much to you anymore, Ala Mhigo, that is.” The Coeurl shifts slightly in place, his long tail having gone from a slow sway behind him to lying still with the tail tip tik-toking behind him. He furrows his brows, responding curtly. “My allegiance to mine countreh, mine kin and mine tribe is th’onleh reason I still wield these blades. I ‘ave nevah failed a contract. I ‘ave nevah let you down. The wah is something I am monitohing caehfulleh mineself and ‘ave resigned mineself to th’moment th’sands need my blades. If anehthing, this is th’last thing I would be weak on.” Nameless bobs his head in an understanding nod, using his free hand to spread out the various papers he was previously writing on.

“Oh? Is that so, Lupa? Then, care to explain something to me? Should your tribe, your blood, your country mean so much to you… Why have you not been present in it?” The Keeper’s documents house a number of descriptions and sections of map. Upon closer inspection, the maps detail out various areas around Eorzea. The Goblet. The Lavender Beds. Shirogane and The Mists. Red circles are drawn on each map, an approximation of a point on each map; The Proving Grounds. The Haughty Mason. The Pack Company House and—their home in The Mists. Tolemy is still, eyes focused on each map while panic and rage build in his gut like bile.

“You spend much time in Eorzea, Lupa. You wander, yes—You explore, yes. But these locations catch me by surprise with how often you come and go from them. Particularly…” A claw taps the Mist map. “This one. Two Xaela, you, a child and a newborn. Is this the family you’ve made for yourself?” C’tolemy snaps his gaze up to meet Nameless’, that snarl finally riding along his tongue with such intensity it rattles the table. His tail is still and the air around him has shifted to something dangerous, the predator within’ waking up at the mention of his carved out existence and loved ones. Anything, gods above, anything but them.

“Leave them out of this.”

“I will leave your perceived family, even the others that you seem to hold so dear, alone—If you comply, Lupa. Take the contract.”

Nameless’ smile has fallen, the predatory gleam in his blue eyes threatening hell upon his future should the Seeker back down. The line of muscle along the Seeker’s shoulders and arms press hard against the cloth barely containing them, loving cradling each shift in muscle as Tolemy leans forward just a little—to be matched by Nameless’ lean as well. They have both gone still and silent, tension building in the moments before two monsters spring upon one another. The moment, however, never comes. Nameless abruptly smiles and straightens up, relaxing once more with that fox-faced expression. “You will, won’t you? For the children.” C’tolemy snarls low once more, nearly going blind with rage at the mention of his precious children. Their precious children. He’ll be damned if he lets this happen, damned if he bends and damned if says nothing. Terbish’s smiling face flashes in his mind and he relents, hand snapping out and taking the rolled parchment with a loud hiss. “Onleh undah th’condition that mine famileh and mine Pack be left out of this. Next time you bring theah names up at this table I will rip yoah throat out with mine teeth, undahstood?” The words leave no room for argument.

Nameless bobs his head in another good natured sign of understanding, chuckling out brightly. “Of course, of course! I am a friend, am I not, Lupa?” A screening smile pulls on the man’s lips, curling into a malicious smirk of a man that knows he has a dog on a leash.

“The details are all present there. Report back here once you have filled the contract. Happy hunting, Lupa.” C’tolemy rises without word, snatching up his mask and pulling it on roughly as he heads to ascend the staircase and leave his friend behind. Nameless watches the Seeker leave in a huff, long, jackal like ears tweaking as footfalls above him make it clear of C’tolemy’s exit. Only then does Nameless drop the smirk to a vacant expression, leaning forward on the table with elbows keeping him propped up.

A hand lifts and jingles the linkpearl dangling from an ear, the Keeper speaking softly.

“Your will has been carried out. Lupa has accepted the contract, though reluctant to because of his new family and responsibilities in Eorzea. How shall we proceed?”

A moment of silence before a womanly voice replies back,

“I suppose it is time to paeh mine daughtah a visit.”

(( @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast ))

#My writing #ffxiv #ffxivwrite2019 #c'tolemy #lupa #tidbits

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flowiehowie · 4 years

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Tales of Heroism OC Profile #1

So about a year ago I started the Masks: A new Generation tabletop game with two of my friends. The premise of the game is basically Super heroes DnD. It was fun but didn't last as I was the only one between us with interest in super heroics and the story we were making kinda turned into an Urban Fantasy setting. However I still had deep love for my super hero characters so I kept adding to the world I was making, making a Google Doc of character profiles and plot ideas.

Now since this Quarantine has me loosing my mind I decided to post them. I dont know how many I will do, but I have a lot of love for these characters and this setting I made, so if you happen to see this, I hope you enjoy them too! Please ask me questions! If you have your own super hero OC tell me about them! Super heroes are cool. We need more of them.

SOCIETY OF CHAMPIONS HERO DOSSIERS HERO ID: M-19T-M34 HEROIC ALIAS: Hourglass CURRENT RANK: 103 FULL NAME: Aaliyah Curtis SEX: FEMALE HEIGHT: Imperial: 6 Feet 10 inches. Metric: 208.28cm RACE: African-American HAIR COLOR: Brown EYE COLOR: Black Sclera, glowing green iris. ANOMOLOUS APPEARANCE?: Yes. Across the left side of her face, her chest, her shoulders, and her lower back and upper thighs, she has small green stones embedded in her skin. Cracks of green energy may also appear near these stones. Her left arm has been completely replaced with a long durable spike of this green stone. DATE OF BIRTH: July 10th, 1953 (Note made by Kelsey B., Archivist; Despite knowing her DOB, the age of Hourglass is constantly in flux due to the nature of her powers. Refer to Professor Scath’s medical reports for further analysis and data regarding this) NEXT OF KIN: N/A POWER OF ATTORNEY: Cassandra Clark ORIGIN OF POWERS: Mutation( ) - Inherited Genetics ( ) - Forced Experimentation ( ) - Cybernetic augmentation ( ) - Cosmic Force (X) - Extraterrestrial ( ) - Extraterrestrial experimentation ( ) - Divine Force ( ) - ORIGIN OF POWER NOTES: Archivist Kelsey Bernard. I have spent an hour with Hourglass trying to record the exact origins and circumstances of her powers, however she was frustratingly dismissive of my attempts. All I could gather is that when she was young she somehow fell into the dimension she refers to as the ‘Eternal Epoch’. May I personal suggest that is a ridiclously pretentious name. Just call it the time zone or something. These heroes and their silly names. Anyways she fell into the ‘Eternal Epoch’, a dimension of pure time, whatever that means. Time is an illusion everyone knows that. It was there she gained her powers, and had the green crystals embedded in her chest, stomach, face, and where she lost her arm. And gained the cool sword arm. God how cool would that be having a sword arm? Randy wouldn't steal my lunches if I had a sword arm. I wonder if Hourglass could threaten Randy for me. I mean shes a hero and he is a vile criminal that keeps stealing my grilled cheeses so... POWERS: 1.) Personal Time Manipulation: Her base power and theme she based her name on. Given to her from her time trapped in the Eternal Epoch dimension. She can speed herself up or down, and any object(s) or person(s) in her line of sight. She can’rewind’ a person(s) or object(s) movement to up to a minute. 2.) Expounded attacks: A variation of her Time manipulation ability. Hourglass can manipulate the feeling of one of her attacks, and replay it rapidly. As such if she punches you once she can make it feel like 100 hits. She can do this for other physical sensations as well. 3.) Time Healing. A variation of her time manipulation ability. Hourglass may use her abilities on any wounds to regrow and repair damage. There seems to be a limit to this as Hourglass can not undo limb lose, or to heal internal injuries. 4.) Physical boost: As with all Meta Humans Hourglass has increased durability, endurance, strength, and speed. How much of this is related to her Time Manipulation ability is unclear 5.) Portal manipulation: Hourglass is able to open portals to the Eternal Enoch. It seems she can enter and exit the dimension at will. It seems as if she can be pulled into the dimension unwillingly as well. When asked about this Hourglass simply replied “What can I say,when you time travel you learn to prank yourself in annoying ways”. PHYSICAL ABILITIES: 1.) Experienced Boxer. 2.) Basic fencing and swordplay skills. PERSONALITY AND TEMPERAMENT: Observed and documented by Archivist Kelsey Bernard.In my time spent with Hourglass one would label her as laid back. She relishes any moment to sit and rest, and will usually respond to any threats and calls to duty with a sigh and an eye roll. Despite this she seems to enjoy being active in her encounters with the League of Rouges. More than that she also treats the villains she comes across with familiarity. In a battle I witnessed between the speedster Constance Motio AKA Motor, Hourglass would ask about her family and school life. Motor seemed happy for the talk, and even asked Hourglass for life advice. In turn Hourglass likes to involve the Reporter Cassandra Clark in these conversations as well, which leads me to Hourglass’ relationship with the reporter. Why is it heroes are always drawn to reporters? Is it like a universal law? Cassandra Clark, or as she likes to be called Cassie, was one of the first to discover Hourglass. The two seemed to form a friendship, and are never to far apart. I observed Hourglass spending much of her free time with Cassie, and despite officials of the Society asking her not to, will regularly involve Cassie in ongoing investigations. WEAKNESS: Does Orange soda count? Or as she calls it ‘Sody-pop’. Jeez showing your age a bit there Hourglass sweetie. It is fun to say though. Seriously she chugs those things. All the time. More professionally though, I have observed no physical weakness. You will need to refer to The Umber Knights Combat files. As to her powers I observed that the more she uses her time manipulation powers cracks of energy appear on her skin. She tends to not think ahead and is very reactionary in the moment. It is easy to provoke her, and she is quick to loose her temper. Especially when dealing with Ricky Delaney, AKA Stalemate. Whenever Stalemate is involved she tends to act very petty and rash. She is also unable to assume a secret identity due to her anomalous appearance, though she does not seem to mind this. CLOSING NOTES: Archivist Kelsey Bernard. God am I glad no one really reads these general profiles. I wouldn't have nearly as much fun with them. Hourglass is hot and may I just say I totally ship her and Cassie. Am I allowed to say that? Imma do it anyways. Next time she comes in to collect her stipend I am going to ask her to go knock Randy’s head into the fridge.

#Original Writting #Writting #Oc #Original Character #character profile #Tales of Heroism #Hourglass #Hourglass is one of the main characters of my story and one of my favorite characters I ever came up with #She is sassy and tired and just wants to drink orange soda #Fun fact Hourglass' hero ID is a reference to Mandrake the Magician #He is considered one of the first super hero comics #Cassandra Clark's name is also a reference to two DC comics characters #Cassandra Caine and Clark Kent. And overall she is inspired by Lois Lane so #Kelsey Bernard is based of how I think I would be if I had to doing boring paper work and Interveiws with super heroes all day #Randy is based on ever terrible person ever #Fuck you randy

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°*TouMaki - Advent Calendar 2018*° DAY 16 - “ROOFTOP” (“A and B broke up, but now they meet at a Christmas party”) by @fantasysorceress (aka @spider-maki)

Mod’s Note: Everyone who has had the chance of talking TouMaki with me recently knows that after having wirtten novel-length fics about how perfect they are for each other, I have been very interested in the concept of them breaking up, lately (and that I have PLANS on that department). Therefore, I would have tackled this prompt myself, if @spider-maki hadn’t beaten me to it. But I’m SO GLAD she did, because I am a fan of hers, and this fic here is truly something special. Thank you for signing-up, Caroline!!! ;A;

Author’s Note: “@spider-maki here! The supporting prompt I picked for this fic was “A and B broke up, but now they meet at a Christmas party.“ It ended up kind of long, so sorry about my inability to write short fics XD I hope you guys enjoy this anyway!! Merry Christmas to all my fellow toumaki fans!!! <3″

Title: Amplified

“In my defense,” says Toudou, “this was not my fault.”

