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jaanusbooktalk · 2 years

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Hunted By The Sky by Tanaz Bhathena - Review

7/10⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

TWs: murdered parents, violence, discrimination (classism, slurs), implied sexual assault, attempted assault, dying parent, animal cruelty, blood

(TWs are ranked in order of severity, please take them seriously!)

Before anything, take a moment to scroll back up and look at that beautiful cover 😍 I don’t normally buy books based on the cover, but seeing my culture represented in such a gorgeous way made this an insta-buy for me (not to mention it was already in my TBR).

I guess I could call this an “own voices” review, but let’s keep in mind that Indian culture is very diverse and changes depending on region, so my interpretation is not going to speak for anyone but myself.

The author was actually inspired to write this book by two time periods in Indian history - Vedic India and medieval India. There’s a cool combination of court drama and desi royalty versus magical powers and distant gods. Bhathena also included elements of her Persian culture as well!

Imagine fantasy meets Indian royalty/mythology in a mystical world after a war and a 16 year old has to overthrow a tyrant. (Also enemies to lovers, badass women, ✨culture✨ etc).

On to the review ☀️

The Summary:

“Gul has spent her life running. She has a star-shaped birthmark on her arm, and in the kingdom of Ambar, girls with such birthmarks have been disappearing for years. Gul's mark is what caused her parents' murder at the hand of King Lohar's ruthless soldiers and forced her into hiding to protect her own life. So when a group of rebel women called the Sisters of the Golden Lotus rescue her, take her in, and train her in warrior magic, Gul wants only one thing: revenge.

Cavas lives in the tenements, and he's just about ready to sign his life over to the king's army. His father is terminally ill, and Cavas will do anything to save him. But sparks fly when he meets a mysterious girl--Gul--in the capital's bazaar, and as the chemistry between them undeniably grows, he becomes entangled in a mission of vengeance--and discovers a magic he never expected to find.

Dangerous circumstances have brought Gul and Cavas together at the king's domain in Ambar Fort . . . a world with secrets deadlier than their own. Exploring identity, class struggles, and high-stakes romance, Hunted by the Sky is a gripping adventure set in a world inspired by medieval India.”

TL;DR 16 year old Gul witnesses her parents’ murder by royal troops under order from a king terrified of a prophecy that spells his end, and she’s set on a path to revenge. Cavas is trying to save his father from a chronic illness and lives in the lower class of society just trying to survive, but when he meets Gul sparks fly and adventure ensues.

(It’s 1:30 am right now so please bear with me 😭)

Ok so on representation:

This is embarrassing - like really embarrassing especially considering I read the summary - that when I first started because of the switching perspectives I thought that Cavas was Gul for the first two chapters and that the main character was into women 😭 alas, this was not the case.

While the main couple is not confirmed to be LGBTQ+, much of the lore is. The story of the sun and the moon being lovers is so adorable and told in such a beautiful, simple way. There are queer background characters, and it’s not introduced in a weird way, it’s just a natural part of the world they live in (which was so great).

As someone who reads fantasy for escapism, reading this and knowing there was no racism or homophobia was a big plus for me ✅

Also Gul is dark skinned (from a fictional world but presumably Indian) with curly dark hair. I loved this because Indians with natural curly dark hair are not often represented in media, so this was great!!

I had trouble picturing what Cavas looks like, but I remember he’s also desi and has dark brown eyes and black hair. I didn’t know what “aquiline” meant before reading HBTS but apparently it means hooked or beak-like, and I think it’s a really pretty word for Cavas’s nose.

There was clear influence from Indian mythology and the Hindu gods, but also from traditional mythical creatures and foods. Even the outfits are fantastic- I can’t explain how it felt to read about a character getting ready for an event and pinning her dupatta in place. My heart felt warm and seen 💕💕

There is also (if I’m interpreting this right) a variety of religions present in the fictional world, some of which are similar to Islam, Hinduism, or Atheism today.

I loved how despite these different beliefs, people are able to get along. It’s more so the border disputes between rivaling kingdoms that cause trouble.

Imagining Gul running through the palace in a sari and her brown jootis just fulfills all of my childhood Bollywood dreams ❤️😭

What I Liked:

I didn’t think I was going to like this book as much as I did. When it first started, I had a hard time getting into it, and it felt a little slow. But about a quarter in things started picking up - and quickly. I really liked how HBTS avoided some of the typical pitfalls of YA fantasy when it comes to overthrowing governments/the chosen one trope.

Also the story just starts to pull you in and you can’t tell the writer is in her groove. I liked all of the references to desi culture and the clothing, and the imagery was really pretty. Diversity in fantasy means so much to me - more than just being represented in books we get to have magic and adventures and romance too, and I adore that.

I feel like it would make a really good movie, and also the WOMEN are so great. Every single woman in this book is very well written and what I would give to have Amira call me princess 😍 anyways… 👀

I’m actually about to read the second book (this is a duology!) because I’m way too invested in the plot now.

HBTS switches perspectives between Cavas and Gul, and I honestly found Cavas’s perspective more refreshing - maybe because he was more mature than Gul or because I related to him more, but he just had more interesting thoughts 💭

I also didn’t really like Gul at the beginning, but I stuck around to see if she got character development and Ms. Bhathena did NOT disappoint. I can’t wait to see how she changes from here.

Side note: Hunted By The Sky handles classism in a really interesting way, and it makes me so happy that it was printed in India because there’s an inter-class relationship & that’s a really important convo that needs to be had

Side side note: INDIAN MAGICAL GIRLS‼️

Why I couldn’t give it a ten:

I already mentioned this but I just had a hard time getting into it at first. There was a lot of lore specific/culture specific vocab that I wasn’t familiar with (but there is a glossary of terms at the back!)

This happens often when starting fantasy books, but the time it took to wrap my head around the world and who was who took longer than usual because new positions and groups kept being introduced.

Also, at the beginning Gul was kinda selfish and even though I really wanted to be on her side her actions were thoughtless. Her attitude when she was ten came off less as an actual ten year old and more as an older girl pretending to be a ten year old. She’s obviously not meant to be perfect however, and that’s okay. Her character development makes up for it.

Now this is a really big pitfall for YA fantasy romance and I can’t stand it:

Gul, the main character, has just turned 16. She never actually has sex but she gets into certain encounters that I felt uncomfortable reading about, knowing it was happening between two minors and written BY an adult.

Sadly, this is a common thing in YA fantasy (I’m looking at you, Sarah J. Maas). Oversexualizing minors in YA books needs to stop because it has a big impact on the kids reading - it wasn’t too bad in this book, so I still gave it 7/10. But please, do better.

Also tell me why enemies to lovers couples are always emotionally constipated 🙄 just tell each other how you feel already!! Communication, guys.

I sincerely recommend to fans of:

• The Shadow of the Fox series 🦊 by Julie Kagawa

• Tomi Adeyemi (Children of Blood and Bone)

• Sabaa Tahir (An Ember in the Ashes)

• Jodhaa Akbar (Bollywood movie)

• Scavenge the Stars by Tara Sim

Despite its faults, I sincerely enjoyed this book enough to check out the second. I’ll comment an update when I’ve finished but I don’t know if I’ll give it a review. This was one of those books that I wish I had liked more because of the representation it brought to the table, and I think that it’s a genuinely good book, that fell into some difficult traps. Still worth the read 🍵

And as always, read the acknowledgments and author’s note!! They’re usually really sweet or include things about the book you didn’t know when you finished. Because it’s spoiler free and I really liked it, I’ve included Tanaz Bhathena’s note below:

Kinda badass ngl

Also if you aren’t familiar with the Gulabi Gang, please search them up and watch the documentary because they are so cool!!! A group of older Indian ladies who go around wearing pink and beating up domestic abusers.

I also really like that she describes the story as a brief journey through her twisted imagination - it deals with some rough and violent themes, and I feel like that fits. Excited to see what happens in the sequel! It’s called Rising Like A Storm ⛈

#huntedbythesky #bipocbookstagram #book review #poc books #enemies to lovers #tanazbhathena #cavas #gul #unwillingchosenone #the chosen one #indianbookstagram #desibooks #booklr #indianroyalty #diverse reads #honest review

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sineala · 3 years

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Tony Stark and Arthuriana

Coming to you by special request, a very long post about 616 Tony's interest in Arthuriana, with a focus on all of Tony's run-ins with Morgan le Fay!

I feel like I should disclaim the extent of my knowledge here, which is that I still haven't managed to read anywhere near every issue of Iron Man -- at least, not yet, anyway -- so I'm just going by the things I know I've read, and Morgan le Fay's Marvel wiki entry is frustratingly under-cited, so it's very possible I've missed something relevant, but I'm pretty sure I've got the big stuff down. My other disclaimer here is that I'm not as big an Arthurian nerd as Tony is, which is to say that most of my familiarity comes from modern retellings -- T. H. White's The Once and Future King, Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon, Mary Stewart's The Crystal Cave, Rosemary Sutcliff's Sword at Sunset -- and not so much the usual classic sources on the Matter of Britain, though I've read bits and pieces of them.

(This is because I wanted to read versions of them that were as close to the original as possible but so far have not ended up finishing any of them because, well, that's hard. So I've never read the Mabinogion because I do not know Welsh. I've got the Norton Critical Edition of Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, which is probably the best student edition if you're looking for something without modernized spellings, as I was. I've also got -- well, okay, it's my wife's but I'm borrowing it -- a relatively recent Boydell & Brewer edition (ed. Reeve, tr. Wright) of Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain), which is, you guessed it, in Latin with a facing English translation. I haven't gotten very far in it because, in case you didn't know this about Latin texts, the beginning is pretty much always the hardest, so I gave up and read some Plautus adaptations instead. Anyway, if for some reason you too want to read Geoffrey of Monmouth in the original Latin I'd recommend that one, but I can't recommend any particular English translations because I've never read one by itself. I bet you didn't think you'd be getting Latin prose recommendations in this post. I mean, maybe you did; it is me, after all.)

Okay. Right. King Arthur. Here we go.

We've got:

Flashbacks to Tony's childhood in late Iron Man volume 1

A brief discussion of Morgan's origin story and Avengers #187

Iron Man vol 1 #149-150: Doomquest

What If vol 1 #33: What if Iron Man was trapped in the time of King Arthur?

Iron Man vol 1 #249-250: Recurring Knightmare

Iron Man: Legacy of Doom #1-4

Avengers vol 3 #1-4: The Morgan Conquest

Civil War: The Confession

Mighty Avengers vol 1 #9-11: Time Is On No One's Side

In terms of universe-internal chronology, we know from Iron Man #287, from 1992, that Tony has been a fan of King Arthur since childhood. This is an issue of a fandom-favorite arc which features Tony having a lot of childhood flashbacks, including the famous "Stark men are made of iron" line (in #286) that for some reason MCU fandom decided it loved; I mean, seriously, I've seen that quoted in way more MCU fic than 616 fic. But slightly later, in #287, we get an entire page devoted to Tony's love of King Arthur.

The narration reads: "Over the next few years, I learned as my father intended. Discipline of body. Strength of character. But in what free time I was allowed, I worked my way through the school's library. At thirteen, I discovered Mallory [sic], who showed me a whole new world. A world of dedication to a cause greater than oneself. Of chivalry and honor. And the fantastic deeds -- of armored heroes."