Even though he’s sitting with his back to Makishima, he can still feel the scorching blue glare burning into the back of his head like a branding iron. “Are you implying this is my fault?”

“No! I’m saying it’s no one’s fault. If anything, it was the fault of a series of poorly timed coincidences that we ended up here.”

“Here,” Makishima says sourly. “You mean, locked out on Kinjou’s roof with you, of all people.”

Toudou’s tempted to object to that statement because he has proof from dozens of fangirls that he is, in fact, great company and thus the best person one could hope to be stuck on a roof with, but he’s pretty sure that would make Makishima even more annoyed with him than he already is. He himself isn’t in the best mood, and if they get any more irritated with each other than they already are, he knows they’ll both end up saying more stuff they’ll regret later.

At least, he knows he’ll regret it later. Past experience has taught him that much.

Toudou huffs out loud, his breath misting in the freezing air. Despite the chilly temperature, the jacket and mittens that Arakita was kind enough to throw at them are keeping him warm, and the tiled roof shingles make a surprisingly comfortable place to sit. He can see the sun setting over the neighbouring houses, painting the sky in hues of yellow and pink and casting dark shadows over the snow-topped trees. It’s a beautiful picture, and if it weren’t for the awkward tension settling thickly between him and Makishima, he would have called the atmosphere peaceful.

“Besides, it was definitely yours,” says Makishima.

“What?”

“The reason we’re locked out here. It was your fault.”

Toudou’s mouth falls open, and he’s so taken aback it takes him a moment to find his words. “It is not! Did that punch knock your memory loose, or was it always that bad?”

“Excuse me?!”

“It was obviously not my fault,” says Toudou. “Let’s go through exactly what happened…”

Kinjou and Arakita’s joint Sohoku-Hakogaku reunion Christmas party has already started by the time Toudou arrives at their house. He recognizes his old teammates’ cars parked on the driveway and lining the edge of the curb, giant snowflakes already gathering in layers of white atop their roofs. Multiple room lights are turned on inside, shining through the windows facing the street. The faint chimes of Christmas music drifts out from the house, echoing throughout the otherwise silent street, and Toudou can’t help humming along as he treks up the front steps and rings the doorbell.

The door opens after a minute. Arakita pokes his head out and snarls, “You’re late.”

“My taxi driver got lost and I don’t know the streets around here,” Toudou says breezily, brushing past him and shrugging out of his coat. He dumps it in Arakita’s arms. “You shouldn’t have moved to Chiba.”

Arakita mutters darkly under his breath, shaking the snow off his coat and angrily shoving it into the closet like he’d rather toss it into the snow outside. “And keep sharing an apartment with Shinkai? No thanks. I prefer living with someone who doesn’t have a black hole of a stomach and steals all my food.”

“Is that the only reason you moved in with Kinjou? I’m sure he’d be crushed to hear that.”

“That’s not -” Arakita breaks off with a frustrated sound. “Shut up!”

Toudou chuckles. “Fine, I won’t pry. How many people are here, anyway? I saw Fuku’s bike on the porch and there’s so many cars outside, I didn’t know you two had invited that many people…”

His voice trails off as he catches a flash of emerald over Arakita’s shoulder. The head of green turns towards him, and Makishima’s bright blue gaze meets his for one long, terrifying moment.

Then Makishima spins around, disappearing into another room, and Toudou grabs Arakita by his shoulders.

“You told me he wasn’t coming!” he shrieks in his face.

Arakita winces. “I only found out this morning,” he says. “He initially said he wasn’t going to come, but Kin-chan talked him into it.”

“But Kinjou knew I was coming! Why would he do that?!”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” Arakita says drily, extricating himself from Toudou’s grasp. “He and Tadokoro haven’t seen him in a while, not even since he moved back here.”

Toudou stops short. “Since he what?”

Arakita pauses, his eyes wide. “You didn’t know? He left England two weeks ago and bought an apartment in Tokyo. His brother’s opening a new studio there and Makishima offered to manage it.”

“How would I know that?!” Toudou screeches. “It’s not like we talk anymore!”

“I know you don’t talk to him, but what about everyone else? Shinkai? Fuku-chan? Wonder Boy? I’m pretty sure they all knew.”

“Well, they didn’t tell me!”

“I’m starting to realize why,” Arakita grumbles. “Is this going to be a problem? Both of you being here?”

Toudou thinks about it. While Kinjou and Arakita’s house wasn’t huge, there were enough rooms that it shouldn’t be too difficult for them to avoid each other for the duration of the party. Makishima would probably stick close to the former Sohoku members anyway. Really, there was no reason for them to interact at all. Even if by some chance they did end up together, all they had to do was ignore each other. It should be fine. They’d successfully ignored each other for the past five years, after all.

He pastes on the most convincing smile he can muster. “No, we’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Seriously?” says Makishima incredulously. “We’ll be fine? We haven’t been fine for years, or did you conveniently forget that?”

“We hadn’t even seen each other in five years!” exclaims Toudou. “I didn’t know you were going to blow up at me the second I opened my mouth!”

“You said your plan was for us to ignore each other. Talking to me sort of ruined that plan, didn’t it?”

“That was not my fault! It was because of the bear!”

The first hour of the party is fine. Better than fine - it’s fun. Toudou didn’t realize how much he missed his old teammates until he got the chance to talk with them face-to-face again. He learns that Fuku adopted a stray ginger cat while in Germany for a cycling race that he named Neko. Shinkai added streaks of white to his signature blue highlights. Izumida and Kuroda were both accepted to study abroad in America for two years. Manami, whom Toudou hasn’t met in person for almost a year, had grown another two inches and apparently moved in with Onoda.

“That was fast,” says Toudou. “Haven’t you only been dating for a year?”

Manami smiles beatifically. “That doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s what we both want.”

Something hot and painful tugs at Toudou’s chest, and it tinges his answering grin with a sort of wistful pride. “If that’s the case, then it’s fine,” he says, patting his old kouhai’s head like he’s a small puppy instead of a man now slightly taller than himself. “Let me know if you or Megane-kun ever need anything!”

Manami gives him a serious nod. “Yes, mother.”

He runs away before Toudou can smack him.

“He’s not wrong,” someone says behind him, and Toudou turns around. Tadokoro smirks, using his wine glass as a prop to gesture at him. “You basically just offered to mother them.”

“That’s not mothering,” Toudou sniffs. “I’m looking out for them. I’m glad they’re happy, but they’re still so young. I don’t want them to make a mistake.”

“I can’t believe you don’t realize how much you sound like a mother,” Tadokoro says, amused. Before Toudou can reiterate that is not, in fact, Manami and Megane-kun’s mother, Tadokoro adds, “Not everyone’s relationship is like yours and Makishima’s, you know.”

Toudou freezes.

“Onoda and Manami aren’t like you two,” he says. “They got together pretty recently - they didn’t dive into a relationship right away. On the surface their decision seems like an impulsive one, but it isn’t. I know they discussed it for a long time before agreeing to give it a try.”

When Toudou speaks again, his tone comes out noticeably cooler than it was earlier. “Are you saying that my choices in high school were an impulsive mistake?”

“Not a mistake,” says Tadokoro. “Just that maybe, you both tried to rush things that you weren’t ready for.”

Toudou opens his mouth, then closes it. There’s nothing he can say to disagree, not when Tadokoro’s opinion mirrors the same thought that’s been plaguing him since the day he and Makishima broke up.

Tadokoro gives him a knowing look and drains his wine glass in one gulp. “Can you get me some more?” he asks, proffering him the empty glass.

Toudou stares at him. “And why should I do that?”

“Because I gave you advice for free.”

“That wasn’t advice! That was criticism of my life choices!”

“Still free, wasn’t it?”

Toudou debates knocking the glass out of his hand and shattering it against the wooden floor for dramatic effect, but instead sighs and takes it. After Tadokoro’s unsolicited ‘advice’, he’s ready for any excuse to leave the room and he’s feeling the urge to get a drink for himself anyway. “Fine. On the condition that you not give me any more ‘advice’ for the rest of the evening.”

Tadokoro heaves a fake sigh. “That’ll be tough, but I think I can manage.”

“Good.” Toudou strides out of the room without a backwards glance, narrowly avoiding walking straight into Yuuto, and heads into the kitchen. Kinjou and Arakita’s kitchen is the largest room in the house, painted pale green with pristine white cabinets encircling the walls. Platters of tempura, gyoza, and yakitori sit on the island in the centre of the room on trays featuring decorative Christmas motifs. The bottles of alcohol are lined neatly atop the marble countertop, where Makishima is pouring what appears to be vodka into his glass of soda.

Makishima’s hand stills over the glass. He carefully caps the bottle and places it back in the line. Toudou stares at him, tamping down his impulse to turn around and flee the kitchen, and blurts out, “Long time no see.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Makishima slowly lifts his gaze to meet his, and the withering glare he shoots him is so venomous that Toudou swears he can feel the poison tainting the air between them. “What?”

Toudou sets Tadokoro’s glass on the counter, holding up his hands in defense. “Nothing! It was just a greeting! I wasn’t implying anything!”

Makishima snorts. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, forgive me if I wanted to pretend we’re not ready to kill each other at our friends’ Christmas party!” retorts Toudou. His patience is already stretched thinner than a rope after Tadokoro’s short speech, and Makishima’s presence is fraying it further. “I thought we could at least be cordial with each other.”

“Sorry for not indulging in your fantasy,” Makishima spits out, stalking past him. “If you’ll excuse me.”

On instinct, Toudou reaches out to grab the sleeve of Makishima’s hideous red Christmas sweater. Makishima jerks back, his drink sloshing over the rim and spilling a few drops onto the tiled floor. He whirls to face him, an angry light in his eyes. “What the hell, Toudou -”

“What is your problem?” Toudou demands. “We broke up five years ago! We haven’t seen or talked at all since then! Are you really still that mad at me over something that happened so long ago?!”

Makishima’s grip on the glass tightens, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to hurl the drink in Toudou’s face. “That,” he says, his tone icy, “is none of your business.”

“Wrong! If it involves me, then it is very much my business. We’re also in Arakita’s house, and if we start at fight at his party he’s going to murder both of us. Painfully. So, it’s better if you just tell me what your problem is and we can move on from there.“

Makishima scowls at him. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Fine.” Makishima slams his glass down on the island. It wobbles, but miraculously doesn’t break. “It’s exactly what you said, about us breaking up. We’d mutually agreed not to see each other anymore. And yet, here we are.”

Toudou blinks, startled. He can vaguely remember one of them screaming those words on that fateful night, but… “I thought by not seeing each other, we meant, like, not dating anymore,” he says slowly. “Not literally never seeing each other.” Did Makishima really hate him that much, that he’d never wanted to even see Toudou ever again?

“Oh.” Makishima sways slightly on his feet. “That makes…more sense.”

A realization strikes Toudou and he leans forward. Makishima’s breath washes over him, the scent confirming his suspicions, and he frowns. “How are you drunk already? The party only started an hour and a half ago.”

“I’m not drunk.”

Toudou rolls his eyes. “How many shots of vodka did you take, Maki-ch - Makishima?”

Fortunately, Makishima doesn’t appear to notice his slip-up. He glances up at the ceiling, counting in his head. “Eight, I think. Why do you care, anyway?”

Toudou hesitates.

Because I never stopped.

“Because if you faint on the floor, everyone’s going to think I somehow did it,” he says instead. “You know you can’t handle that much alcohol. Why did you drink so much?”

Makishima lets out a humourless laugh, pushing green hair out of his face. “I saw you walk in the front door,” he says. “And I knew I wouldn’t get through this night sober if I had to see your face again during the party.”

The last shred of Toudou’s self-restraint disintegrates and he narrows his eyes, moving deliberately into Makishima’s personal space and jabbing an accusing finger in his face. “Are you implying there’s something wrong with my beautiful face?”

“Oh, was it only an implication? I guess I wasn’t clear enough.” Makishima meets his furious gaze dead-on. “Sorry, I forgot that things that aren’t explicitly stated tend to fly right over your head.”

“Really?” Toudou finds himself unconsciously matching Makishima’s sarcastic tone. “I suppose that’s better than missing hints from right under your nose, wouldn’t you agree?”

To his surprise, Makishima flinches. Before he can dwell on it, a pair of hands latch onto his shoulders and drag him away from Makishima. Toudou stumbles backwards, colliding into someone’s solid chest. He glances up at the strands of auburn, blue and white hanging over his head and snaps, “Let me go, Shinkai!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jinpachi,” says Shinkai, far more cheerfully than the situation warrants. “You and Yuusuke look like you’re about to start a fistfight. If that happens, Yasutomo -”

“- will kill us, I know.” Toudou tugs fruitlessly at his wrist. “I won’t hit him, I promise.”

Shinkai hums and releases him. Toudou straightens, dusting off his clothes, and only then does he notice Makishima is also being restrained by Tadokoro. Until he looks closer and realizes Makishima’s eyes are closed and he’s actually slumped forward, unconscious in Tadokoro’s arms. Alarm jolts through his spine like a lightning bolt.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” says Tadokoro, patting Makishima’s cheek. Makishima doesn’t stir. “He just drank too much. Let him take a short nap, and he’ll be fine.”

Toudou breathes a quick sigh of relief. He can feel the odd look Shinkai is giving him, but decides to ignore it for now and watches as Tadokoro lifts Makishima like a ragdoll and carries him out of the room. Without Makishima there, the strained air in the room is gone and Toudou can think clearly again.

He groans aloud, adjusting the hairband on his head and fixing the violet strands that had fallen out his place during his argument with Makishima. Why did he even speak to Makishima in the first place? More than that - why did he stop Makishima from leaving the kitchen? If he hadn’t, they would have continued ignoring each other as they’d successfully done until their chance encounter in the kitchen, and Toudou wouldn’t be left with the sick feeling in his gut roiling his emotions like a kitchen blender.

“Jinpachi.” The gravity in Shinkai’s voice catches his attention. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” says Toudou. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who knocked himself out drinking too much.”

“You still like him, don’t you.” There’s no question in Shinkai’s tone. Just a dawning revelation. “You said you were over him, and we believed you, but -”

“- But nothing!” Toudou says sharply, cutting him off. He takes a deep breath. “Please, just…pretend you didn’t see any of this. I need to be alone for a bit.”

Shinkai studies him for a few seconds, and whatever he sees makes him grin and shoot Toudou the signature finger guns he’s never given up even after graduating from Meisou. “You got it. Arakita said we’re eating in about half an hour, so you should get back here before then.”

“Thanks, Shinkai.” In a brief attempt at reclaiming his normal self, Toudou grins and pats Shinkai’s shoulder. Shinkai nods, but the understanding in his eyes makes the sick feeling in his stomach worsen. Toudou turns quickly, the crafted mask slipping off his face as he brushes past him and heads upstairs by himself.

He decides not to intrude in any of the closed room doors on the upper level and instead sits on the topmost step of the staircase. As the noises from the party fades to background din, Toudou leans his head against the wall and thinks about nothing.

“So that’s where you went,” Makishima mumbles to himself. “When I woke up, I thought you disappeared.”

Toudou huffs a laugh. “You must have been overjoyed.”

Makishima doesn’t reply, and Toudou interprets his silence as agreement. He breathes out, watching the white mist swirl in rings before him. Maybe it’s his imagination, but somehow the air between them doesn’t feel as cold as it was minutes earlier.

“What Shinkai said,” Makishima says suddenly, and Toudou stiffens. “About me. Is that true?”

Toudou is glad Makishima still has his back to him and can’t see the panic he knows just flashed across his face. He wasn’t ready for that conversation with Shinkai in the kitchen, and he’s definitely not ready for it with Makishima now, not when they’re on a roof and it would be easy for Makishima to push him off in a fit of anger and claim it was an accident.

“Don’t listen to him,” says Toudou, struggling to keep his voice even. “You know how Shinkai is - always joking about something.”

“I don’t, actually, since I’ve never spoken to him one-on-one.” He hears Makishima shift into a more comfortable position, the fabric of his jacket crinkling as he settles. “Are you saying he was wrong?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say that either.”

“Then which is it?!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Toudou says quickly. “I’m still trying to prove to you that it wasn’t my fault we’re stuck on this roof, and there’s still one more incident to cover.”

“Oh, right,” says Makishima. “The one that was so obviously your fault that I’m looking forward to how you’re going to twist it in such a way that makes you look good.”

“Excuse you, I always look good.” The automatic response leaves his mouth before he can stop it and Toudou cringes, waiting for Makishima to yell at him some more. To his shock he hears a muffled chortle instead. Almost like Makishima is trying to hide his amusement into his gloves.

The sound sends a pang through Toudou’s heart, a weird mixture of fondness and regret wrapped in red and green, and he clears his throat before it can show on his face.

“Now, where were we?”

Arakita discovers him sulking upstairs approximately half an hour later, as Shinkai estimated, and forcibly drags him down to the table in the dining room. Even in his foul mood, Toudou’s able to appreciate the effort he and Kinjou had put into transforming the fairly nondescript room into an aesthetic Christmas scene. Strings of gold tinsel hang around the room in draping loops along the walls and windows. A tall vase of red and white flowers sits in the centre of the rectangular table. Sixteen plates and cutlery sets are arranged neatly at each place setting, the porcelain white dishes decorated with red, green and gold designs etched into the outside curves of the dishes. The smell of apples and cinnamon burns in the air.

By the time he and Arakita enter the room, everyone else is already seated. Toudou glances over their chairs, nudges Arakita with one elbow, and whispers, “Why are the only two seats that are left both in the same half of the table where Makishima is sitting?”

“We didn’t put a name on each seat - this isn’t a wedding!” Arakita hisses. “Do you think we’re executing a conspiracy against you two? It just happened that way! If you don’t want to sit at the table, you can sit in the kitchen by yourself!”

Toudou pouts at him. “There’s no need to be so mean, Arakita.”

“Then stop spouting nonsense and pick a damn seat.”

Sliding into the chair that’s positioned a little farther from Makishima, Toudou angles his body in the direction away from him and quickly engages in conversation with Fukutomi, who’s sitting beside him. He’s still uncomfortably aware of Makishima picking at his cabbage salad across the table and the way he’s also deliberately avoiding any possible eye contact. The knowledge should have been relieving, but instead it leaves Toudou feeling even emptier than before.

As he scoops out a few pieces of fried chicken onto his plate, Toudou suddenly realizes the whole room has gone quiet and looks up. Everyone, including the younger former Sohoku riders whom he doesn’t even recognize, are staring at him and Makishima like they can sense the boiling tension between them and are waiting for one of them to explode. With great difficulty, Toudou bites back the urge to scream at all of them. Either Tadokoro and Shinkai tattled about their fight in the kitchen, or the terrible relationship between the two of them is so palpable that even Manami, who looked ready to fall asleep in his miso soup when Toudou walked in, is now looking between them like he’s expecting one of them to deck the other any moment.

Toudou forces a laugh, and it rings hollow in the noiseless dining room. “Why are you all so quiet? This is a Christmas party! We should all be celebrating!” He grabs the wine glass in front of him, who someone - probably Arakita - had filled with champagne earlier and lifts it in the air. “How about a toast for the holidays?”

For a moment, no one moves. Then Onoda, with a tentative smile, raises his glass and clinks it against Toudou’s, and Toudou mentally reminds himself to buy the kid a very nice birthday present the next year.

“Merry Christmas!” Manami chimes in, tapping his own glass to Onoda’s, and that breaks the spell. The rest of Toudou’s old Hakone cycling team toast their glasses, Izumida nearly spilling his drink when he knocks it too enthusiastically against Shinkai’s, and soon the Sohoku guys join in too.

Except for one.

“Yuusuke,” says Kinjou, his glass raised with one hand and gesturing at Makishima’s untouched drink with the other, “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s not.” Makishima’s voice is hoarse and barely audible, but somehow it carries across the whole table. “I won’t toast to a lie.”

“Makishima…” Kinjou’s tone drops in a warning, but Makishima is either still a little drunk or he doesn’t care, because he keeps talking.

“You guys don’t have to pretend everything’s fine. I know that because Toudou and I aren’t on good terms anymore, it’s affecting everyone’s mood.” Makishima glances at Kinjou. “You shouldn’t have asked me to come. We’re just ruining the party that you and Arakita worked so hard to arrange, and I’m sorry -”

“Wait a minute,” Toudou interrupts, and silently apologizes to Arakita for the scene he’s sure they’re about to make. “We’re ruining the party? I’m here trying to cheer everyone up and get them back in the Christmas spirit! You’re just dragging them back down with your negativity!”

Makishima snorts a laugh, the sound even more fake than the one Toudou let out minutes earlier. “That’s just like you,” he says. “Thinking everything can be fixed by forcing your own happiness onto other people.”

That stings, more than anything Makishima’s said all evening, but Toudou’s gotten better at hiding his real feelings from others and he presses on. “And what exactly do you mean by that, Makishima?”

“Kuha! You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Um,” says Tadokoro. “Guys, maybe now isn’t the best time -”

“If you’re referring to me asking you to move in with me after high school,” Toudou says loudly, “then I wasn’t forcing my happiness on you! It was only a question!”

Makishima lets out a derisive snort. “Oh, it was only a question? I think that got lost in the translation when you started screaming at me after I turned down your offer.”

“I wasn’t mad that you turned me down!” Toudou objects. “I was mad that you conveniently forgot to mention you were moving to England when you had known for five months beforehand!”

Makishima looks at him askance. “Did you think I forgot to mention it? I didn’t tell you on purpose, because I knew you would react as badly as you did!”

“Of course I reacted badly!” Toudou screeches. “We were in a relationship for a year! By then I thought you trusted me with important information about your life decisions, but that turned out be the worst assumption I’ve ever made, didn’t it?”

“I wasn’t obligated to share every detail about my personal life with you just because you were my boyfriend! You know I’m a private person - I have to keep some secrets to myself until I’m ready to share them. You never had the right to demand to know them!”

“I didn’t,” Toudou begins hotly, then stops short.

Because maybe he never really considered it from Makishima’s point of view, and Makishima’s accusation that he demanded information from him - that is what he’d done, wasn’t it? That fateful day Makishima had, likely unintentionally, broken his heart with a few carelessly spoken words, and in his disappointment Toudou had thrown his hurt feelings in Makishima’s face and blamed them on him. He’d pushed Makishima too far, something Toudou had realized not long after he slammed the door in Makishima’s face and had a few days to cool off, but it never occurred to him that during their fight, he’d dug up Makishima’s insecurities and used them as verbal weapons against his then-boyfriend.

Releasing his held breath, Toudou places his glass back on the table. “That wasn’t my intention. To ask for more than you were prepared to give.”

Makishima scoffs. “You didn’t realize it, maybe, but that was definitely your intention.”

“Not to hurt you!” Toudou shouts, slamming his hands against the table and making the plates and silverware rattle. Onoda jumps and squeaks in alarm but that barely registers in his mind, all of his attention now focused on Makishima glaring balefully at him. “You said I was forcing my happiness on you? If that’s true, then it was only because I thought it was what you wanted! I just wanted you - wanted us - to be happy!”

“In case it escaped your notice, Toudou,” Makishima growls, “you didn’t make anyone happy then, and no one is happy now.”

“And whose fault is that? I’m not the one who went radio silent for five years and decided to dredge up past grudges at a Christmas party!”