The art shows Tony as a child sitting under a tree, reading a book labeled Mort D'Arthur by Mallory [sic] -- no, don't ask me why nobody at Marvel checked how to spell either the name of the book or its author -- and daydreaming of King Arthur, the Sword in the Stone, knights, et cetera. Just in case you somehow missed the extremely blatant hint that we are meant to understand that Tony's knight obsession heavily influenced him becoming Iron Man as an adult, we see one of his armors mixed in with all the drawings of knights. So, yes, canonically Tony is Iron Man at least partly because he's a giant King Arthur nerd, which I think is so very sweet. I love him. He's such a dork!

(This issue is currently in print in the Iron Man Epic Collection War Machine, should you need your own copy.)

This isn't actually the only reference to Tony as a King Arthur fanboy in this era of canon, either; a little later, in IM #298, we see that one of Tony's passwords is actually "Mallory." (Yeah, no, they still couldn't spell. But it's cute.)

But in terms of actual publication order, this is definitely not the first time we have seen in canon that Tony is into Arthuriana, as I'm sure you all know. I would assume, in fact, that giving Tony a childhood interest in Arthuriana is because Doomquest is one of the most beloved Iron Man story arcs of all time, and that all started at least a decade before IM #287 here was published.

The villain of Doomquest -- the one who isn't Doctor Doom, at least -- is Morgan le Fay. Yes, that Morgan le Fay. Yes, Arthur's evil half-sister Morgan le Fay. Yes, all of this King Arthur stuff is canonically real history on Earth-616. Morgan's first appearance in Marvel, per the wiki, was in Black Knight #1 (1955), which I have not read, and judging by the summary I feel like this is probably just supposed to be a straight-up comic retelling of Arthurian legends for kids; I don't think Marvel really had the whole Marvel Universe in mind as a concept in 1955, so I'm not sure this was meant to connect to anything else. I feel like this is another one of those instances of Marvel discovering that they can write comics about characters in the public domain for free -- like, I'm pretty sure that's how we also ended up with, like, Norse, Greek, and Roman mythology wedged into 616.

As far as I can tell from the wiki, the first time Morgan tangled with the Avengers (or indeed the larger 616 universe) in any way actually predated Doomquest -- it was in an early arc in Spider-Woman (#2-6) and then Avengers #187, which came out in 1979, actually right when Demon in a Bottle was happening over in Iron Man comics. If you read #187, Iron Man is not in it because he's off the team due to his drinking problem and also his accidentally murdering the Carnelian ambassador problem. So Wonder Man's filling in instead. This issue is part of Michelinie's rather sporadic Avengers run, which makes sense, I guess, considering where we see Morgan next.

Anyway, Avengers #187 is the classic issue where Wanda is possessed by Chthon, but what you may not remember from Chthon's backstory (I sure didn't!) is that he was summoned by Morgan le Fay because she was the first person who tried to wield the Darkhold to summon him. As you can imagine, this did not work out especially well for her and her followers and they had to seal Chthon away in Wundagore Mountain, which was where Wanda found him. (The Spider-Woman stuff is only slightly earlier and also appears to be about Morgan and the Darkhold; the Darkhold is not one of the areas of 616 canon I am especially conversant with, alas. It's on my to-read list.)

Doomquest, as you probably know, was a classic Iron Man two-parter in Layton & Michelinie's first Iron Man run that set up Tony and Doom as rivals; Doomquest itself was IM #149-150, in 1981, and then in their second IM run they came back and did a sequel in 1989, Recurring Knightmare (IM #249-250), and then the much later four-part sequel to that was the 2008 miniseries Iron Man: Legacy of Doom, which was also by Layton & Michelinie but generally does not seem to be as popular as the first two parts. They've all been reprinted, if you're looking for copies; I have a Doomquest hardcover that collects the first four issues and then a separate Legacy of Doom hardcover. Currently in the Iron Man Epic Collection line there's a volume called Doom, which confusingly only collects the 249-250 part of the storyline (as well as surrounding issues), because for some reason the first Layton & Michelinie run isn't in Epics yet but the second one is. So the beginning of Doomquest isn't currently in print, as far as I can tell. I'm sure you can find it anyway.

So what's Doomquest about? Okay, so you remember how Doctor Doom's mother's soul is stuck in hell for all eternity? Well, Doom's obviously interested in getting her back, and the strategy he has embarked on is to try to team up with other powerful magicians who can help him out, and he thinks Morgan le Fay would be a good choice, for, uh, his quest. Doom's quest. A Doomquest, if you will. (If you've ever read Doctor Strange & Doctor Doom: Triumph & Torment, you're familiar with the part where he later ends up waylaying Strange for this and they go to hell together. And if you haven't read Triumph & Torment, you really should, because it's amazing.)

So Doom is off to his time machine to go team up with Morgan le Fay and Tony thinks Doom is up to something -- Doom has been stealing components for his time machine from a lot of people, including Tony -- and he follows him and it turns out one of Doom's lackeys has a grudge and wants to trap Doom in the past forever, and Tony gets caught up in it. Now they're both in Camelot. Surprise! #149 is actually all setup; they don't get to Camelot until #150.

IM #150 begins with Doom and Tony thrown back into the past; there's a fandom-famous splash page of them locked in combat, only to realize that they have found themselves in Camelot.

They are then discovered by knights; Doom would very much like to attack them, but Tony, who naturally would be happy to LARP Camelot forever, persuades him to play nice. Also Doom thinks Iron Man is only Tony's bodyguard so he keeps referring to him as "lackey," much to Tony's annoyance. Somehow everyone thinks they're sorcerers. Can't imagine why. The knights take them to meet King Arthur himself, and Tony has clearly had his introduction all ready to go, as he introduces himself in a timeline-appropriate manner, says he's here to apprehend Doom, and demonstrates his "magic" by levitating Arthur's throne. Doom's response is essentially "I'm the king of Latveria," which is, y'know, also valid. So they're guests at Camelot for the night while Arthur figures out what to do with them.

We then have a page devoted to Tony alone in his room, musing sadly about how alien he feels, how he doesn't know if he'll ever get home, how he could never fit in here without his beloved technology. Then a Sexy Lady shows up to keep him company for the night, and he decides maybe it's not all bad. Thanks, Marvel. I guess they can't all be winners.

Doom is using his evening much more productively; he compels one of the servants to tell him where Morgan's castle is, because he's still interested in having that team-up. Then he jets off. Literally. He has a jetpack.

The next morning Arthur's like "one of you is still here and one of you has punched a hole through the castle wall and flown off to join Morgan so I guess I know which of you is more trustworthy." He then explains to Tony who Morgan is, because Tony professes ignorance, because clearly we had not yet retconned in Tony's love of Arthuriana. Tony offers to go fight Doom and Morgan with Arthur; meanwhile, Morgan and Doom have teamed up and Morgan has offered to help get Doom's mother out of hell if he commands her undead armies against Arthur because for Reasons she can't command them herself anymore. So that's a thing that happens.

So, yes, it's Tony and Arthur versus Doom and Morgan. Fight fight fight!

Tony tries Doom first but then decides to hunt Morgan down, and in the ensuing fight we get what I think is Tony's first ever "I hate magic," a complaint that we all know he still makes even to this day.

Anyway, Tony freezes a dragon with Freon (mmm, technology) and Morgan gets upset and disappears, so the battle comes to an end, and of course Doom is extremely mad at Tony because he blames Tony for Morgan not sticking around to save Doom's mom, because I guess Doom trusted her to keep her word? Weird. (Like I said, for the next chapter of Doom saving his mother, go read Triumph & Torment.)

Doom says if he and Tony work together, the components in both of their armors can send them both home. So Tony has to trust Doom. Which he does, because he really has no other choice. They build a time machine and Tony makes Doom agree to a 24-hour truce when they get back, so they can both get home. So it all works out okay, and they end up in the present, and Doom tells him, ominously, that they will meet again. Okay, then. That concludes the original Doomquest. It's fun! You can see why fandom likes it.

So that's all well and good, but you might have noticed that Tony's ability to get home hinged on Doom actually being trustworthy. And Doom was. But what if Doom hadn't been? What if he'd just stranded Tony in Camelot forever As you may have surmised from the form of that question, that is in fact a question Marvel asked themselves, because, yes, there's a What If about this! What If v1 #33 is "What if Iron Man was trapped in the time of King Arthur?"

The divergence point from canon, as you can probably guess, is the very end of Doomquest. Instead of Doom bringing Tony home, he deceives him and leaves him in Camelot. And since Tony cannibalized a lot of the tech from his armor to make the time machine, he doesn't have a way to go home.

This is not a story where Tony comes up with a way to go home after all. He really doesn't get to go home. But instead of drowning his sorrows in mead -- because, remember, Demon in a Bottle has already happened and Tony is sober now -- he decides he might as well just play the hand he's dealt. So with what's left of his armor, he defeats some enemies that Morgan rounds up to send against Camelot. And for his services, he's knighted. He is now Sir Anthony.

Tony acknowledges that he is both living the dream and would also like very, very much to go home.

He does end up having some fun in Camelot; it's not all miserable. But he obviously doesn't want to be there.

So if you're at all familiar with King Arthur, you know how this goes, right? Arthur fights Mordred and Mordred kills him. And that does happen in this version. Except Tony is right there, and with his dying words, Arthur asks Tony to rule Camelot... and Tony agrees.

So, yes, Tony Stark becomes king of the Britons after Arthur's death and he never goes home again. The end. Man, I love What Ifs.

Heading back to main 616 continuity, there is still more of this arc to go. The original Doomquest was only two issues, yes, but it was popular enough that Layton & Michelinie did a sequel a hundred issues later, in their second run of Iron Man, and that's Iron Man #249-250, Recurring Knightmare. (In the intervening issues were Denny O'Neil's IM run, specifically the second drinking arc (#160-200), and then Layton & Michelinie came back and most famously gave us Armor Wars (#225-232). I would have to say that Armor Wars is definitely the standout fandom-favorite arc of their second IM run; for their first one, I think a lot of people would have a hard time choosing between Doomquest and Demon.) But anyway, yes. Recurring Knightmare.

Recurring Knightmare is... well, the best way I can describe it is "a trip." It is definitely a sequel to Doomquest, and it is also definitely not a sequel you would ever have expected to see for Doomquest.

Much like #149, #249 is pretty much just setup. Fun setup, but the big action is in the next issue. We open with Doom in Latveria, on his throne, pondering which of his servants he should have disintegrated. Anyway, he's just hanging out there when a mysterious object appears. In California, Tony is suited up and entertaining the crowd at a mall opening when the same object also appears! He takes it to his lab. Please note that this is after the Kathy Dare incident, so Tony is still recovering and is walking with a cane. Doom sees on the news that Iron Man has found the same object, which cannot be carbon-dated, and he shows up at Tony's house. He criticizes Tony's taste in art.

Anyway, Doom basically orders Tony to work with him. Tony refuses, and then Doom sends some robots to attempt to steal Tony's version of the object because he thinks if he has them both he will be powerful. Doom manages to steal it, and when he puts the pieces together, both he and Tony disappear.

So where do they go, you might ask? Camelot?

Not exactly. The future! There is a great callback to the Doomquest splash page.