Makishima stares at him. “I didn’t - you’re the one who suggested we never talk again just before we left! Why are you complaining about that now? Besides, communication goes two ways, and it’s not like you made any effort to reach out either!”

“…You make it sound so easy,” says Toudou. “Like I could just call you one day and you wouldn’t either hang up immediately, or yell at me for bothering you and end the call before I could get a word in. Because that’s what you do best, isn’t it? Run away from things you don’t like?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” says Makishima, “when you’re the one who left in the first place when things didn’t go your way.”

“I was upset, as you well know,” Toudou says irritably, “and I did go back the next day, but by the time I got there your mother was kind enough to inform me that you’d decided to stay with the bear for the rest of the month and probably didn’t want to see me anymore!”

“I…” Makishima blinks, seeming surprised. “You came back? Why?”

Toudou fumes.

Because I missed you!

“Because we needed to talk, properly! But you left and I didn’t hear a word from you!” He stands up, leaning across the table as close to Makishima as he can without falling. “It’s like I said! You run away when you’re afraid!”

Makishima’s eyes narrow. They’re close enough that Toudou can see his dilated irises, can faintly feel the warmth of his breath against the tip of his nose. “You think I’m afraid of you? Just because you think you’re the Mountain God?”

“Not afraid of me,” Toudou corrects. “Afraid of us. Of what we had, and what ended up happening to it.”

A flicker of surprise passes through Makishima’s gaze, and Toudou knows he was right. Makishima drops his chopsticks, letting them fall to the table with a clatter, and stands up to meet him eye-to-eye. For a moment, Toudou lets himself imagine that they’ll reach an understanding, fall back in each other’s good graces, and carry on with their friends’ Christmas party in high spirits.

It’s a pipe dream, and Makishima shatters it with one sentence.

“You were afraid of us too,” he says, “or did you think I’d forget that it was you who said you’d rather be miserable without me while I was in England, instead of trying to force something neither of us wanted?”

The memory of the last words Toudou ever spoke to Makishima for five years crashes into his head like a wrecking ball, and suddenly he’s seventeen again, furious and heartbroken and screaming out the ugliest thoughts he had in an attempt to protect the last remnants of the euphoria he’d felt when he bought a new apartment with the intention of rooming with his boyfriend for the next four years. Some of what he’d yelled out was true, some were a downright lie, but in the end it didn’t matter whether they were true or not - they both said whatever they could to make the other hurt, and it worked too well.

Toudou makes a noise that’s dangerously close to a whimper, hands clenching into fists at his side. For a second he sees Makishima draw back one step, perhaps recognizing that he may have went too far, but it’s quickly overtaken by the rage that blurs Toudou’s vision. His world turns red, darker than the scarlet Christmas decorations hanging around Arakita’s house, and he grabs Makishima’s collar to tug him closer.

Makishima opens his mouth to say something, and Toudou punches him in the face.

“Shit!” Makishima staggers backwards. The room dissolves into a babbling chaotic mess. Someone screams - it sounds like Ashikiba - and an arm is locked around Toudou’s throat in an instant, yanking him back and away before he can hit him again. Toudou struggles against Arakita’s vice-like grip as Kinjou holds out the ice pack he summoned out of nowhere and presses it to Makishima’s nose.

“Did he break anything?” asks Arakita.

Kinjou lifts the ice pack, peering at Makishima’s face. “I don’t think so. Yuusuke, do you feel any pain?”

“I’m fine,” Makishima mutters, batting the ice pack away from him. A black bruise is already blossoming on his left cheekbone, a dark contrast against his pale skin. “Toudou couldn’t hurt a flower if he punched it.”

Toudou redoubles his efforts to escape. “Excuse me?!”

“Okay, that’s the last straw,” Arakita says abruptly, tightening his hold and nodding at Kinjou. “Bring him too.”

Toudou swears he sees a small smirk grace Kinjou’s face before his usual stoic expression returns and he takes Makishima’s arm. Arakita leads them upstairs, past the step where Toudou was sitting earlier, and stops in front of the wide bay windows facing the street outside. The snowfall has lightened, falling in gently drifting flurries and leaving a coating of white over the roof tiles of Arakita and Kinjou’s garage. An airplane flies overhead, and the low drone of its engines makes Toudou aware of how quiet it is compared to the shouting match he and Makishima held in the dining room.

He winces. “Arakita, about what just happened -”

“Save it!” Arakita barks, flipping the latch on the windows and pushing them open. The freezing air rushes into the room, dropping the temperature about ten degrees and raising the hairs on Toudou’s arms.

“What are you doing?” he complains. “It’s cold! Close the window!”

“Nope,” he says, moving past them to open the nearby closet and pull out two sets of winter gear, complete with jackets, gloves, and boots. He tosses one at Toudou and the other at Makishima. “You disrupted the whole party and ruined everyone’s night. This is your punishment.”

“Punishment?” Makishima repeats weakly. “Look, I’m really sorry -”

“I said I don’t want to hear it!” Arakita snaps. “Kin-chan and I already decided on this beforehand.”

Makishima shoots his friend a betrayed look. “Decided on what?”

“We’re kicking you both out,” says Kinjou, pushing up his glasses. “Onto the roof. We’re going to lock the window, and you’re not allowed to come back out until you resolve your differences and promise not to negatively interfere with our Christmas party any longer.”

“Or until you get into another fight and push each other off the roof.” Arakita shrugs, a wicked grin curving his mouth. “Either way, our problem is solved.”

“Hang on a second,” Toudou says, mounting panic flooding his brain, “you can’t leave us alone out there! It’s minus two degrees outside!”

Arakita points. “That’s what the jacket and gloves are for.”

“We’re going to kill each other,” says Makishima. “What if you’re charged with accessory to manslaughter?”

“Yeah, nice try. It’s not going to work.” Arakita lifts Toudou like he weighs nothing more than a sack of potatoes and shoves him through the window. “I don’t care whether you kill each other up here, but try not to spill any blood on the roof. The construction only finished two weeks ago and if we have to pay to fix it, I’m taking the money from Toudou’s bank account.”

“What?” Toudou shrieks as Kinjou gently but forcefully bundles Makishima out the window. “Why mine?”

“Because you threw the first punch, so I’m blaming you for any subsequent punches,” says Arakita. “We’ll come back when you’re ready to stop scaring the younger kids.”

“Have fun,” adds Kinjou.

The window locks behind them.

“And that’s what happened,” Toudou finishes triumphantly.

Makishima gives him a bewildered look. “Why do you sound happy about that? You didn’t prove your point at all. You’re the one who punched me in the face.”

“Yes, but that’s because you made fun of me first,” Toudou explains. “Which happened because I taunted you. All of it can be traced back to when we happened to meet in the kitchen, or if we’re looking even further back, the fact that we both came to this party without knowing the other would be there.”

Makishima mumbles something Toudou can’t make out.

“What?”

“I said, I knew you were coming,” he says. “Kinjou told me beforehand.”

Toudou’s mouth drops open. “And you still showed up?” he squawks.

“I thought the same as you - that I could avoid you the whole time,” says Makishima. “I forgot that you liked to go poking into other people’s business, especially mine.”

“That’s not what I -” Toudou cuts himself off, flopping backwards onto the roof and ignoring the cold flash of snow suddenly gathered against his neck. He closes his eyes. “Nevermind. I’m too tired to fight anymore. You can push me off the roof, if you want.”

Makishima doesn’t say anything for a full minute. Toudou almost fears he’s actually considering pushing him off until he says quietly, “That’s not what I want.”

Toudou snorts. “That’s a relief - that’d be a terrible way for someone as gorgeous as me to die. Good thing you don’t hate me enough to kill me.”

“I don’t -” Makishima exhales. “I never hated you, Toudou.”

Toudou’s eyes shoot open and he sits up, fast enough to make his head spin from the sudden movement. “What?”

Makishima’s gaze is piercing. “Do you hate me?”

“Yes! No! I don’t -” A frustrated sound escapes him and Toudou looks away. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I hated you, but that moment just before I hit you - I was really, really mad at you.”

“I could tell,” Makishima says drily.

“I am sorry for punching you, though.”

Makishima waves off his apology. “It’s fine. I kind of deserved it. It doesn’t even hurt that much, so I guess I was right about you not being able to throw a decent punch.”

Toudou wants to be offended, but he doesn’t want to destroy the wordless truce they’ve agreed on and settles for a shrug. “It’s strange,” he says. “I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you, but at the same time - I didn’t really want to hurt you.” He looks down at his fingers, reflexively clenching them into a fist. “I heard people usually injure their hands the first time they punch someone, and yet I’m fine. I don’t think I used my full strength, even though I’m sure I meant to.”

“Huh.” Makishima scratches the side of his nose, tinted pink from the cold air. “Whether you meant to or not…I’m sorry, too. For what I said. I shouldn’t have said it in front of everyone like that.”

Toudou sighs, tucking his legs closer to his body and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I didn’t like it, but I said some pretty nasty stuff about you too,” he admits. “We were both acting stupid.”

Makishima barks a laugh. It’s as self-deprecating as always, but something about the familiar sound is comforting to Toudou’s ears. “Guess we haven’t changed much from all those years ago.”

“Maybe not,” says Toudou, “but it was cathartic, I think. To yell at you like that. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I’ve found it cathartic to yell at you since the day we met, so…”

“Rude, Maki-ch - argh!” It’s rare for Toudou to feel this embarrassed, but in this moment he wishes he could sink through the roof and disappear from Makishima’s sight. He buries his face in his hands with a groan.

A gloved hand touches his shoulder, tentative like it’s afraid Toudou will break if it grips too hard, and the contact shocks Toudou enough to lift his head. “Eh?”

“You almost called me that back in the kitchen, too,” Makishima observes. Before Toudou can deny it, he sighs. “I don’t care what you call me, Toudou. I’m not going to get mad at you over a nickname you’ve always used anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Toudou says hesitantly. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate, considering we’re not, well, close anymore.”

“I didn’t think you of all people cared about what was appropriate or not.”

“I just didn’t want you to hate me any more than you already did.”

Makishima looks taken aback. “I said I never hated you -”

“I didn’t know that before!” On instinct, Toudou clasps Makishima’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing his fingers between his. “I know I said you got scared and ran away from our relationship, but I got scared sometimes too, you know?” His mind flashes back to his conversation with Tadokoro and maybe you both tried to rush things that you weren’t ready for. “We didn’t communicate, not properly,” he says, the realization hitting him as he says the words. “That’s why we fell apart, isn’t it?”

Makishima’s voice softens. “Maybe,” he says. “We don’t know what would have happened if we’d stayed together when I moved to England. But that was likely our biggest problem, yes. I wouldn’t say it was our only obstacle, but it did ruin our relationship in the end.”

Toudou swallows. While he’d obviously missed going on dates with Makishima, that wasn’t what had hurt the worst during those first few painful months. It was losing Makishima as one of his best friends. He’d grown so used to calling and texting Makishima on a whim about things from trivial information, to advice on cycling, to just wishing to hear Makishima’s voice, that suddenly not being able to do it anymore had been torture. His excitement about graduating and heading to university had all but dissipated, leaving nothing but regrets and what-ifs for him to carry into the future.

“I didn’t hate you,” Toudou says, testing the words, and he’s relieved to find they don’t taste like a lie. “I just missed you, so much, and it hurt. I didn’t hate you. I hated that we’d ended on such bad terms and you were a million miles away before I could try to fix us. I hated that I was sure you hated me. I hated that I couldn’t hate you no matter how much I wanted to.” He moves his hand from Makishima’s to his own face, pressing his fingers against his eyelids in an attempt to stop the tears he can feel leaking out. “Most of all, I hated that it was my fault.”

“What? Toudou, didn’t we just establish that it was both of our faults?”