It turns out they are in London in 2093. Merlin brought them there. Tony still hates magic. And in the future, King Arthur is still there, except he is now a child, because he has been reborn. But he does remember Tony from Doomquest, at which point Tony kneels. Doom, of course, is not impressed. He asks why they have been brought to the future.

The answer is that things are going wrong in the future. If you do not personally remember United States politics in the 1980s, I need you to google the words "Strategic Defense Initiative" right now. I'll wait.

Back with me? Okay, so this is a future where Reagan's Star Wars program actually happened the way he wanted it to, and the satellites are still hanging around the Earth in the future and messing everything up, and Arthur and Merlin need Tony and Doom's help to stop them. Doom once again flies away with his jetpack, of course.

Tony is game to help, but he's not in an armor that can stay in space for long. This is when Merlin takes him and Arthur to the mall and Tony manages to get everything to upgrade his armor at Radio Shack. You see what I meant about this issue being weird.

Tony is out in space trying to disarm the SDI platform, which is where he runs into his future descendant, Andros Stark, who is in armor you will probably recognize from Iron Man 2020. He is referred to as "the resurrected spawn of Iron Man 2020" so I assume he's actually directly related to Arno rather than a direct descendant of Tony; Wiki confirms that Arno is his grandfather. This is all from way before Arno was contemporaneous with Tony in canon. Anyway, he's fighting Tony.

Oh, by the way, Future Doom exists. Future Doom would like to rule this future Earth and for some reason Andros would like to help him. Meanwhile, Present Doom finds out from Merlin that he can't leave except by magic and he can't leave without Tony, so he is reluctantly on Tony's side.

They need help from the Lady of the Lake, except the lake has been paved over and is now a parking lot. Merlin makes the lake come back and then of course they get Excalibur. Arthur is a kid, so he can't wield a longsword; Doom assumes he's going to take it because he is basically a king, and he's pretty grumpy when the sword picks Tony. Tony then uses Excalibur to destroy the space lasers, and I bet that is a sentence you never thought you would read. It's pretty cool. Tony concludes that magic has its good points. Tony stops Andros and Doom stops, uh, himself, and the world is saved and they get to go home. Also, Doom finds out Tony is Iron Man, but when Merlin sends them back he conveniently erases their memories, so neither of them remember anything about this and Tony's secret is still safe. And that's the sequel to Doomquest.

And if you think that's weird, wait until you see Legacy of Doom.

Iron Man: Legacy of Doom is a four-issue miniseries from 2008, also by Layton and Michelinie. Even though it's from 2008, it's set during a much more classic time in Iron Man, continuing on from where we left off in this Doomquest saga. We start with a framing story in 2008. Tony, who has Extremis now, is busy scrapping some of his older armors and reviewing his logs when he suddenly remembers that there was a whole thing with Doom that happened that he seems to have forgotten about until right now. So the whole thing is narrated by Tony in flashback.

Tony's in space fixing a satellite when a hologram of Doom shows up and summons him to Latveria. It's not really clear why Doom needs Tony's help in particular here, but Doom tells Tony that he's discovered that Mephisto would like to bring about the end of the world, which Doom finds, and I quote, "presumptive." So Doom has his Time Cube, and with it he takes Tony to hell.

(Yes, I promise this is relevant to Doomquest. There will be some Arthuriana shortly.)

Doom brings Tony to Mephisto, and it turns out it's a setup! Doom trades Tony for an item he wants from Mephisto, leaves, and Tony's going to be trapped in hell forever! Oh no! (I mean, he's not. But it's quite a cliffhanger.)

At the beginning of issue #2, we find out what the Arthurian connection is, which is that we learned that after the events of Doomquest, Morgan had been granted sanctuary by Mephisto in exchange for a shard of Excalibur that she had somehow stolen. Doom still wants Morgan's help with some magic -- he doesn't mention what it is here, but he says he needs someone of Pendragon blood, and that'd be her -- so he traded Tony to Mephisto in exchange for, I'm guessing, Morgan and the Excalibur shard.

I have probably mentioned this elsewhere, but Legacy of Doom #2 is one of my favorite issues of Iron Man ever, solely because of the next scene. We return to Tony in hell. Howard Stark is also in hell, and he is now a demon, and Tony has to fight him. Mephisto brings popcorn and watches. This is the one time in canon when Tony actually confronts his father, and okay, yes, it's a fistfight in hell and Howard is a demon, but that's comics for you. Howard spends several pages insulting Tony -- specifically insulting his masculinity, but that's a whole other essay -- until he finally insults Maria too, and that's when Tony fights back, because his mother taught him to be good. Honestly if you're a Tony fan I'd recommend this issue just for that scene.

Anyway, we go back to the Doom and Morgan plot, and Morgan casts the spell Doom wanted, which was fusing the Excalibur shard with Doom's armor. Then Doom sends her back to Camelot rather than hell, because he's still mad that she never helped him get his mom out of hell like she said she would.

Tony freezes Howard with Freon -- yes, the same trick he pulled on the dragon back in Doomquest -- and tells him, "You're no father of mine." It is immensely satisfying.

(I had been going to mention that I thought it was a shame that neither canon nor fandom seems to have really engaged with this confrontation, and I know canon never believes in narrative closure but fandom sure does -- and then, anyway, it occurred to me that since the framing story of Tony remembering this is set when Tony has Extremis, there's a very good chance that he no longer remembers remembering it. Goddammit, Marvel.)

(If I got to retcon one canon thing about Tony, I think "the entirety of World's Most Wanted" is up there. I mean, okay, a lot of things are up there, but WMW is definitely on the shortlist.)

Okay. Tony has now engineered his way out of hell, and he's back with Doom in Latveria. Doom has Excalibur. Doom would very much like to fight him. While wielding Excalibur. You get the sense that this is going to be bad. Another cliffhanger!

Legacy of Doom #3 opens with Tony destroying Doom's lab to buy time and running away from Doom and Excalibur. I should probably mention that Doom still doesn't know Tony is Iron Man (anymore), so he thinks he is dealing only with Iron Man, Tony Stark's lackey. Meanwhile, some scientists at SI think there's something weird going on with space. Meanwhile meanwhile, Tony is in a forest taking a breather when a mysterious old man walks up to him.

It's Merlin! Surprise! Merlin wants Tony's help to stop Doom from doing whatever he's doing with Excalibur. The sword makes you invincible and the scabbard makes you invulnerable, so Merlin sends Tony to Scotland on a fetch quest for the scabbard. Doom has now magically sent the sword in search of the scabbard, so the sword flies away to meet it and Doom follows. Turns out the thing that's wrong with space is a thing that's going to hit Earth at the exact place Tony and Doom are. What a coincidence! So Tony and Doom get trapped in a stone circle and fight some stone warriors and then Tony ends up with the scabbard. And by "ends up with," I mean it fuses to his armor. Next issue!

Legacy of Doom #4 is when things really, really get weird. A giant demon made of eyes (???) appears, and this demon is apparently what Doom had been preparing to fight (because it's mad that Doom stole one of its spellbooks), and now he can't, because the sword and the scabbard aren't together. Thanks, Shellhead.

That's when Merlin shows up and says all is not lost. They can defeat the demon... if they put the sword into the scabbard.

"But I'm the scabbard now!" Tony says, uncomprehending.

"Yes," Merlin says. "You are."

Then Tony gets it.

So, yes, Doom has to, um, penetrate Tony. With Excalibur. I love comics. I love comics so much.

So that's a thing that happens.

And then Tony flies off and, I guess, resolves to never, ever think about any of this again.

We head back to the framing story, in which Tony, now having remembered all of this, flies to Britain, buys the land the lake is on, and paves it over, presumably so it will be there for Merlin to bring back in Iron Man #250. The end.

Whew.

Okay, yeah, I know I didn't have to summarize the whole thing, but Legacy of Doom here really is one of my favorite Iron Man miniseries. And I just want to share the love. Please read it. It's great.

But the Arthuriana fun doesn't end there! In fact, now we get an Arthurian-themed arc that actually isn't in Iron Man comics. It's in Avengers! Iron Man is involved, though.

(There is also apparently a Morgan arc in Avengers #240. I actually haven't read it. It seems to be yet another Spider-Woman arc. I get the impression that this isn't really Arthuriana other than having Morgan in it fighting Jess, though, so it doesn't seem quite as relevant. Morgan also apparently has some appearances in FF, Journey into Mystery, and Marvel Team-Up, but those seem like more of just basic villainy. Also, probably not involving Tony.)

Kurt Busiek's 1998 Avengers run, volume 3, is in large part the kind of Avengers run that is a nostalgic love letter to older comics. Heroes are heroes and villains are villains and good triumphs over evil. The Avengers all live in the mansion and are BFFs. I love it. It does assume that you are already a fan of the Avengers, because it starts out by summoning pretty much everyone who has ever been an Avenger and is available to the mansion, and that is... a lot of people. Thirty-nine, by my count. Also, when the entire team is magically whisked away, we are treated to the following narration, as Steve disappears: "And Captain America's last thought, as the world goes white around him, and he with it -- is that Iron Man would hate this."

The narration doesn't tell you why Iron Man would hate this, or how Captain America would know that Iron Man hates this. This is not explained later on. But if you have read comics -- or if you have read the above summary of Doomquest -- you know that Tony is absolutely, one hundred percent, thinking, "I hate magic." And Steve knows it.

The reference is not relevant to the plot; if you don't get it, you'll be fine. But that's what I mean when I say this is a nostalgia run. There are definitely Easter eggs for people who have read a bunch of comics. Busiek does this a whole lot in his work -- there's a reason you can buy an annotated edition of Marvels -- and, yeah, it happens here too. Just know that there will be references you're not getting, if you're new to comics.

Anyway. So Busiek's run actually starts out with an Arthurian arc, #1-4, "The Morgan Conquest." The name is a dead giveaway. Yes, Morgan le Fay is back. Again. For once, Doom is not involved.

The Avengers are all back from their sojourn on Counter-Earth after fighting Onslaught -- don't worry about it -- and mysterious things are happening. There are a lot of monster attacks. So pretty much everyone who has ever been an Avenger is summoned to the mansion, at which point we learn from Thor about some mystical artifacts that are being stolen. (They are the Norn Stones and also the Twilight Sword. That sounds like something from a Zelda game, doesn't it?) The Avengers go to try to stop this, end up in Tintagel, and then they run into Mordred. He wants to capture Wanda, presumably for Magic Reasons. Morgan le Fay casts a spell on all of them, reshaping reality. Yes, all of them. Surprise!

So now all the Avengers are living in a medieval castle and/or town; Morgan is their queen, and thanks to the power of mind-control they are all basically living in Ye Olden Times. The Avengers are all some variety of knight, except for Wanda, who is chained up in the dungeon so Morgan can steal her magic and use it to fuel all this reality-warping.

Wanda calls for help, and that snaps Steve (Yeoman America!) out of the mind control (or altered reality or whatever you want to call it) pretty fast, because Steve's always been very good at resisting mind control, and then Steve promptly goes and snaps Clint out of it, because I guess Steve is also good at inspiring people to snap out of mind control. "Oh, man!" Clint says. "Not another alternate reality! Not again!" (I assume he's referring to Counter-Earth? Maybe?)

So Steve and Clint go around reassembling the Avengers and orienting them as to reality. They get Jan and Monica easily, but then Steve insists on trying to get Tony because, I guess, he likes Tony and would really like to hang around Tony, who is half-naked and asleep in his bedroom, and certainly I am reading nothing whatsoever into this. Clint tells Steve it's not going to work. Tony has historically been fairly susceptible to mind control; it was only pretty recently at this point that he'd been doing Kang's bidding in The Crossing. But the more serious impediment is that this is Tony Stark and he would obviously like to LARP being a knight forever and ever. Tony, therefore, does not believe Steve, and throws him and Clint out of his bedroom and into the barracks.

"Iron Man's a good guy, normally," Clint says. "But he's waaay too into his whole nobleman/lord of the manor trip. That spell musta hit him right where he lives!"

Clint speaks the truth, clearly.

Anyway, they go around and manage to make pretty much every Avenger in the room other than Tony snap out, and attempt to rebel against Morgan while Tony is stil fighting them because he is Still A Knight. There's a lot of punching, because some of the Avengers still aren't free; they weren't ones Steve found.

The day is saved when Wanda manages to channel Wonder Man and break free. This gives the Avengers a fighting chance against Morgan and the Avengers are all lending Wanda their power when Tony finally snaps out of it and is on the side of good.

Then they take Morgan down, go home, and attempt to figure out which of these thirty-nine people should be on the active Avengers team. Hooray.

But that's not the end of Morgan le Fay showing up to screw around with Tony's life! There's more to come! Not much, but there is one that I know of, and at least one more memorable reference.

(I haven't read all her appearances or anything, but one of them definitely involves Tony; I can't swear that he doesn't appear in any of the other books Morgan shows up in, but it'd be a cameo for him, because I only know of one more arc that she's in in a book that Tony stars in.)

In a few more years, we have now entered the part of Marvel Comics history where Brian Michael Bendis writes all the Avengers books at the same time for, like, seven years running. It was sure A Time. There were a lot of word bubbles.

And the thing about Bendis is, Bendis looooooves Doomquest. If you're familiar with the very end of his tenure at Marvel where he made Doom be Iron Man after Tony got knocked into a coma in Civil War II, you have probably figured out already that he likes Doom. But he also likes Doomquest, specifically.

I mean, if nothing else, the giant splash page in The Confession where Maleev redrew the climactic Doomquest fight while Bendis had Tony talk about how deeply meaningful to his understanding of the world this all was -- and how it allowed him to predict Civil War -- was probably a big clue, right?

As far as I am aware, Morgan le Fay makes exactly one more appearance in Tony's life. And that's in Mighty Avengers vol 1 #9-11. Only one of those issues is named, so I'm going to assume the arc is named after it: Time Is On No One's Side.

You remember Mighty Avengers, right? The deal with the Avengers books at the time was that after Bendis exploded the mansion and made the team disband in Avengers Disassembled, the main Avengers book was no longer called just Avengers. Instead, the main Avengers book was New Avengers, and that was the only Avengers book. Then Civil War happened, Steve got killed, and New Avengers became the book about what was left of the SHRA resistance (i.e., Steve's side) after the war. So about halfway through New Avengers, Mighty Avengers starts up, and Mighty Avengers is about an extremely fucked-up and grief-stricken Tony Stark trying to run the official government-sanctioned Avengers team, with Carol's help. This is the comic with the arc where Tony turned into naked girl Ultron. You remember.

So, anyway, there's this Mighty Avengers arc where Doom is Up To Something (there are symbiotes and a satellite involved) and somehow Tony and the Avengers end up in Latveria, punching Doom. Also, by the way, Doom is visiting Morgan in the past because he likes her. The Avengers attacking his castle made him have to come back to the present, so he's kind of cranky. And he fights Tony, and in the course of the fight, his time platform explodes and sends Doom and Tony and also the Sentry to... the past.

This is one of those times where you should definitely look up the comics if possible because the way the past is visually indicated here is that it's colored with halftone dots the way you would expect old comics to be colored, although they have modern shading and color palettes. It's very charmingly retro.

So the three of them are stuck in New York in the past, and naturally they would like to leave. There's one person in this time who has a time machine and it is, of course, Reed Richards. Doom and Tony have a lot of banter in this arc; I think it's entertaining.

Sentry has to be the one to break them all into the Baxter Building because of that power he has where no one will remember him. So they do that, travel forward in time, and end up in Latveria in the present again except Doom is gone and also things are currently exploding where they are.

Doom, of course, has made a side trip to visit Morgan again and he asks her to help him build an army, because I guess this is what their relationship is like. So the rest of the Avengers are captured by what look to me like Mindless Ones and are in a cave in magic bondage, because comics. Jess comments that at least they aren't naked, because she too is remembering that memorable New Avengers trip to the Savage Land. Doom threatens Carol in some creepy sexist ways and eventually it turns out that Tony and the Sentry are fine and everyone kicks Doom's ass. Business as usual.

And the last page of the arc is Morgan alone, wondering where Doom is. So technically Morgan and Tony don't come face to face here, but I think she counts as being at least partially responsible for ruining Tony's day here. And then Secret Invasion happens and Tony has a very, very bad day.

There are a few more Morgan appearances after this, but, as I said, I don't think any of them involve Tony. She shows up in Dark Avengers, apparently, which was one of the post-Civil War Avengers titles I didn't read, and I know that recently, on the X-Men side of things, she's been in Tini Howard's Excalibur one, which I have only read a little of. No Tony there. Just a lot of Morgan and Betsy Braddock and Brian Braddock and the Otherworld.

If you are interested in Morgan's other appearances, you might like this Marvel listicle that is Morgan le Fay's six most malicious acts. I pulled some of the Darkhold backstory from their discussion, but it's not really focused on Morgan and Tony.

So there you have it! That's everything I know about Tony's love for King Arthur and every run-in I know about that he's had with Morgan le Fay! One of two terrible people in Tony's life named Morgan! Actually, I don't think we've seen Morgan Stark in a while. I wonder if he's alive. There should be a Morgan & Morgan team-up. I should probably stop typing and post this.

The tl;dr point is that you should all read Doomquest and its sequels, especially Legacy of Doom. They're great!

#posts i actually wrote

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

you can talk to me

Summary: Jon may or may not be questioning his gender. Either way, Martin is there to listen.

CW: dysphoria, periods, panic, self-deprecating thoughts, food mention

for a prompt from @transcendentalbf! <3 hope you all enjoy!

Sasha: you wanted channa masala, right?

Martin: yes! got it in one!

Sasha: of course I did! be back in 15

Martin: <33

Setting his phone back on the desk, Martin tips back in his chair and lets out a sigh, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Though it’s been nearly three weeks since he’s started living in the archives, that doesn’t mean that he’s gotten used to it—if anything, the long hours of being constantly on the lookout for anything creeping or crawling across the floor has only served to heighten his pre-existing anxiety. It’s so lonely here. The low ceiling of the basement seems so vast when you wander beneath it in the dark—and even now, with his friends promising to return with lunch for him shortly, he can’t help but feel the weight of their absence.

Christ, Martin. You’re pathetic.

Can’t even handle a bit of pain.

As if the thought alone had caused it to happen, the aching roar of his cramps flares up once more, causing him to bend over the desk to breathe through it yet again. It’s just so embarrassing—he’s been on T for years now, surely the bleeding would have stopped—but alas, no such luck to be had. Of course he would be one of the people for whom it gets worse. Of course.

I’ve got to text her.

Martin: hey, do you have ibuprofen? didn’t want to look through your desk without asking!

Sasha: course! middle drawer. you okay?

He wants so badly to lie to her, say it’s fine—but he can’t really do that after asking for pain relievers, can he?

Martin: fine!! just having some cramps is all, it’s okay!

Sasha: aw, I’m sorry, Martin :/ need anything else? I can stop by the store later if you need

Martin: not yet. might soon though

Martin: I’m sorry.

Martin: please don’t tell Tim

Sasha: I would never. and don’t worry about it! it’s no trouble. I’ll get you some stuff later, alright?

You’re a burden you’re a burden you’re nothing but a burden

Martin: thanks, sash. you’re the best!

Sasha: <3

Returning his phone to its place on his desk, Martin has to stop to take a few deep breaths—heart pounding with embarrassment over the entire discussion. He knows it’s alright, knows Sasha means it when she says she doesn’t mind…right?

Jesus, stop it.

Just…take a walk, and you’ll feel better afterwards.

Standing a bit painfully on swollen legs, Martin swallows a few of Sasha’s ibuprofen before he makes his way toward the stairs, hoping for a chat with Rosie while waiting on lunch. At the very least, he could get some sunlight, escape from the windowless basement for a while. He could only hope that the worms aren’t too bad up there.

The lift dings its arrival to the main floor, where Rosie immediately turns to greet him with a warm smile.

“Ah, Martin! How are you, my dear?” she says as he approaches, looking genuinely glad to see him.

“Can’t complain!” he beams, leaning against her desk with one elbow. “You doing alright? Staying out of trouble?”

“You know I’m not,” she laughs, swatting playfully at his arm. “But neither are you, I’m sure.”

“Got me there.”

Martin can’t help but smile back, pleased at the thought of bringing happiness to someone’s day, satisfied to listen to her stories of cats and knitting circles and whatever soaps she’s been watching on telly. It reminds him of his mum, a bit—the nicer parts of her, anyway.

“Oh, that reminds me—“ she bends down beneath her desk to pull out a thin package, handing it over to him. “This was delivered for Jon this morning. Probably listed the Institute on the order form by accident again. Would you be so kind as to take it to him when you go back down?”

Holding it in his hands, Martin can feel the shape of the thing within it—some sort of soft fabric, stamped on top with a return label indicating a very nice clothing brand.

Date clothes.

He’s got a date.

Even as his heart sinks, Martin curses himself for it—it’s none of his business, Jon wants nothing to do with him, has no interest at all—after all, how could he? How could he when he’s…well, him?

“Stop making this about you, Martin,” he hears his mother say, closing his eyes against the memory. “You’ve always got to spoil everything, don’t you?”

“Martin? You alright, love?” Rosie asks quietly, and Martin looks up to see her worried face—hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.

Damn it.

“Oh, ha, of course, Rosie! S-sorry, it’s just—“

He backs away from the desk, pressing the call button for the lift.

“I’d better get back downstairs, then. Don’t—don’t want to keep Jon waiting. For his package, I mean.”

The lines of Rosie’s face only deepen, staring concernedly at him as he steps into the lift.

“Oh—alright, dear,” she says, a bit surprised at his sudden retreat. “Come back and visit sometime, alright? I’ll make us tea on your next break.”

“That sounds lovely,” he replies, forcing a wide grin to his face, flooded with guilt that she feels the need to make tea for him, when that’s supposed to be his responsibility.

“Nasty child, always making things about yourself.”

God, stop it.

“I’ll see you later then,” he continues with a wave, begging the lift doors to close quickly and hide his face.

—

Breathing deeply a few times before Jon’s office door, Martin finally gathers the courage to knock.

“Come in,” comes Jon’s baritone from behind the door, and he swings it open with a gentle creak.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt—Rosie had a package for you at the desk,” Martin says in as cheery a tone as he can manage, holding out the floppy package to Jon.

At once, Jon’s eyes go wide—he snatches it from Martin’s hands, setting it quickly out of sight with a blush rising to color his cheeks.

“Oh, th-thank you, Martin, erm—must have, must have accidentally sent it here,” he stammers, hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, no longer meeting Martin’s eyes.