“I asked you to move in with me, without warning, and you rightfully flipped out.” Toudou tries to laugh, but the choked sound he makes can’t be mistaken as anything but a sob. “I should have asked what you thought of the idea before suddenly springing that on you.”

“That’s not your fault, Toudou.” Makishima rubs a hand against his own face. “I never told you I was graduating early, so you didn’t expect to have to ask about that yet. And you wanted it to be a surprise, I get that. I was just, you know, surprised.”

“You hate surprises.”

“Well, yes, but you were also trying to be romantic, right?” A pretty flush covers Makishima’s cheeks. “I only realized that days later.”

“I figured as much, Maki-chan.” The name slips out by accident. Toudou bites his tongue, but doesn’t take it back. “You wouldn’t recognize a romantic gesture if it hit you over the head with a brick -”

“Oi!”

“- and I knew that even before we started dating.” He offers him a smile. “It’s fine.”

“That’s not a good excuse, though,” Makishima says, looking down. “You made more of an effort to understand me than I did at getting to know you. I accused you of trying to force our relationship, but that’s better than what I did - I didn’t try nearly hard enough to keep us together.”

More tears slide down Toudou’s cheeks in rivers. “Maki-chan…”

“That wasn’t fair to you. And I think…that’s why I ran away to England.” Makishima breathes out. “You deserved better than me.”

Toudou stares as Makishima continues to studiously avoid looking at him, his gaze firmly set on the pitch-black horizon. Then he can’t help it - he lets out a genuine laugh, his shoulders shaking with the force of trying to hold in his amusement. He’s still crying, can still feel the salty warmth against the chill of his skin, but his mood is significantly lighter.

Makishima, on the other hand, is gaping at him as though Toudou has lost his mind, an offended expression taking shape on his face. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Not at you!” Toudou reassures him, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’m laughing at us. It’s not actually that funny, it’s just - I realized we really are the same kind of stupid.”

Makishima arches an eyebrow.

Toudou spreads his hands out, a little helplessly. “I let you go because I thought you deserved better than me.”

“You -” Makishima looks astonished. “What?”

“I almost bought a plane ticket to England,” says Toudou, and the memory almost sends him into another fit of hysterics. “I’d filled out all the details online and was all set to order. But I didn’t - I couldn’t go through with it. I thought, what was the point? Even if we somehow made up - which at the time seemed highly unlikely - I wasn’t going to stay in England, and you weren’t coming back to Japan. I thought you’d be better off living your life freely the way you wanted, instead of feeling like you were stuck until you grew too tired of me.”

“I see it now,” he continues, voice trembling. “We really didn’t talk at all, did we? Not about the important things. You said I tried harder to understand you, and I did try, but I could have also just asked you about your thoughts instead of always trying to figure things out behind your back.” Toudou presses his lips together. “I know I already said it, but I really am sorry about that. I should have talked to you directly first.”

Makishima frowns at him. “You know, I think you’ve said ‘sorry’ more times today than I’ve ever heard you say in your entire life,” he says. “It’s not like you, and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

Toudou splutters. “You said it too, and you don’t usually say it either!”

“Ha, that’s true.” Makishima picks at the fabric on his gloves, tearing at a tiny hole in the green thread. “How about we both acknowledge that the blame for our breakup lies on both of us, and promise to stop apologizing for it?”

A promise. When was the last time he and Makishima made a promise together?

“Okay,” says Toudou. “I promise.”

“And please stop crying,” adds Makishima, glancing at him. “That’s also making me uncomfortable.”

Toudou chuckles, using his gloves to brush away the last of his tears. “I see you’re still allergic to emotions after all these years.”

“Shut up.”

Stretching out his legs, Toudou lies back on the roof tiles and looks up at the stars high above them. They’re partially obscured by the drifting clouds and falling snow, but he can still spot several tiny pinpoints of light in the sky. He raises his hands, framing right angles with his thumb and index finger, and tests them against the stars.

“What are you doing,” Makishima deadpans.

“We’re still locked out here until Arakita or Kinjou comes back to free us,” says Toudou. “So we might as well find something to do. I’m seeing whether I can recognize any of the constellations.”

“I’m surprised we can even see the stars in this weather. I doubt you’ll find a complete constellation.”

Toudou shrugs. “Maybe, but you never know until you try.”

Snow crunches under Makishima’s jacket and pants as he lies down beside Toudou. He shifts closer, close enough for their shoulders to touch and for Toudou to feel the warmth emanating from Makishima’s body heat. He instinctively burrows into the source of warmth, leaning his head into the juncture between Makishima’s shoulder and neck, and he hears his sharp intake of breath. Makishima doesn’t say anything, though, merely readjusts into a more comfortable position.

They’re silent for several long minutes, Toudou continuing to search the sky with Makishima’s quiet breathing in his ear. Eventually, Makishima asks in a voice as soft as the snow under their backs, “Toudou, what are we doing?”

“Looking at the stars -”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says impatiently. “Just now, you said even if we somehow made up, which at the time seemed highly unlikely. At that time.” Makishima’s voice cracks. “What about now? What exactly were you trying to say?”

Toudou lowers his hands, carefully considering his next words. “I wasn’t saying anything that I’m forcing us to do,” he says. “I was just suggesting that now, I wouldn’t mind if we became friends again.”

Makishima chews on his bottom lip. “Just friends?” he asks.

“Just -” Toudou blinks, rolling onto his side to face him. “What are you trying to say?”

“I…” Makishima coughs, his face reddening. “You know I’m not good at talking, especially about my feelings. But that’s how I screwed up last time, so that’s why I want to tell the truth now. And the truth is…I’m still in love with you.”

Toudou stares at him. Disbelief and a hint of something else, something unexpected but definitely pleasant, melts in his veins like thawed frost and he pinches the skin on his arm to make sure he isn’t dreaming. The flare of pain alerts him to the fact that yes, he is sitting on Arakita and Kinjou’s roof in the middle of winter while his ex-boyfriend confesses he still loves him. Toudou is sure he can count on one hand the amount of times Makishima had verbally expressed his affection for him, and the knowledge that he’s willing to do so now, when they’d been fighting less than an hour ago, means more to him than he could ever say in words, and his eyes well up again.

“It’s okay, if you’re not anymore,” says Makishima. “I don’t expect -”

“Maki-chan,” Toudou cuts him off, grinning through his tears. “Did you really think I ever stopped?”

Makishima gives a tentative smile back. With the white snowflakes in his emerald hair shining under the moonlight, Toudou thinks he’s never looked more beautiful. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“That’s why I’m telling you.” Feeling happier than he’s been in ages, Toudou moves to grip Makishima’s hand in his own, and Makishima clutches it back. “I love you too. Always have, and always will.”

Makishima lets out a slow breath. “Good. I’m glad.”

“I don’t think we should jump back into a relationship right away, though,” Toudou says, reluctantly because as much as he’s tempted to do just that, he knows it’s a bad idea considering their rocky history. “We should be friends, first. Fit each other back into our lives. And if everything works out and we’re both happy and ready, then we can try again. How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect, Jinpachi,” says Makishima, and Toudou’s heart stutters in his chest. He shuffles closer, stretching up to place a kiss on Makishima’s cheek and threading his other hand through the familiar soft strands of green hair. Makishima shivers at the touch, his hand squeezing Toudou’s to the point where it’s bordering on painful. Toudou lingers there, his lips on Makishima’s skin, until the loud click of the window unlatching startles him into rearing back.

“Are you idiots seriously making out on the roof?” says Arakita, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “When I said I didn’t you care if you fell to your deaths, I didn’t mean you two shouldn’t care about your own lives either!”

“We’re not making out!” Toudou shrills.

“Does it look like I care?” Arakita retorts. “If you’re done reconciling or whatever the hell you’re doing right now, get back inside. We finished dinner already, but there’s still dessert left. Don’t expect me to save you any chocolate cake if you decide to stay here forever.”

As he turns to leave, Toudou lets go of Makishima, scrambling to his feet and cupping his hands around his mouth. “Arakita!”

Arakita whips around. “Stop yelling! The neighbours are going to call the cops on us if you’re too noisy!”

“Arakita,” Toudou repeats, quieter but still loud enough for Arakita to hear. “Thank you.”

“Tch. Whatever.” In spite of his words, there’s a smirk splitting Arakita’s face when he strides away and Toudou can’t help the delighted laugh that bubbles out of his chest.

He turns back to face Makishima, who’s watching him with a tender expression that Toudou hasn’t seen for a long time. When he notices Toudou is watching him back, he instantly breaks eye contact, mumbling something Toudou can’t hear under his breath, and Toudou’s mouth twitches into a fond smile.

“Maki-chan,” he says warmly, holding out one hand. “Let’s go.”

Makishima meets his eyes. They’re the same vivid blue as always, sparkling with an emotion Toudou can’t put into words but knows all the same. “Yeah.”

He takes his hand.

#toumaki advent calendar 2018 #submission #toumaki #fantasysorceress #spider-maki

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fakesurprise · 6 years

Text

The Work Shift

Ma’am? The, ah, contract on Juniper Street – the one that is to be demolished?”

“What of it, Rog?”

“It’s not taking. The demolition, I mean.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve blasted for times. Used six wrecking balls. It – I don’t have words for it. The building is repairing itself. As though it didn’t want to be demolished.”

There was no reply.

“The last two blasts were done at once, ma’am,” Rog said quickly. “It lit up the building through the windows like a solar flare? Only the windows aren’t damaged anymore.”

“And where is Hendrix?”

“The – the foreman went inside. He came running out. He was sobbing, ma’am.”

Rog almost imagined that Mrs. Durim paused for a moment. “Sobbing.”

“He said ‘I’m not four men. Not four men. Even four of me would not be jaysome.’ I wrote it down. Several of the crew fled. I have no idea what to do now.”

“Shit.”

Rog froze. He’d never heard Mrs. Durim swear. She rattled off a long distance phone number. “Call them. Say it’s from Durim. And I require their services. Dismiss everyone else from the site.”

And she hung up. Rog told everyone to leave and then called the number. The voice on the other end could have belonged to any all centre. He said the message and then was told to stay on the line as his business was very important to the firm.

Rog couldn’t shake the feeling that the voice was entirely sincere in this.

“You may hang up your phone now.”

Rog spun. The young man was twenty at best, wearing a perfectly fitting suit the colour of a first snowfall. His skin reminded Rog of polished mahogany, his eyes a polished ice between the skin and clothing. People don’t look like this, Rog thought, but some instinct saved him from speaking it aloud.

“I’m Rog. I –.”

“You are not important. My name does not matter. I am with the firm.” The young man walked toward the building, his steps elegant. Rog felt small, though he wasn’t, next to that grace.

The door opened before the man could touch it. On the other side was a boy of eleven, who grinned. His grin did something. It lessened that cultured beauty of the stranger in white into something smaller.

“Uh. Hello?” Rog said.

“Hi! I’m Jay,” the boy said excitedly. “Did you know that you were trying to do an oops to this building, only it doesn’t want to explodify at all!”

“We were hired to do that,” Rog said faintly. “We have a contract.”

“Really?? But who would want to blow up a nice house full of jaysome memories?” the boy asked.

“That is not important. We have a contact with Durim Construction. You will not get in the way of this,” the man beside Rog said.

“But I already did.” The boy looked confused. “Did you miss that part?”

There was nothing save sincerity in the question. The young man beside Rog twitched slightly. “I did not, no. But we have a contract. A binding. And you will not break it.”

“You can change it,” the boy said firmly.

“No. You will leave his place, or we will cancel your credit cards. The ones for you, as well as the others.”

“But Charlie uses hers a lot,” the boy protested.

“You will not interfere in this. That is final. Now leave.”