Just get out just get out

“It’s no trouble,” he replies, and it’s far too happy, too sharp, too loud to be natural. “Sorry! Sorry. I’ll just be going, then.”

He closes the door on Jon’s shocked face, clearly surprised that Martin had not kept trying to make conversation, as usual. Stepping away from the door, he tilts his head back against the tears springing to his eyes—Jon was so clearly flustered by the package, confirming what he already knew: he’s seeing someone else.

Stop it stop it stop it

Furious with himself, at the hollow cavern of his chest, he turns toward the break room—determined to at least make this lunch normal and pleasant.

Just be normal.

For once, just do it right.

—

Though the hour is just barely approaching 8pm, Martin is more than ready to settle in for what he hopes might be some half-decent sleep. He’d been on the lookout for worms all day, as usual, but had really found very few—and certainly none within the sealed doors of document storage. Even if the air feels a bit stuffy, it’s nice to have a bit of added security that those things couldn’t possibly reach him in here. Or so he hopes.

It’s as if the cot has its own gravitational pull, beckoning him to just tip to the side, to let it all wash away into sleep—the only problem being that he cannot yet bring himself to take off his binder. To put it mildly, it’s been a day, even with the lovely lunch Tim and Sasha had brought him, even with the warming cup of tea he and Rosie had shared. The idea of kicking his dysphoria into an even higher gear is enough to set his heart pounding again, so much that every time he tries to just take it off, your lungs will thank you—he can’t get past even touching the hem sitting tightly against his ribcage.

Leaning back against the concrete wall, he smacks the back of his head against it a few times in frustration, before ceasing at the pain reverberating through his skull.

Just take it off just take it off just—

He pulls it up just a little higher.

Nononononono I can’t I can’t I can’t—

Bringing it back down against his pounding pulse, he forces himself to take deep, grounding breaths, shuddering and hitching a bit as his frustration builds up to form a lump in his throat.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic—

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of his phone against his thigh.

Sasha: hey, Martin—I popped some tampons and pads into your desk drawer. saw your door closed and thought you might not want company right now.

Sasha: and I got you some ice cream. double chocolate fudge. I’ve left it on the top shelf of the break room freezer.

Sasha: hope you’re alright—love you <3

Oh god.

Martin feels his eyes welling up as soon as he starts reading, the tears causing the words to swim almost too badly to see. God, Sasha—she always knows what to say, just what he needs—and he barely had to say a word about it.

Martin: love you too, Sash. you’re unbelievable. I can’t wait to tuck in! love love love you <3

Sasha: good man! I don’t want to see any left by the time I get in tomorrow. goodnight, handsome <3

Oh god oh god oh god

He can’t help but clutch the phone tightly to his chest, allowing a tear or two slip down the side of his cheeks with a soft smile. “Good man,” “goodnight handsome—“ even if he knows she’s saying it because of the dysphoria, it means everything to him that she would even think about it. That she would even notice it.

That she cares enough to want to make him feel better.

Dizzy with happiness, Martin slips out from under the covers and heads into the archives to retrieve his ice cream.

—

Spoon and his wonderful frozen gift in his hands, he makes his way back to document storage—knowing that if Jon were there, he’d be livid to see him take any sort of food or drink into a place where such precious pieces of spooky history are kept. In spite of himself, he lets the corners of his mouth turn up at the thought, imagining how terribly cross he would be, hands on his hips, shouting up at Martin, who stands a foot taller than him—

There’s a light on in Jon’s office.

Surely he’s…not…

Worry pooling in his stomach, Martin pads as silently as possible over to the partially-open door, peering inside just in case, hoping against hope that he’s not going to find more worms, or someone covered in worms, or Prentiss herself—

His heart leaps into his throat at once.

Inside the room, he finds Jon—with no worms in sight, no injuries—staring at the full length mirror on the wall. Hanging from his frame is a loose and flowing dress, thin shoulder straps drooping down into a dark navy ‘v’ across his chest, blue and white striped skirt falling graciously around his hips and to the floor. Slits in the fabric run from the hem up to his knees, giving the entire piece such a feeling of freedom—and the look on Jon’s face says he feels just the same. His eyes sparkle as he moves about in the skirt, feeling the fabric against his legs, reaching up to let his hair hang loosely over his bare shoulders. It’s lovely, it’s soaring, it’s—

Intensely private.

Oh god, I shouldn’t be here.

Desperate to leave as silently as he came, Martin takes a step back—right onto a worm wriggling beneath his foot.

“AAGH!” he yells, dropping the ice cream and spoon at once, scrambling backwards to grab a book from the desk behind him, smashing into the horrible little thing until it is well past dead.

“God, sorry,” he pants, swiping a hand across the sweat of his brow, setting the other to rest over his chest as he bends over to catch his breath. “Sorry, I must have scared you, I just saw the light on, and I—“

When he looks up, he’s greeted with the sight of a man frozen in place—eyes wide with shock, and…fear? He stands with his back pressed against the opposite wall, no breath visible in the movement of his shoulders as he stares back into Martin’s eyes.

“A-are you alright? Jon?” he asks carefully, taking a cautious step forward.

He receives no reply in return—the only movement visible to him the shakiness of his legs.

“You don’t look w—oh, Christ,” Martin yelps, rushing forward to catch Jon as he starts to slip to the ground.

It strikes Martin suddenly that he still hasn’t seen Jon take a breath—and he begins heaving at once, lungs gasping for oxygen.

“God—that’s it, just take a breath, just--just take a breath,” Martin encourages nervously, sweeping his eyes over him for some sort of injury. “Are you alright?”

Jon does not reply for a few moments, eyes still blown wide and wild, before at last turning them up to meet Martin’s gaze as his breaths begin to slow.

“Y-you—“ he begins, before his eyes sweep downwards for just a sliver of a moment. “You’re wearing…a binder.”

Oh, Christ.

With a start, Martin looks down at himself—only just realizing that he’s crouching in his boss’s office, wearing nothing but his boxers and a skin-tone binder.

“O-oh, God, I—“ he instinctively brings up his arms to cover himself. “S-sorry, I just—I didn’t mean—“

“N-no, Martin—that’s not—that’s not what I meant,” Jon assures in a anxious rush, reaching out to touch his arm—before hurriedly jerking it back.

“No?”

“No, I—“ he cuts off again, pressing a hand over his chest as he takes another grounding breath. “I’m really—I’m actually…relieved.”

Now Martin is properly confused.

“You’re…relieved?”

“Yes, I—“ he looks up, laughing a bit wetly before continuing. “I suppose you…you wouldn’t…I suppose you would understand. Perhaps.”

“Understand…”

It hits Martin like a train, now that the panic of a possible crisis has been averted: the dress.

“OH! Oh, I—I’m so sorry I burst in on you, Jon, I didn’t…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that. On purpose. I can leave you alone? Or to change, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I—I think I would like that. To change, I mean. You can—“

He drops his gaze to the floor.

“You can come back. If you want.”

For a moment, Martin allows hope to swell in his chest—before quashing it rather forcefully.

“O-Okay! Sure, I’ll just—I’ll be back in a mome, I’ll just…put some clothes on. Right.”

Elegant exit made, Martin briefly allows the shock to wash over him before dashing back to document storage—popping on a pair of pyjama trousers and a band t-shirt, sure to grab a canister of CO2 for proper protection this time. On his journey back, he spots the ice cream he’d flung to the floor at the sight of the worm—a bit melted now, perhaps—but if anything warrants some slightly-melty ice cream, it’s the conversation that he thinks Jon wants to have now. Turning on his heel, he grabs two spoons from the kitchen, and by the time he gets back, Jon’s office door has been propped back open. He knocks against it lightly all the same.

“Jon? Alright if I come in?”

“Y-yes—erm, have a seat, if you’d like,” he says from his desk chair, now back in his typical work-day cardigan, hair pulled into a bit of a messy bun.

“Right, sure,” Martin replies, settling in the chair opposite him and offering a smile. “Feels like I’m about to give a statement or something.”

To his complete surprise, the corners of Jon’s mouth actually turn up a bit at this—and though he still will not meet Martin’s eyes, something about the openness of his expression tells Martin to mark this moment as one to remember.

“I suppose it must feel rather like that,” he agrees, beginning to fiddle with a pen on his desk, staring intently at it.

They sit like this for quite a while—letting the silence settle, as Martin tries to intuit whether or not he ought to say something. Worrying at his bottom lip to keep himself from speaking, he tries not to stare at Jon, wanting him to feel comfortable, just wanting him to know that he’s there for whatever he needs to say.

It’s the most unnatural thing in the world for him to do—but it appears to have been the right decision, as Jon at last begins to speak.

“I haven’t,” he begins, before clearing his throat. “I’ve never worn a dress before.”

Ah. So it is what I thought.

Leaning forward against the table, Martin tilts his head in an effort to let Jon know that it’s okay, you can look at me, you’re safe here—but he’s not quite ready yet, and Martin is certainly armed with patience.

“I think that’s great, Jon! I think that’s really great that you tried it,” he begins, hoping that this is what Jon needs to hear in this moment. “Do you want to—I mean you don’t have to, but—do you want to talk about it?”

Brows furrowing, Jon stops twiddling the pen long enough to glance up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I just…I mean…how did it make you—feel?” Martin clarifies, and Jon nods in response.

“Ah, I see. I—erm—“ and away he looks again, back to staring at the pen, perhaps more nervous than Martin has ever seen him. “It’s…difficult to say, I suppose. I’m not quite sure yet.”

“That’s okay, that’s perfectly natural,” Martin is quick to assure, running a hand over the bits of stubble that have crept up over his chin.

He remembers this, remembers the doubt, the exploration of what he did and did not want, what he did and did not feel—it was far from easy to do, and he’s starting to think it’s much the same for Jon.

Perhaps I ought to start at the beginning

“Are you—and you don’t have to answer this, but—are you…thinking about your gender identity?” he asks, watching Jon’s body language carefully.

He seems to curl up further into his seat, shoulders hunching in a way that makes Martin’s own hurt just looking at them.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Jon mutters, hugging his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m…hesitant to say, really, I just…”

He sighs, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes, arms braced against each arm rest.

“I happened to see that dress a few months ago, and it wouldn’t leave my mind, and I had some extra money to spare, and…and I bought it. I don’t know why.”

All of this spills from Jon in such a rush that it winds him, still not opening his eyes.

“That’s okay, Jon. Really. You don’t need to know why right now, okay? This kind of stuff can be complicated,” Martin soothes, letting out a little huff of laughter. “Believe me, I understand.”

At this, Jon opens his eyes again, bringing them up to meet his ever-so-slowly. Once they land there, though…Martin has a feeling that they will be fixed on him for the rest of this conversation, though he cannot put a finger on why.

“Would you tell me?” Jon asks in a near whisper, leaning against arms which he’s propped up on his desk. “I mean—I would like to know how you found out, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah. Right. Erm…well, I suppose I was pretty young when I started to figure it out. I’d never…I’d never really felt like me in my body, you know? The long hair, the school uniforms, just…it wasn’t right. At least not for me.”

He pauses for a moment, half expecting Jon to interrupt, to tell him he’s heard enough—but Jon still appears transfixed, as if he’s drinking in every word he has to say.

“But I didn’t really understand what that meant until secondary school. I was…well, let’s just say it was an upsetting time for me all around, right? One day I felt upset enough to chop off my own hair in the bathroom. And it was long by that time—nearly down to my waist.”

He laughs briefly at the remembrance, running a hair through his now-shorn locks.

“I cut it off—and it was like some small part of me started to understand. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I tried to dress in what I thought boys should wear, walked around dressed like that to see what would happen—and the first time that someone called me “Mister Blackwood,” I just…it’s was like a great big wave of relief. It was like someone finally saw me. Like I finally saw me.”

Pausing there, he looks back up at Jon’s face—still reverently focused on his own. It sends a chill up his spine, in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“Thank you, Martin,” he murmurs at last, lowering his hands away from his face to stretch out across the table. “Thank you for telling me. That’s very…insightful.”

“Is it?” he replies, leaning towards him once again. “Can you tell me why?”

He can almost hear the gears turning in Jon’s head—the lines of deep-seated thought clear on his face. After a rather long silence, he begins to speak again, voice more certain than it has sounded all evening.

“The feeling of it. What you said about not being able to get it out of your mind, I just—” he breaks off to sigh, frustrated with the way the words are stringing together. “I’m not saying I understand completely, because it’s obviously your experience and not mine, but…”

He swallows, setting his face with such strength of intention that Martin finds himself bracing for the impact.

“I liked it. The dress. I liked the fabric, I liked the way it…the way it looked on me. I…I liked feeling…feminine, I suppose you could say.”

In this moment, Martin is not sure he has ever felt such a surge of affection for the person before him—which is saying quite a lot, all things considered.

“I’m really happy for you, Jon! Thank you for sharing that with me, I know that’s not always easy.”

Jon’s only response is a curt nod, his penchant for decorum and professionalism shining through even in this moment of relative vulnerability.

“Could I ask you—have you thought about pronouns? Or names? I mean—I’m happy to call you however you want to be called. Or perhaps even to try something new out, if you want. Just to see,” he quirks up a little smile at him, pleased that Jon feels comfortable enough to look back at him.

“Erm—I suppose I had thought about it a bit,” he says as he wraps his arms around his middle again, a gesture that Martin knows to be one of self-comfort. “I…I don’t think I would want to change my name. Not now, anyway. I rather like how it sounds.”

“That’s alright! I…I think your name is lovely, if that matters,” Martin replies—flushing as he realizes what he’s just said. “Erm—anyway, what about pronouns? Do you want to keep using he/him? Or do you want to try something else?”

Again, Jon seems perfectly at ease to think about this in silence for a bit—turning away and twirling a loose strand of his hair with his right index finger. That all-too-familiar twinge in his chest returns with a vengeance at the sight, endlessly endeared to everything about him.

God, stay focused for one moment, Martin.

“I—would you mind to try they/them? I don’t—I don’t think I want to try it around the office yet or, but…would you? Try it?”

“Of course!” Martin breathes at once, hand reaching out instinctively to cover Jon’s own where it rests on the table—and to his utter shock, Jon does not even flinch at the contact, nor try to pull away. “Of course I will, Jon. Do you want me to try it now? I can say some sentences so you can feel it out.”

“I…yes. Yes, that would be lovely, Martin,” Jon replies softly, still not moving his hand away.

“Right. Erm…okay. This is Jon. They work at the Magnus Institute. They’re the Head Archivist, and their work is very important. I like to bring them cups of tea in the afternoon, and they wear cardigans almost every day,” he pauses there, reading the smile creeping up on Jon’s face like the sun breaking through the clouds—and knowing in that moment, that they must have gotten it right.

“So? How did it feel?”

The smile takes on a full-bodied appearance now—eyes sparkling dark and gentle across the table, boring into his own with such depth of meaning that Martin is not sure he could ever fully take in.

“Yes,” they reply simply, smile spreading even wider. “Yes, I—I rather liked that.”

“I’m really glad, Jon! I mean—I would have been glad even if you didn’t like it, of course—the important thing is that you tried it out,” Martin stammers, nervousness somehow creeping back into his words.

“Thank you, Martin. I’ve…greatly enjoyed this talk,” Jon says, at last pulling their hand away from beneath Martin’s to point it at the forgotten tub of ice cream, currently sweating a circle of moisture on the wood of their desk. “I think you might want to get back to this before it melts, however.”

“Oh! Oh, right—I forgot I sat it there!” Martin replies, grabbing it quickly and rubbing a sleeve over the damp spot it created on the wood. “I actually—“

No no no, stop.

Don’t make it awkward

Don’t ruin it don’t ruin it don’t—

“Would you like some?” Martin presses on, against every voice that tells him to do the contrary. “I—I actually brought two spoons, I thought…I thought maybe you could use a pick-me-up. After I barged in on you like that.”

The expression Jon gives back to him now is a mixture of things—incomprehension, confusion, disbelief—and perhaps, just perhaps, a small bit of delight.

“You don’t—you don’t need to do that, I—“

“I insist, Jon. Please have some with me,” he interrupts, handing him one of the spoons. “Sasha told me to have it gone by morning, and there’s no way I can do that myself.”

“Well,” Jon replies, taking the spoon from him with just a whisper of a grin. “I suppose we’d better get to work, then.”

“Let’s.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma fanfic #jonmartin #hurt/comfort #trans martin blackwood #nonbinary jonathan sims #cw dysphoria #cw periods #cw panic #cw self hatred #cw food mention #my writing #lmao tumblr deleted all the text from the first post #so that was exciting

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5lazarus · 3 years

Text

Ultramarine

Sylaise attempts to trademark the color blue, initiating a civil war. Fen'Harel disapproves. Felassan, at this point, is just along for the ride.

Highlights include: Andruil attempts to create biological weapons out of the conquered children of the stone and sell them to absolutely everyone, Mythal may or may not involve, Solas greatly disapproves, and everyone wants to kill Fen'Harel for disapproving. Also an explanation as to why Solas has to think before answering Sera on whether he has ever pissed magic by accident.

Sorta a love story, sorta a comedy, sorta a story about political intrigue--but hey, Solas said Arlathan was even worse than Orlais!

A big thank you to @potatowitch and isomede for talking me through this and getting me to finish it--and for giving me the best ideas for it. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Felassan drowses in the marketplace, listening to the gossip and basking in the bright sprint light of the Durgas Durgen’len. The Valley of the Children of the Dwarves marks the frontier of Mythal’s demesne, but is no less busy for it. Thaig-crawlers anxious for a Stone-milk fix bring the treasures of their houses. Elves from across the empire come to hawk their wares for the Stone’s blood, and under the Dread Wolf’s supervision, the two species live in uneasy coexistence under the Sky. He is a better procurator than Dirthamen, people whisper, but is that really a high bar to exceed?

Felassan shifts against the cool marble pillar of Mythal’s temple gate and keeps listening. One trader has come from Arlathan, seeking lyrium milked from the heart of the Titan itself. Another has high ambitions of dealing with the Dread Wolf himself, for a fragment of the Titan’s heart. Another is wondering what kind of money could be made out of the Children of the Stone’s need for the blood of their own god. Felassan lazily opens an eye at that. Fen’Harel does not want speculators driving the cost of living up, and is in rather tense negotiations with Mythal for a cleaner way to treat her new stone-children. He takes down the woman’s face: marked with Andruil’s vallaslin, but blue, so moderately wealthy and looking to buy her freedom soon. He resolves to arrange for her to meet an accident soon, but not too soon--he wants to see where she leads to.

“They could be useful, you know,” Andruil’s agent is saying. “Not just as miners, not just for their pretty little crafts. Since they need that fix, they can be controlled. You just need to mine enough lyrium and water it down to milk, and after a generation, you can train them into whatever you want. That’s what the Titans do to them, after all. Why not us? At least we’re brighter. And war’s coming, anyway.”

Felassan opens his eyes and stirs. He makes a show of warming his hands, trying to look like an indigent trader and less like the Dread Wolf’s spy. “War’s always coming, lethallin.”

The woman says, “Not like this. Of course, Mythal always stays neutral.”

“Hail the Adjudicator,” Felassan says pointedly.

Andruil’s agent rolls her eyes. “Hail the Adjudicator. I suppose news makes it to the frontier slow. Sylaise invaded Dirthamen’s lands last spring. Their champions are currently fighting it out for control of Dirthamen’s lapis lazuli monopoly. She’s declared that all colors of the sky are hers, and especially the stones that make blue.”

That’s remarkably stupid, Felassan thinks: but she has always been vain and foolish. He makes his excuses amiably, and heads out to tell the Dread Wolf. At the market’s gates he finds another of the Dread Wolf’s loyalists and sets them to track Andruil’s news-spreader. He ambles through the narrow streets, dodging clever halla guiding floating aravels to their destinations, and slinks into the Dread Wolf’s personal residence. As he suspects, he is still at home. He could hear music drifting from an upstairs window. He knocks on the door, and a hand emerges from the window to throw down the keys. Grinning, Felassan catches them, and lets himself in.

Felassan says, “I suppose you’ve heard the news. Sylaise has trademarked the color blue.” He has come bearing gossip straight from the caravansaries, right to the Dread Wolf’s headquarters—a cheap apartment at the outskirts of Mythal’s newest colony, Durgas Durgen’len. Solas has moved recently; Felassan glances up at the blank ceiling and notes he hasn't had the time to start drafting his starry mosaic yet. The Dread Wolf himself is sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk, reading a report and laughing. Solas grins. He hands Felassan the lyrium tablet. “Alas, not entirely--you know I was planning on painting my ceiling?” Felassan looks down at the tablet. It’s a trade manifest. “I put in a massive order of lapis lazuli seasons ago--and it arrived safely this morning, despite the current trade war. Sylaise may be fighting for the mines, but production cannot continue when there is war going on. So we have the largest supply of lapis lazuli in all of Elvhenan. And the All-Mother wrote me that they’re running low on blue pigment in Arlathan--so Sylaise will not have enough ultramarine paint to finish that magnificent dome she was planning for her palace.” Felassan reads through the trade manifest, impressed despite himself. The Dread Wolf preens slightly. Whoever named him pegged him perfectly. He does so like to be praised. He says, “I suppose you started hoarding pigment when you heard she started the project. So we’ll make some money. But what about Andruil? Her spy’s doomsaying war and talking about--shaping the stone-children with lyrium itself, turning them into a whole disposable workforce. How are negotiations with Mythal?” The merry mood dampens. Solas taps the crystalline music player, and the song shifts. It sounds like lyrium, except cleaner and somehow sad. He says, “The dwarves listen to this. They play it on their own crystal communications array. I’ve tracked two in the Valley, and there are at least three more. Beautiful, isn’t it? Unthinking, but with its own natural harmony.” Felassan thinks it sounds like waking up in the bright morning, tousled in the sweating arms of a still-drunk lover, when he untangles himself from the sticky sheets and picks up the abandoned wine glasses, knocked over but unbroken on the floor. It sounds like flicking a wine glass, slightly hungover. It sounds like the last time Solas let him stay over. Felassan coughs, a bit embarrassed; the lyrium song caught him. Fucking dwarves: he still doesn’t understand their enchanments. “What do you want me to do about the spy? Kill her?” The Dread Wolf looks meditative. “No. Not yet, at least. We do not need to give Andruil more reasons for war, and if we need to escalate let us have one of Mythal’s temple guards do it. If she’s talking about shaping flesh, she’s been talking to Ghilan’nain. And we know Ghilan’nain has been talking to Mythal.” He smiles thinly. That answers that, then. Negotiations with Mythal are not going well, and this petty war between Sylaise and Dirthamen covers up something nastier. The alliances between the Evanuris are shifting, and that leaves Fen’Harel and their people in the lurch. The Dread Wolf says, “If Andruil wants Mythal’s little stones, she will have to come to me first. Sylaise’s vanity will not be the reason for outright war. I will speak to her and Dirthamen both, and then we shall see what hand she plays next.”