The boy stared up at the man. The confusion in his face was replaced with a steady thoughtfulness. “Fae change contracts all the time. Mrs. Durim is human, even if Mr. Durim was from Outside the universe. And the fae might owe her a debt, but this doesn’t have to be that debt.”

The young man – fae – person – beside Rog stepped up toward the boy. “This house means nothing. Do not make this a thing, or you will –.”

Rog had called the flare of light from two blasts the crew had done kin to a solar flare. The light that came now was far beyond that. The boy just held out a hand, and light did not flare as much as explode into the man in the suit. The light was bright like the sun, but other things as well. Somehow, seeing it didn’t hurt the eyes. It entered Rog as if the light was hugging him, decades of experiences, emotions, lives and loves lived inside the house turned into light.

“You – you –.” The person beside Rog was thinner now. Eyes white from edge to edge, the suit somehow jagged and sharp. The voice was as sharp as the teeth, and the fury too big to be human at all.

The boy wasn’t afraid. He pulled out a cell phone, dialled a number. “Hi!” There was a pause. “I’m Jay, and I’m at a building your company was hired to demolish but it doesn’t want to come down so! I thought I’d buy it from you. Because I have a credit card,” the boy added, and this time there was an edge to the words as he stared up at the creature beside Rog.

“You would be wise to not abuse this gift boy,” the thing beside Rog hissed. “There are consequences to everything, and our memories are long and ugly.”

“And you’d be wise to not be meany when you don’t need to,” the boy said. The words were mild, but the steady thoughtfulness in his stare caused Rog to step back without thinking. “How jaysome are the fae?”

The entity stilled like ice frozen at the bottom of a lake. “You cannot change us.”

“I don’t want to have to,” Jay said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. And then Rog was alone, with the memories of a building inside him and the boy in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” Rog got out.

“It’s okay! Sometimes the fae get a bit silly and try and be mean to a Jay, but I totally did a fixing!” Then the boy hugged Rog, grinned again and vanished.

The hug was warmer than any heat Rog had felt. It felt like the house, somehow, and the front door remained open. Rog walked inside, knowing the house was now in his name. Knowing it wanted him to live here.

And the hope and security of that ran through him brighter than any solar flare could hope to match. This was a gift, and one he knew he was meant to share. He began calling people he knew, sizing up rooms for rent. Enough for the land taxes and bills. Anything more would be stealing, and he was pretty certain Jay wouldn’t want him to do that.

#writing #prose #magician series #poetryriotprompt #solar flare

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firedrake · 7 years

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Okay, I am EXTREMELY confused. We are a trauma-based multiple system who won't use most "therapeutic" terminology - including "DID," bc that definition does NOT describe us. I get the mental illness/health care issue. But I am completely lost over "system." Doctors use it BECAUSE it means "assemblage/combination of things/parts forming a complex/unitary whole" OR "any assemblage/set of correlated members." Clearly 1 or another meaning applies to BOTH types. Why is this of ALL words so offensive?

Also, while we have no fictives (& don’t like them), we DO have a few people who come from other places, & most people here CAN visit other systems (I assume that’s what “hopping”–no idea what “fusion” is). So - does that mean we get to be called a “real” multiple system - we have the diagnosis & everything! - or do those people & experiences outweigh our trauma basis? I truly get how annoying the little teenage “All my favorite characters live in my head!” types can be, but where is the line?

Hello, anon. I’m sorry you are confused. I will do my best to help you understand these issues. Before I get into that, though, I wanted to say if you do not agree with your diagnosis, you should look into speaking to a different professional about it to get a second opinion.

Terminology

You are incorrect about the history and usage of the term system in regards to multiplicity. System was coined over a century ago by professionals for their DID/OSDD patients. There’s plenty of scholarly texts that document this usage and they’re not that hard to find if you want to do some research. But here’s some if you don’t have the time.

This is why you’ll often find people saying “system” is a DID/OSDD term. System (in regards to multiplicity) has been synonymous with DID/OSDD throughout psychopathological history, which is why so many people get confused or upset whenever someone calls themself something like “endogenic system.” Considering the history of the term system, “endogenic system” is no different than saying “endogenic DID.” Can you see why that would confuse or offend someone?

This isn’t the only issue regarding people without DID/OSDD calling themselves systems. You can read more about this here if you’re interested.

System Hopping / Walk Ins / Etc.

In your ask, you said you believe you can travel into other people’s minds which, while can be a spiritual belief, is often used as an abuse or manipulation tactic. I do not know your experiences but please practice spirituality SAFELY and do not enforce your beliefs onto others.

DID/OSDD systems can not system hop. We are incapable of system hopping since our systems and alters are psychological based. There is research behind this. Alters are dissociated parts of the mind. Things like walk ins, alter death, and system hopping are impossible for DID/OSDD systems, since alters are a psychological phenomenon. They split in response to trauma/acute stress and having DID/OSDD. However, alters can also have spiritual beliefs. They can have past life memories, kin memories, and even pseudo memories of a “life before the system,” but this does not mean they originated outside the body.

DID/OSDD systems can also be coerced or manipulated into thinking they’re experiencing system hopping, or have delusions about it. We can also be misinformed or misinterpreting our experiences. For example, I used to think I had walk in alters because I didn’t know how alters formed. I thought they were walk ins because I didn’t remember a traumatic or stressful event happening that would’ve caused them to split (which is incredibly common in DID/OSDD-1a, it’s called amnesia).

Here is a section I wrote on things that can happen in DID/OSDD systems that can mistaken for things like system hopping or fusion (which are not possible in DID/OSDD systems). It has some resources as well.

I am extremely, extremely against calling your spiritual practices “system hopping.” If you are going to be practicing this, please call it astral traveling or something else that does not conflate with DID/OSDD. Calling it “system hopping” makes DID/OSDD systems (big emphasis on the system part) think that they are also capable of this, which is misinfo. It can harm them and literally put them in danger of being abused.

Misinfo harms people. In some cases it can lead to them misidentifying and normalizing their symptoms. This can prevent them from seeking help- then their symptoms worsen. It can also lead to them accidentally spreading misinfo as well, which can harm other systems. I’m speaking from personal experience, as someone who used to identify as a gateway system with walk ins because I blindly believed what I was told on the internet.

Fictives

There is a lot of stigma around fictives and I know they’re usually associated with “fake systems.” However, you should know that fictives are a clinically and academically acknowledged type of alter in DID/OSDD and have been mentioned in many sources. They are clinically called fictional introjects, or introject alters. I tend to avoid calling them fictives because I do not know where this term originated and it usually gets confused with fictionkin.

I don’t know what your prejudice against introjects is but please understand that, just like any other alter, people with DID/OSDD do not have a choice in their formation.

You can read more about fictives here.

Conclusion

It’s fine to not agree with your diagnosis. I got misdiagnosed with ADHD once and literally every psychiatrist I met with after that agreed that it didn’t fit me at all. However, there’s something I’d like to point out to you. In the first ask you sent, you said you won’t use your diagnosis label because it doesn’t describe you- yet in the second ask, you’re using it as a gotcha.

If you don’t agree with your diagnosis then you shouldn’t be attributing your experiences to DID. You said yourself that it doesn’t fit and you don’t label yourself by it. Please don’t flip flop between not claiming your diagnosis then claiming it when it’s convenient to prove a point. Take some time and think to yourself, why do you want to claim DID/OSDD terms and spaces if you say the diagnosis doesn’t describe you?

The whole point of what these “gatekeepers” (aka DID/OSDD systems) fight for in the syscourse is that we don’t want people without DID/OSDD in our community. We don’t want them in our spaces, we don’t want them appropriating our terms, we don’t want them stealing our resources from us, we don’t want them spreading misinfo about our disorder, we don’t want them adding to the stigma we already have to deal with, we don’t want them speaking over us, and we especially don’t want them acting like the spokespeople for our community- silencing our voices and encouraging others to do the same.

I am not saying non-DID/OSDD multiples have to stop believing in what they are. I’m asking them to listen to the people they have privilege over and stop speaking over them for fuck’s sake. If a minority tells you you’re appropriating their terms, use a different term! It’s not that hard. I’ve even listed some alternate terms here, if you’re interested.

#this is super long i'm so sorry #ok to rb #syscourse #anon #ask #archer.txt #long post /#text heavy /