Mythal’s court is terrifying. Felassan trails Solas, who has traded his usual homespun tunic for a more impressive set of lyrium-inscribed leather armor. The lyrium sings as they walk, and Felassan can almost taste the words. Solas projects an aura of calm authority, with a testier threat of violence underneath. It’s the lyrium, somehow. The Dread Wolf is manipulating it. When they approach the throne, Felassan kneels but Solas only ducks his head. Insane, Felassan thinks. He’s caught wind of an incipient civil war so he’s decided to tease Mythal. What a fucking madman. Mythal sighs. “Get up, you fool.” Felassan glances at Solas worriedly. Solas says laconically, “She means you.” Hurriedly he rises to his feet, blushing. Mythal shakes her head. “I have always said the People are too quick to bend the knee. I expect more pride from your people, Dread Wolf.” Solas gestures at him to retreat to his back. Felassan gladly slinks back into the shadows, and scans the hall for potential enemies. It is empty but for the lyrium ostentatiously woven into the very brickwork, shaping the earth into a temperature-controlled paradise. She could pull at it and made the whole palace implode, but Solas could as well. Even Felassan could give that a try. He realizes, slightly shocked, that the All-Mother trusts the Dread Wolf, as much as she is capable of trusting anyone. The All-Mother rises from her throne and stalks down to greet her favorite. She places one claw on his shoulder and caresses his face with another. The Dread Wolf stiffens but does not draw back. “My child,” she says fondly. “You’ve come to ask about the blue war, then.” “It’s a particularly idiotic reason to start a civil war,” the Dread Wolf says. “Particularly since I have enough ultramarine pigment to last out Sylaise’s monument to her own stupidity. And my workers have found a lapis lazuli cache in the Durgas Durgen’len, so we will be able to shift productive in the valley from lyrium to paint readily enough.” “Your workers,” Mythal says. “You mean my workers.” Solas says, “I do not own them.” Felassan tenses. When he was manumitted, Solas swore never to hold another in bondage, even the durgen’len. They are his workers only because they toil under his supervision, and Solas is quick to point out that he pays them and encourages their economic freedom beyond his holds. Mythal is doing this deliberately to upset him. Felassan knows how much Solas resents how Mythal keeps her hands on the reins of her freed slaves. He knows how much Solas resents how that is still how the court thinks of him, encouraged by Mythal: the All-Mother’s freed slave, her Dread Wolf—and not even his workers are safe from her clutches.

Solas says, “My man found one of Andruil’s agents, spreading rumors of war in the marketplace—and worse, suggesting we splinter the autonomy of your little stones, and addict them to their stone-milk to keep them pliable. You know Ghilan’nain put that into her head, and Ghilan’nain is not to be trusted. She dares too much, we cannot—“

“Ghilan’nain is not to be trusted?” Mythal is amused. “Dread Wolf, you’re the one who put her eyes out.” Solas opens his mouth and closes it. Felassan looks down at the ground. He has never seen him at a loss for words before. It is less satisfying than he imagined. Mythal laughs. “Trust in my judgement, as you always have. Ghilan’nain may overreach but her experimentations with lyrium and my new subjects will do Elvhenan no harm. These…weapons are soulless, but not at a risk to our own souls.”

“You do not know that,” Solas says. “Is this why you have allowed Sylaise’s hostilities to increase? Are you looking to test her new experiments in this petty war? Nevermind her…trademark,” he sneers. “We will begin production forthwith. This war will stop here.”

Mythal says, “War is inevitable. Winning is not. When will I next see you at court?”

Solas leaves seething, Felassan dogging his footsteps. Felassan follows him home. It is clear that he is upset. Felassan himself is more frightened than angry, but the gods are different than the rest of the People, even ones like the Dread Wolf, who had been born a spirit made enslaved flesh.

Solas lets him enter his home and finds a bottle of wine. He pours them both a glass, hands shaking, and settles back in his desk chair.

Felassan drags the chair in front of his desk and places it next to him.“I thought you were going to fight her,” he says. “I thought you were going to snap and yell at her.”

Solas says, “Drink.” He leans forward in his chair, pride demon eyes staring him down. Felassan wishes he would blink. He looks away and drinks the thick, sweet red wine that tastes too fresh, too close to the grape. This was a wine to get drunk to, not to drink.

He casts about for something to say, anything to move that stare away. Ghilan’nain and her grotesqueries are not an option. Solas will not respond if he tackles the issue of Mythal directly. Finally, he tries, “You’d think she’d do something about Andruil’s spies.”

Solas quirks an eyebrow. “Why would she? She’s paying her.” Now he leans back. The gold night is slating through the apartment’s window and lends a shimmer to his skin. Felassan watches him sip. The apartment might be small and a bit rundown, but Solas has arranged himself impeccably, glorying in the natural light. He is a god, he is Mythal’s procurator, he is a lord in his own right: and he is still ever the artist.

“What,” Felassan says.

“Oh yes,” Solas shifts in his chair, gesturing with his glass, “the All-Mother has spoken, before witnesses—yourself included—that Ghilan’nain’s experimentations with lyrium and Mythal’s own little stones are for the good of Elvhenan.” He barks a bitter laugh. “You know the dwarves sing a hymn to their own children, about the promise of Mythal’s freedom? Let me show you.” He waves a hand at the crystalline radio and once again the music plays, the odd echoing that vibrates within the nose and the smallest bones in the ear and the jaw.

Felassan closes his eyes and listens as the voice of the Stone reverberates, “Ir sa tel’nal, Mythal las ma theneras. Ir san’a emma. Him Sola evanuris. Da’durgen’lin, Banal males elgara. Bellanaris, bellanaris.”

Solas says, “She uses me to keep them placid, promising them their freedom—freedom of thought, through their imagination, but they will never freely walk under Elgar’nan’s sun. I have no love for the Children of the Stone. I find them lacking in understanding. What can be gleamed, by people who do not dream? But no one, for all the horror they have wrecked with their earthshaking, deserves Ghilan’nain. Mythal promised me my freedom. That should be extended to all the workers under my control.”

Felassan throws back his drink and sets his glass on the desk. “Pour me another one,” he says. “So. What are we going to do, to stop this war? Because that is what you intend to do. To make the need for these lyrium-worked stone weapons redundant. What do you need me to do?”

Solas is taken aback for a moment, though he should know better. He was the one who left him, after all. Solas reaches for him. Felassan leans into the touch reassuringly, knowing Solas is already making excuses, a moment of weakness, a moment of sentimentality, he has been alone for so long. They lock eyes, Felassan thinks let me stay over again, let me love you but the music changes pitch and Solas gets out of his chair to turn it off, and then shifts to the kitchen for better wine.

They spend the night strategizing how to prevent a war, but when Solas goes to bed, he chooses to go alone.

Arlathan is resplendent for the peace summit, but the Dread Wolf’s retinue is glorious in their wonderfully-dyed ultramarine silks. It is a statement and it is a bold one, and Felassan is feeling smug, because not only are they, the former foot soldiers of Mythal’s army, wearing an entire kingdom’s worth of cash on their backs—they also look magnificent in blue.

“You’re strutting,” Felassan tells Solas, beautiful in a blue tunic and a woven gold scarf.

Solas laughs. “Look at them, watching,” he says happily. “I see Sylaise’s little spies chattering away—the Dread Wolf has enough ultramarine to turn out his own court, and spare. I love this pageantry. Next time, if we live to see another time, I will ask the dyers to dress the cloth like peacocks. And then we truly will put on a show.”

Felassan was more referring to how he was walking so everyone would look at his ass, which was certainly one of the nicest he himself has ever seen, but he does like the idea of both of them done up in turquoise and gold, glittering in the sunset. Solas rarely dresses well outside of court, preferring the anonymity or alternate political statement of plain dress. But the message here is clear: the Dread Wolf carries enough wealth, independent from Mythal, to stop a war.

They process into Mythal and Elgar’nan’s palace, which is of course overheated. The ritual of welcome is interminable. Mythal is clearly amused, Elgar’nan is already drunk, one of Falon’Din’s slaves attempts to trip Solas’ herald, and Sylaise glowers the whole time. Solas is simply serene. Felassan does his best to arrange his face, but he’s best at parties, not the cult aspect of life as a servant of an immortal godking. When he first hit on that bombastic new recruit in the barracks, this was not how he thought it would end. He really had thought they would all be dead before then.

Eventually they are released to Solas’ own wing of the palace, much smaller than all the other children of Mythal and their co-rulers. There Solas will arbitrate the terms of the peace agreement between Sylaise and Dirthamen. Even for a former slave—and a rumored bastard child—the quarters are grandiose. An obsequious slave branded by Andruil’s insignia informs them that Sylaise specially redesigned them in line with the latest fashions, and then makes a quick gesture with his hand as Solas enters. Felassan catches it: pinky and pointer up, middle and ring finger touching the thumb. He’s made the sign of the wolf at them. He’s asking for help.

“Rubies,” Solas says. “Gold. Far too gaudy.” They stand in the atrium, bejeweled and overheated, with rooms all along the courtyard. The Dread Wolf’s retinue—loyal soldiers, clerks from across the caste system, kitchen staff and cleaners—all stay close. The heat is overwhelming. The red seems to shimmer in Arlathan’s bright light

“Well,” Felassan says. “It’s gaudy, but it’s a peace offering from Sylaise. Anyway, you’re one to talk. You’re wearing enough blue dye to buy an army.” He brushes against Solas, trying to get his attention, and Solas leans into the touch and then abruptly moves away. For fuck’s sake, Fen’Harel, Felassan thinks. For once I’m not trying anything.

“Which is the point,” Solas says, refusing to look at him. “This though,” he waves a dismissive hand, “is a migraine. But the expense and insult to Sylaise for redesigning apartments she so kindly put together…”

Felassan says, “I think some of this is colored glass.” He flicks a particularly obnoxious cut gem over the threshold of the drawing room. It resounds like lyrium-song, but even more distorted, haunting and hot in his ears. It’s red lyrium, and the retinue pauses and draws together quickly.

“Touch nothing!” Solas barks. “Pack up your things. This is red lyrium, and it corrupts what it touches.” He shakes his head. “Unsubtle. This is a gift from Sylaise, but at Andruil’s prompting.” He puts his hand on Felassan’s shoulder. “I must ask a favor from you, my friend. Stay close to me. I need you to be my slow arrow, to catch Andruil out.”

Felassan remains Solas’ only guard. The rest work quickly to calculate and capture the red lyrium contamination in their quarters. He’s nervous. Normally the Evanuris are more subtle, but Andruil has changed since the war. He tells him about the sign Sylaise’s slave made and Solas just looks smug, choosing to keep the story to himself. Of course Fen’Harel has spies in every court, of course Fen’Harel knows who needs him before they even do, of course Fen’Harel doesn’t communicate anything beyond need-to-know even to him, his personal guard. He thinks, not for the first time, that Solas is a hard man to love. At least Solas knows that too.