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kroabot · 4 years

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444 (2:178) explained by the words of Allah, "life for life" (5:45) and explained by the Prophet in his Sunna when he killed a Jew in retaliation for a woman. Mujahid said that. Ibn 'Abbas said the same, although it is related from him that it is abrogated by the ayat in Surat al-Ma 'ida. That is the position of the people of Iraq. The Kufans and ath-Thawrl say that a free man is killed if he has killed a slave and a Muslim if he has killed a dhimmi. Their evidence is the words of Allah here which are general and the ayat in Surat al-MaHda (5.45). Mentioned in the previous paragraph). They said that the blood of a dhimmi has the same inviolability as that of a Muslim and should be satisfied by retaliation. It is the inviolability of blood which is the principle. Both the Muslim and the dhimml are the people of the Abode of Islam. The thing which verifies that is the fact that a Muslim's hand is cut off for stealing the property of a dhimmi which indicates that the property of a dhimml is the same as that of a Muslim. It follows that their blood must be the same since property is respected by respect for its owner. Abu Hanlfa and his people, ath-Thawrl, and Ibn Abl Layla agree that a free man is killed in retaliation for a slave just as a slave is killed in retaliation for him. That is the position of Da'ud. The same is related from 'AH and Ibn Mas'ud and is the position of Sa'id ibn al-Musayyab, Qatada, Ibrahlm an-Nakha'I, and al- Hakam ibn 'Uyayna. The majority of scholars do not accept killing a free man in retaliation for a slave because of the categories and divisions shown in the ayat. Abu Thawr said, "Since everyone agrees that there is no retaliation between slaves and free people in cases less than homicide, it is even more likely to be the case where homi- cide is concerned. Those who make a distinction in respect of that are wrong." Furthermore the consensus is that if someone acciden- tally kills a slave, he only owes the price of that slave. Since slaves do not resemble free men where accidental killing is concerned, the same should hold true in cases of intentional homicide. Moreover, a slave is a commodity who is bought and sold and can be disposed of by a free person and so there is no equality between them. 445 al-Baqara The majority also agree that a Muslim is not killed in retaliation for an unbeliever since the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, "A Muslim is not killed in retaliation for an unbe- liever." (al-Bukhari) They do not consider as sound what is related from Rabi'a about the Prophet killing a Muslim in retaliation for an unbeliever at Khaybar because its isndd is broken. It is related from 'Ali and al-Hasan al-Basri that the ayat was revealed to explain the judgement of those mentioned in the ayat and to indicate the difference between them and those who would kill a free person in retaliation for a slave or a slave in retaliation for a free person, or male in retaliation for a female or a female in retaliation for a male. They said, "When a man kills a woman and her relatives want to kill him, they do so and his relatives are paid half of the blood price. If they want to let him live, they accept a woman's blood money from him. If a woman kills a man and his relatives want to kill her, they can kill her and take half the blood money or alternatively they can take the full blood money and let her live." Ash-Sha'bi related this from 'Ali, but it is not sound because ash-Sha'bi did not meet 'Ali. Al-Hakam related that 'Ali and 'Abdullah said, "When a man murders a woman with premed- itation, he is her retaliation." This is contrary to the transmission of ash-Sha'bi from 'Ali. Scholars agree that a man is killed in retaliation for killing a woman and a woman in retaliation for killing a man and the major- ity do not think anything is repaid. One group think that the differ- ence in the blood money is repaid. Malik, ash-Shafi'I, Ahmad, Ishaq, ath-Thawri and Abu Thawr said that is how retaliation pro- ceeds between a man and a woman in respect of what is less than a life. Hammad ibn Abi Sulayman and Abu Hanifa said that there is no retaliation between them in injuries which fall short of killing, in which there is life for life. Ibn al-'ArabI said, "Ignorance leads some people to say that a free man should be killed in retaliation for killing his own slave," and a hadith is related regarding that from Samura where the Messenger of Allah, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, "We kill the one who kills his slave," but it is a weak hadith. 446 (2:178) Our evidence is the words of Allah, "If someone is wrongly killed, We have given authority to his next of kin. But he should not be excessive in taking life. " (17:33) In this case this refers to his mas- ter. All the scholars agree that if a master kills his slave accidental- ly, the price of the slave is not taken from him for the treasury. 'Amr ibn Shu'ayb related that a man murdered his slave and the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, Aogged him and exiled him for a year and removed his share as a Muslim and did not help him to pay it. It might be asked, "If a man kills his wife, why do you not say that marriage sets up a doubt which would avert retaliation from the husband since marriage is a type of slavery?" Al-Layth ibn Sa'd said that. Our reply is that marriage is a contract between him and her with implied restrictions on both sides: he cannot marry her sister or four additional wives (making the total five), and she can demand her right of intercourse from him just as he can demand it from her. He, however, has the merit of guardianship over her which Allah gave him because he supports her from his wealth, according to what is obligatory for him in terms of the bride-price and maintenance. If a doubt had existed, it would exist for both parties. Imam Ahmad ibn Hanbal used this ayat as evidence that a group should not be killed in retaliation for the death of one per- son. He said, "Because Allah stipulated equality, and there is no equality between a group and one individual." The answer to this is that retaliation in this ayat entails killing the one who did the killing, whoever that may be. This was to refute the Arabs who wanted to kill someone who was not the killer for someone who had been killed and to kill a hundred innocent people in retaliation for one or to take advantage of rank and power. Therefore Allah commanded fairness and equality so that only those who kill are killed/Umar killed seven men in Sana', and said, "If all the people of Sana 4 had participated in the murder, I would have killed them all." 'Ali killed the Kharijites for killing 'Abdullah ibn Khabbab. When they were merely guilty of innovation, he held back from 447 al-Baqara killing them, but when they murdered 'Abdullah ibn Khabbab as a sheep would be slaughtered and 'Ali was informed about that, he said, "Allah is greater!" He called them to bring out the murderers of 'Abdullah ibn Khabbab to him. They said, "All of us killed him," three times. 'AH told his companions, "There are the peo- ple." 'AH and his people did not hesitate to kill them all. Ad- Daraqutni transmits both reports. In at-Tirmidhi we find, "If the people of the heaven and the people of the earth had participated in shedding the blood of a believer, Allah would throw them all into the Fire." It is said that this is a gharib hadith. Furthermore if a group knew that if they were to kill a person, they would not be killed, then enemies would help one another to kill their enemies by participating in their killing and achieving their desire for revenge. So it is more fitting to follow this rule than the literal words, and Allah knows best. Ibn al-Mundhir said, "Az-Zuhri, Habib ibn Abi Thabit and Ibn Slrin said, 'Two are not killed in retaliation for one.'" That is related from Mu'adh ibn Jabal, Ibn az-Zubayr and 'Abdu'1-Malik. The Imams related from Abu Shurayh al-Ka'bI that the Mes- senger of Allah, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, "You company of Khuza'a killed this man from Hudhayl and I am responsible for him. Whoever has a relative killed after these words of mine, is entitled to one of two things: taking the blood money or killing in retaliation." (Abu Dawud) Another transmis- sion says, "The relative of the one killed can kill in retaliation, par- don or take blood money." This is the position of some of the peo- ple of knowledge. It is the position of Ahmad and Ishaq. The people of knowledge disagree about taking blood money from the murderer. One group say that the relative of the murdered man has a choice. If he wishes, he takes retaliation, and if he wish- es he takes blood money, even if the killer does not consent. This is related from Sa'Id ibn al-Musayyab, 'Ata' and al-Hasan. Ashhab relates this position from Malik and it is also the position of al- Layth, al-Awza'I, ash-Shafi'I, Ahmad, Ishaq and Abu Thawr. Their proof is the hadith of Abu Shurayh above and it is a legal text 448 (2:178) (nass) sufficient to resolve the dispute. It is also deduced by analy- sis since blood money is imposed on him without his consent because it is an obligation on him to save his own life as Allah says, "Do not kill yourselves. " (4:29) He says in this ayat, "But if someone is absohed by his brother, " in other words, he forgoes his right to retaliation in one interpretation and is satisfied with blood money, "blood-money should be claimed with correctness ", mean- ing that the one with right to retaliation follows it by correctly demanding blood money, the killer must pay it with good will without delay. But if someone is absolved the thing by his brother, blood- money should be claimed with correctness and paid with good will. Scholars disagree about the interpretation of the words "some- one", "absoWed" and "thing" in this ayat. One view is that "someone" means the killer and "absolved" refers to what the relative of the deceased does. The "brother" is the brother of the deceased. "The thing" is his right to retaliation which is absolved and for which he takes blood money. This is the position of Ibn 'Abbas, Qatada, Mujahid and a group of scholars. So absoWing, in this case, means abandoning the right to retalia- tion. It means: When the killer is absolved by the relative of the deceased of his right to retaliation and forgoes it, he takes blood money and follows it with correctness, and the killer pays it with good will. Another position is that of Malik which is that "someone" refers to the relative and "absolved" is to make easy, not to pardon, and the "brother" is the killer and "thing" is the blood money, so the meaning in this case would be that when the relative inclines to foregoing retaliation and taking blood money, the killer can choose between giving it or surrendering himself. Sometimes it is eased and sometimes not. People other than Malik say that if the rela- tives are satisfied with blood money, the killer has no choice: he has to give it. This is also related from Malik. Abu Hanifa said that 449 al-Baqara "absolve" means to spend. So it is as if the meaning was, "Whoever is paid some of the blood money should accept it and pursue it with correctness." Some people say that the killer should pay it with good will and Allah recommends that the relative of the murder victim should take the money when that is easy for the killer. It is a lightening and a mercy. Some people say that these expressions deal with particular people about whom the entire dyat was revealed, and they paid the blood money to one another in respect of the injuries outstanding between them. The meaning of the dyat is that when one group received more than the other group, and so "absolved" rather means "has more than". Ash-Sha'bi said explaining this, "There was fighting between two tribes of Arabs and several people were killed. One of the tribes said, "We will not be content until a man is killed for a woman and a woman for a man." They went to the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, and he said, "Killing is the same. They made peace on the basis of the payment of blood money and one of the two tribes received more than the other. That is what this dyat refers to. Whoever has more than his brother should pay it correctly." Ash-Sha'bi said that this was the reason the dyat was revealed. Finally there is the statement of 'Ali about the difference between the blood money of a man and a woman, free person and slave, so the meaning is that the one who has more, should demand it correctly. This dyat is encouragement from Allah Almighty for correct- ness on the part of the person seeking payment and good will on the part of the payer. Is that obligatory or recommended? The recitation in the nominative indicates that it is obligatory because the meaning is that it must be pursued with correctness. That is an easement and a mercy f rom your Lord. This alludes to the fact that Allah did not give those before us any choice in the matter and they had to take a life for a life where- as Allah has given this Community the advantage of being able to accept blood money when the relative of the deceased is satisfied 450 (2:178) by it. Others said that the relative of the dead person can only take retaliation and may not take blood money if the killer agrees to that. Ibn al-Qasim related that from Malik, and it is well known from him. Ath-Thawri and the Kufans also said that. Their evi- dence is the hadith of Anas in the story about ar-Rubayya' who broke a woman's tooth. They stated, "When the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, judged that there should be retaliation, he said, 'Retaliation is the Book of Allah. Retaliation is the Book of Allah.'" He did not give the injured woman a choice between retaliation and blood money, and so the judgement of the Book of Allah and the Sunna of Messenger is that there is retalia- tion for a deliberate injury. The first position is sounder because of the hadlth of Abu Shurayh. Anyone who goes beyond the limits after this will receive a painful punishment. This refers to someone who kills after taking blood money and forgoing the blood of the killer. Al-Hasan said, "In the Jahiliyya when someone killed a person he would flee to his own people and the people of the victim would come and negotiate the blood money. The relative of the victim would say, "I will take the blood money," and then when the killer was made secure by this and left the victim's relative would kill him and throw the blood money back at the killer's family. Scholars disagree about someone who kills after taking blood money. A group of scholars, including Malik and ash-Shafi'I said that he is the same as the one who kills in the first place. If the rel- ative wishes, he kills him, and if he wishes, he pardons him and he will be punished in the Next World. Qatada, Tkrima, as-Suddl and others said that his punishment is to be killed and it is not possible for the relative to pardon him. Abu Dawud related from Jabir ibn 'Abdullah that the Messenger of Allah, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, "I will not pardon someone who kills after having taken blood money." Al-Hasan said that his punishment is to return the blood money and his wrong action remains to be dealt 451 al-Baqara with in the Next World. 'Umar ibn 'Abdu'l-'AzIz said that his business is left up to the ruler who does whatever he thinks best. 179 There is lifefor you in retaliation, people of intelligence, so that hopefully you will be godfearing. There is lif e for you in retaliation, people of intelligence, These are succinct and eloquent words which mean: "You should not kill one another." Sufyan related that from as-Suddi from Abu Malik. It means that when retaliation is established and achieved, it will deter the one who wants to kill another, out of the fear that retaliation will be taken from him, and so both remain alive. It had previously been the case that, when one man killed another, their two tribes would fight and that would lead to many deaths. When Allah prescribed retaliation, it was a deterrent and they stopped fighting. The imams who give fatwa agree that it is not permitted for anyone to take retaliation from someone without the involvement of the ruler. People cannot do it on their own. Scholars agree that the ruler can take retaliation from himself if he transgresses against one of his flock since he is one of them and has the prerogative of looking after them, like a guardian or trustee. That does not pre- clude retaliation and so there is no difference between him and anyone else regarding the judgements of Allah in this ayat. It is confirmed that Abu Bakr as-Siddiq said to a man who complained to him about a governor who had cut off his hand, "If you are telling the truth, I will take retaliation for you from him." An-Nasa'I reported that Abu Sa'id al-Khudrl said, "Once, while the Messenger of Allah, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, was distributing something a man bent over him and the 452 (2:178-180) Messenger of Allah jabbed him with a stick he had and the man yelled. The Messenger of Allah, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said to him, 'Come, take your retaliation.' He said, 'I absolve you, Messenger of Allah.'" Abu Dawud reported that 'Umar gave a speech in which he said, "Whoever is wronged by an amir (governor, commander) should present his case to me and I will take retaliation from him." 'Amr ibn al-'As stood up and said, "Amir al-Mu'minin, if one of us disciplines a man who is subject to his authority, will you take retaliation from him?" He replied, "How could I not take retaliation from him when I saw the Messenger of Allah take retaliation from himself !"

https://archive.org/stream/TafsirAlQurtubiVolI/Tafsir+al+Qurtubi+-+Vol+I_djvu.txt

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strangewriterforhire · 7 years

Text

Long Winter Chapter Sample: 3 (Out Of Sequence)

The crashing of distant waves were a long time aide and confidant to the woes and troubles of philosophers and kings.

For most who heard them over the course of their lives, the sound took on a background quality, becoming a part of life as necessary to sanity as air or precious sustenance. It became a sound that was taken for granted along with the setting and raising of the sun in its daily trek across the sky.

But for one soul amid the thousands that called the fortress city of Spearpoint home, it was a companion she chose to confide in. The sea could no more challenge her than a rock, or in more recent days a member of the New Way party that acted in a similar capacity in parliament. But where the bull headed disregard for common sense was dressed in very fine words, the ocean’s constant chorus was a steadying beat she could think around.

Thus the mind of Kerri Wallace McDonald, by title Mistress Black Tower, by position Minister Of War, and by marriage kin to a future laird of the Keep of Feel Rock, she found peace in the crashing waves. Her steward, by contrast, found little comfort in her choice of meditation technique as he handed her another towel to replace the sodden one tossed at his feet.

“Robert,” she said guardedly, running her long dark hair coarsely through the towels rough embrace. “I can feel your disapproval burning a hole between my shoulder blades.”

“I apologise, my Mistress,” came the taciturn reply of a man twice her age and lacking in a visible sense of humour. “I did not mean to intrude upon your numerous attempts at practical corporeal easement.”

“Easement?” she quirked up an eyebrow, turning her head back over her shoulder to look at the dower faced and white haired former Tempro Major of the King’s Lancers. He had lost a lot of the muscle and bulk that the old copper tone pictures showed had been his youthful visage, and the flowing beard was now a carefully trimmed and maintained frost upon his chin. But his eyes still held that steely glint that spoke of a determination that turned armies about in fear, and drove men to follow him to Hell and back again. She smiled at him and returned to drying her hair.

“I’m sure you make half of those words up.”

“Seeing as I am able to speak them, does not saying them grant them placement in the lexicon of our language?” He replied, his accent softened by to many years south of the Spines and their snow capped peaks. He only rarely fell back into his Northern brogue when in his cups, which was rarely. Or when retelling one of his many tales of services, which was often.

“That as well maybe.” She said thoughtfully, her eyes drawn back to the crashing iron clad waves and their rabid crests. She settled down on her haunches, and a large towel was dropped over her shoulders to both restore her bodily heat and preserve the barest hint of modesty that Roberts was willing to endure in his presence. As stewards went he was of a old fashion persuasion, part of his charm and something that Kerri was intent of ironing out of him by some method. Perhaps alchemy or some sort of Long Summer trickery would work faster, but this way was much more fun. She pulled the towel tight about her shoulders. “Will you enlighten me as to what you mean by your new fangled words?”

“Whenever you are at loggerheads within Parliament, or you find yourself faced with someone whose opinions clash against your own, you seek solace and companionship out here beyond the wall.” Roberts said plainly, expertly bringing the large parasol, down as though he still stood in a shield wall, and blunted the icy spray of ocean water rising towards them. This served only to keep Kerri at her current state of dampness, whilst he took on another few pints of salt water.

Even his splutter was dignified.

“And has that not worked for me in the past?” she asked with yet another imperious raise of a eyebrow, turning to bring it to bare on her steward. She imagined if ever the Inlander’s decided to wander east around half the world, she could burn their airships from the sky with such a gesture: Roberts merely stood the barrage with stoic indifference.

“In the past you were a serving officer within the King’s navy, Mistress. One of many defenders of the realm who swore the oath of service. One who fulfilled more than her five years required, and bore some small honours of merit.” His chest automatically swelling with recalled pride at his own stint under the yolk of service, and in remembrance of standing amid the crowd who watched her being awarded the Kings Medal. Only five of those medals were crafted, each one given to the life of a serving officer who fought with a courage befitting of legend. The medal was only returned upon the death of the recipient, so that at any given time there were only five souls who knew the personal thanks of the King of Rishland. It was a honour for only the most exceptional, of which Robert knew his mistress to be.

“Now you are the Minister of War, second only to the king in his wise judgement.” He added after a suitable moment to bask in remembered pride, his voice becoming ever so slightly paternal in tone. “Throwing yourself from the top of the barrier wall to do battle with the elemental demons of Atlanter mythology does smack of a certain…cavalier attitude not befitting of your station. Or of a former Ship Mistress of his Majesty's navy.”

“Demons, Robert? Really? Its water for all its spit and vinegar.” Kerri sniffed defiantly and jutted her chin towards the waves once more. “Hardly less dangerous than taking a bath.”

In apparent response to this down playing of their grandeur, the roaring swells off the coast of Rishland’s southern isle roared their disapproval. The rising and falling waves were a physical reminder to all who looked at them of Rishland’s embattled and under siege status. At war with its enemies most distant, and the gods themselves who strove to freeze them with ice, and drown them with their rising tide. In the past the waters had swallowed their fair share of souls, and the ice and cold had stolen the breath from many a breast.

But it had been a Rishlander’s heart and mind that had seen the barrier wall at the mouth of Spearpoint Bay erected as barrier and boon. As the sea did push against those high stone and metal walls, the wall to did push back by some manner most clever: great coiled springs of Long Summer metal sang with power and strained with joyous purpose to ensure the waves served a noble purpose.

Those waves had become the source of power that had seen first heat, then light, and then the burning wrath of a people scorned by nature rise to fight its elements head on. Now most took for granted that miracle of ancient providence that had allowed Spearpoint to turn from a collection of cave hugging dwellings to the massive fortress city that was both foundry of industry and springboard of military might. But Kerri Wallace McDonald, Mistress Black Tower by title and Minster of War by position, did not forget the past.

The waves were tools to be bent to the will of a Rishlander’s heart, but instead of being used to power a city most grand, she used their might to clear away the debris of thought that cluttered her mind. She swam amongst their ripping currents and terrible swells, fighting them on their own terms as she allowed the purifying force of nature to unmake the machined foulness of politics.

“I am more at peace beyond the wall and, more importantly, beyond any of my fine titles, than I am sat by the empty throne of the king in Parliament house. You know that Robert,” she chided with a cluck of his tongue. “Here the stubbornness of nature makes sense to me. Its is a thing that acts on the reasoning that this is the way it has always been: its acts because this is what it is. The waves and those that dwell below, are jealous of our breath and seek to steal it from our lungs and drive us down into the depths. It is a thing I can grasp.”

She reached out with a hand, holding it out over the edge of the small promenade built into one of the lower foundations of the barrier wall from which workers and soldiers might patrol. As she did so stinging salt spray rushed up to slap at her hand, either appearing to warn her away from her dangerous game or teasing her to return.

Ever since she had been a child, born to be the third child of a wealthy clan entrenched in the power circles of Spearpoint elite, she had been destined to fufil a role. A first child was expected to train and study to be heir, or to produce a fitting heir if their aptitudes proved less than useful. A second child was useful for a business cartel, or to be sent to study the arcane arts of the artificers guilds. A third child was not uncommon, but most often it was desired to provide a third to serve the King in martial duties. If a third was not provided the second would do, for as the old song went ‘The King must have soldiers, To His war’s they must go’.

But as the third, living in the shadows of her brother and sister, Kerri had known she would soar in the sky. And yet…she felt more at home and more at peace before the foaming maw of the ocean than she ever had in the clouds aboard a airship of the line. It was not unusual to find people drawn to the oceans that battered the Isles of Rish, in fact there were respectable cults and orders that provided a spiritual avenue for such people to explore those compulsions.

Of course such religious orders and cults were hardly the proper place for a Lady in good standing, even one that might end up serving as a midship maiden on a warship or a warrior dame in the royal marines. And considering that some of those cults did not have a good survival record during their worshipping of the Atlanter’s stormy vastness, most families quickly removed such sodden branches from their family tree’s. So she had practised in secret her own form of worship, not to the sea as the demon king the Rishlander’ s of old had chained to do their bidding: but to her own will and fortitude.

When she had first dived from the wall and into the sweeping waves below, a small part of her mind had accepted her life was no longer in her hands. It would hardly be the first time a swimmer lost in rapture had swallowed more than prayer incense. But she had known from that first moment, when the bitter cold had struck her skin and chilled her instantly to the bone, that if she did not fight for her life and defeat the watery demons about her…well then as a sailor or a warrior she would be found wanting.

So she had fought the best of this water realms demons and come out stronger on the other side, if sodden. That first time had taught her that diving in clothed was a bad idea, and that having a stash of spare garments to hand was an even better idea. Of course that first lesson had resulted in her meeting a certain bearded man, a recruit soldier fresh from the far north with a certain roguish charm that was very nearly insufferable. She smiled and was warmed by that merry, and the minor adventure of that meeting and the confusion that followed.

Alas, a tall tale for another time.

“But when I am in Parliament House, defending the idea of keeping the Saints damned navy in one piece instead of fracturing it, the words I find available to me would make even my brother in law blush for their use!” She snarled, slapping away a particular eager little swell that sent a dagger of icy water up along the promenades angled underside “These people of the New Way trouble me greatly. They speak with sense and reason, and do so from the comfort of the protection provided to them by decades of military preparedness. To listen to some of them, you’d think they’d want to strip the navy of all her guns and gut her magazines for cargo holds! From soldier’s that court fortune’s grace, to merchants eager to fill coffers with the same. If the Inlander’s, or the Jaeger Danes, ever learned of that particular idea we could invade them tomorrow and claim their thrones for all their laughter at us.”

But Kerri had to give the New Way their due. They had dressed up their proposal with much finer language, a rousing bit of street theatre for the old men and women of Parliament. But in the end of it it boiled down to shattering the navy and switching all new Navy builds over to a cargo carrying philosophy. Oh the fleet as it stood would remain, but the navy must act not only in defence of the realm but also in prompting its betterment through mercantile means instead of martial ones.

Coin Kisser’s counting shells, she thought.

Mazer Sutton, Master of White Cliff, was both one of the New Ways brightest stars, and also her civilian counterpart across the Parliament floor in the form of Minister of Home Affairs. The mornings parliament session had ended in a classic loggerhead that boiled down to a single phrase she had snarled: “Over my restless dead body!”

That one would make the Cryer’s script book for sure, come the morrow. She just hoped the Cryer’s chose to sing of her achievements instead of how her fiery temper had allowed Mazer Sutton to look all the more reasonable and peaceable. Remas had been right: her job was now no less dangerous than his, but it did lacking the simplicity of the blade. Though she did believe that Sutton’s heart would make a tricky target to find.

She let out a sigh, and the towel dropped from her shoulders.

She had the classic’s swimmers build, if she measured herself by the other cultists she sometimes saw descending from the high walls. Toned muscles and a petite frame draped over narrow shoulders and long legs. Her dark hair, when treated with care and tormented into some semblance of order by a torturer with hot irons, usually sat atop her head in a fiendish bun held together with a holdout dagger which had been a gift from someone bearded and distant. Now that hair gripped her back like the lichen on a rock, clumped and knotted in such a way she’d be welcomed as a mendicant sadist for combing it out later on. The strands of matted hair hid the six deep scars that lashed across her back from left hip to right shoulder: reminders from a time when a young midship maiden had thought herself fully in possession of shipboard knowledge. She had walked from the lashing without a tear or a cry, only succumbing to her pain when away from crew folk who did not need to see a future officer in weakness.

That pain had not been from the whips harsh licks, but for the reason given for its use: her pride.

That pride was getting the best of her now, but as a Lady in good standing and a Minister of War with the king’s highest award in her safe keeping, a public whipping was out of the question. So instead she returned to the one thing in the world she knew cared not for titles or standing: the ocean.

“Hand me another towel Robert,” she said, “It’s time to return to work.”

“After we return to the town house one hopes Mistress?” Robert asked, already holding out a drier towel.

“Oh I don’t know Roberts,” she turned, stepping into the towel, taking its edges from his hands and cinching them behind her. “I think I’d get the attention of both sides of the floor if I walked in like this. Would be nice to be listened to for once.”

“It would lend credence to the old rumours about Atala and Adena appearing in a time of need for Rishland, thou” Roberts choked off, speaking the names of two of Rishland’s most legendary of warrior myths. Kerri smiled warmly at that, stepping past him to the stout steel door back through the wall. But the story of the most recent recorded visitation of Atala and Adena, the warrior Saints of Rishland, was a story of a chance meeting and for another time.

Besides, if the story was to be told right Remas McDonald would need to be in attendance.

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