The peace summit is boring. Sylaise puts on a show, decked out in lyrium-woven silver and lapis lazuli, which makes her brilliant red hair shine gold and rather disruptive. Dirthamen is more severe. His graying hair is braided with silver thread, making the red in it even more distinctive, and the lyrium-silk he wears whispers the impressions of all that he has seen. At this point Felassan has ceased to be rattled by how very much Solas looks like him. Fen’Harel keeps his head shaved because it is anonymous and convenient, and also because it makes him look even less like his rumored half-siblings.

The children of Mythal gather around a round table. Solas opens negotiates. Felassan is bored. There is so much lyrium in the room, it thrums in his sinuses and he is afraid his nose will bleed. The conquest of the Durgas Durgen’len has brought plenty to Elvhenan. The excess is rather grotesque, and while Felassan likes grotesque—why else would he be in the Dread Wolf’s retinue?—the other Evanuris are a bit much. Absolutely no one in the room brings up Andruil or Ghilan’nain’s name, but their presence is felt.

The meeting ends after Solas successfully convinces both to sign a nonaggression pact that includes reporting to the other when they begin outfitting for war. They can track the movement of Andruil’s experimental soldiers that way, though the clause does not require them to inform Mythal. They have enough spies. Solas has them sign the contract in blood laced with lyrium, providing his own knife.

“Ah,” Sylaise says. “Fen’Harel’s fang. How cute. Did my mother give you that?”

Solas smiles coldly. “My father, actually. I have never asked how he received it.” Score, Felassan thinks. Sylaise has always been a fucking idiot.

Dirthamen says, “You’ve never asked?”

Solas says, “It was his once and is mine now. I rather think I have made written is backstory.” He glances at the contract, slowly drying on the table.

Felassan says helpfully, “In your blood. Literally.” Solas catches his eye and they both begin to grin before he looks away hurriedly. “Now, everyone will know, that it is at this daggerpoint that war was averted and peace brokered between two of the greatest powers of Elvhenan, and the nation’s supply of blue dye restored.”

Solas says mildly, “I should add that Mythal has asked me to draft legislature making it clear that colored dyes themselves cannot be patented, though of course ratios and forms of manufacturing may remain trade secrets to the craftsman.” He bows slightly to Sylaise, who visibly grinds her teeth. Felassan can hear the squeak.

Dirthamen says, “Good. If you will excuse me? I must tender my regards to our mother. She and I have much to discuss.”

Solas says, “Give her my love.” He means it, too. For all that Mythal has wrecked, Solas has always loved her. He may have removed the mark from his face—and Felassan’s too—but the writing is in the blood, as the saying goes. The vallaslin can never truly be erased.

Dirthamen leaves and Sylaise follows hurriedly, and Solas leans forward, elbows on the table, steepling his hands. He rubs the bridge of his nose, staring at the contract.

“Nicely done,” Felassan says. “Dirthamen came very close to acknowledging you as his brother. You might’ve alienated Sylaise, but she was always a lost cause.”

“I’m not,” Solas says sharply. He drops his hands. “As you know. But it’s interesting that he has an audience with Mythal. Perhaps Andruil approached him first, rather than Sylaise. Perhaps this all was yet another game of hers, testing to see how easily her children fracture if she chooses to leave Elvhenan unattended. Or perhaps they’re simply gossiping together, as a mother is wont to do, with her only son.”

Felassan says, “Fine. Forget I said anything. Sorry. But no one’s tried to kill you that well yet. The red lyrium was a cheap shot, but Sylaise has always been cheap. What now?”

Solas says, “I need to clean my dagger, file some paperwork, and see when Sylaise will try to kill me again. I hope, for your sake, that it happens so soon, because I can see that you’re bored.”

“Nothing like an assassination attempt to liven up a peace treaty,” Felassan says. “If you would try to risk your life in more entertaining ways, I would not complain.”

Solas says, “Don’t worry. Andruil’s slave, the one you saw? He invited us to a party. He’s working for the Forgotten Ones. Things will get entertaining yet.”

Geldauron throws the best parties. Everyone knows that. It’s because he’s no longer corporeal, so he focuses on the vibes of the space, to bring everyone’s desires to fruition. He is also a wonderful musician, because he is music and thought becomes music, and he knows how to sing everyone’s desires into a wonderful piece. Felassan is excited, because Solas is his favorite person to get fucked up with, and while both of them will have to pretend to be sober, the night promises to be fun.

Geldauron throws the best parties. He’s also a fucking asshole. The two return to Solas’ quarters to prepare—Solas changes his clothes and Felassan smokes instead. He lounges on Solas’ bed, watching him dress. Solas swaps the cloth leggings for blue-dyed leather and a gold-edged tunic. Picking up a wolfskin, he turns to Felassan, only to catch him ogling his ass. He raises an eyebrow.

Felassan says, “Good choice. But if you take those off you’re not getting back in them any time soon.”

Solas snorts. “I doubt it is that kind of party.”

“We could make it that kind of party.”

Solas grins. He says, “No.”

“I thought you like mixing business and pleasure,” Felassan says. He takes a drag and, concentrating, blows a smoke ring toward him.

Solas’ smile fades, and he returns to the mirror, adjusting his collar. “Not now,” he says. “I cannot afford to be so reckless anymore.”

Felassan sees himself, desirable in the mirror, and Solas looking frustrated. He says, “Why did you ask me to come along?”

“Because I trust you,” Solas says readily. “Because I care about you, and I will behave more cautiously so I may keep you safe. As you would to protect me. And that is why I must ask you—stop this. I am your commander now. It’s inappropriate concerning our differences in rank. We might no longer be slaves, but I have certain responsibilities.” He stops, seeing Felassan laughing in the mirror. “What?”

Felassan sidles up and puts his arms around him. “You’re so full of shit,” he says fondly. Solas stiffens, and then relaxes. “Sure. I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

“I,” Solas begins, and then stops. “Yes. Thank you.”

Felassan thinks, you want me to persuade you, don’t you? You’ve always enjoyed being courted. But tonight, I’d rather not. It’s my turn for some flattery. I’m tired of being hung out to dry. He pushes him away and goes to the door. “So,” he says. “Where in the Void are we going? Didn’t Geldauron get rid of his physical form? This is a trap, isn’t it?”

“We wouldn’t go if it weren’t,” Solas says. “You asked for adventure, and I am glad to deliver.”

They have to take three different eluvians and briefly melt into the Void to get to the spot in the Abyss where Geldauron has shaped according to his munificent Will. Melting always makes Felassan have to piss, but there are no bathrooms in the Abyss. Geldauron eschews such mundanities.

Felassan grumbles, “Subject and object, actor and acted upon. Easy to say when you’ve jettisoned your bladder to become a fog of resentment and envy. That still smells like piss.”

The Abyss, triggered by Felassan’s desire for shape, sense, and a toilet, warps. Tiles, Felassan thinks. Please. A nice hole in the ground to piss in. I’ll take a tree. Solas waves an idle hand, and a cobbled path appears out of the blankness. A white threshold opens at the end. From there they feel the vibrato of lyrium-song, electric and hungry. Felassan shivers. Carefully they step on the path. Halfway up, Felassan stops.

“What do you think will happen if I piss off the map?” Felassan says. “Into the Abyss?”

Solas pauses. There is mischief in his eyes. “We know that Geldauron will not bother to manifest anything to accommodate our corporeality.”

Felassan squints into the blankness. “If I conquer his Will with my Will, it won’t bounce back.”

“It would be purely an experiment of magical energy,” Solas agrees. They stare at each other.

Felassan says, “I bet you I can aim farther than you.”

“There is no distance to measure,” Solas says. “It’s the Void.”

“Coward,” Felassan says. “Don’t you need to take a piss too?”

Solas looks exasperated. One more taunt, Felassan thinks, and I’ve got him. He’s never been able to back down from a bet.

“I bet you I can Will it farther than you, and get rid of the smell,” Felassan says. “And, anyway, there’s not going to be anywhere more private to take a piss than our personal pathway through the Abyss. Especially if we’re walking into a trap. Unless you want to weaponize your bladder.” He pauses. “Is that why Geldauron smells like piss?

“Geldauron stinks because as he lost his physical form, his body relieved itself of all its former functions. He captured himself in the moment of his dying renewal. Unfortunate, but to be expected for one as foolish as he,” Solas says, amused. “But to your question—are you saying you think you can piss magic?”

Felassan says, “Wanna bet?”

The lyrium-high hits them both as a physical force as they pass the threshold, and Felassan’s heart skips a beat as it thrums through his body, teasing his sinuses and twinging behind his eyes and ears. Solas takes a deep, steadying breath, and Reality begins to vein, blueing the whiteness into shadowy shape. Felassan sniffs: lightning, storm clouds, fertile earth, and—that’s it, just the hint of piss.

He whispers, “I think I found Geldauron.”

Solas chokes back a laugh.

The slightly stinking vibration that is the Forgotten One Geldauron wraps around them and gives a token attempt at conquering their Will. Solas brushes him off as if he were a fly. Felassan thinks very hard, shit piss shit piss shit piss fucker—and the buzzing stops. Geldauron backs off, giving off a sense of being decidedly rumpled. Felassan is smug.

“Greetings, the Will that is Geldauron,” Solas says. There is a touch of irony to his voice.

Geldauron arranges the particles of the voice into a throat, complete with tongue, lips, teeth, and vocal cord. Felassan eyes it with disgust, Solas with interest. Felassan has always thoroughly enjoyed having a body, and has never understood why the Forgotten Ones gave up their form to vibrate in the Abyss—and, of course, the fact that they backed down from fighting the Pillars of the Earth when thousands were dying in those earthquakes does not incline him to being kind. Solas, though, has always liked to experiment.

Geldauron says, “Welcome to the Void. I see you’ve brought a guard.” Felassan stands up a bit straighter and attempts to look intimidating. The vibration that is Geldauron twinges. “You wouldn’t trust your old friends?”

Solas says lightly, “I especially wouldn’t trust old friends. How’s your lyrium-mining operation going?”

“Better, if you’d give me the workers.”

“Which I would, if you added basic safeguards to your mindvision. The Abyss is still Evhenan, and follows the same operational safety protocol as part of the empire.”

Geldauron scoffs. “Anaris is still pissed you backed out of the deal. He’s looking for a better buyer.”

Solas says, “Anaris caused the death of three hundred and twenty-nine elvhen miners from my home province. Not every man has the ability to project, with utmost confidence, the certainty of their own mortality while handling certainly noxious substances. Is he here?”

Around them the party swirls in blasting lyrium-song and crystal colors, and Felassan closes his eyes to feel the Will solidify as the voices sing. He is not drunk and only a little high, but there is a hive and there is the mind and there are infinite and only two hundred people in this Void, just vibing, and six at least are vining around each other, flesh to plant twirling photosynthesis, and he tastes—

Solas says, “If you think your profit margin outweighs the worth of any freethinking person in my employ, I will override your thought-form myself.” He puts a hand out and grips a shoulder as he forces Geldauron to take shape, Will snapping Will back into Reality, and Felassan shakes himself and watches as the old god flashes into a form, snarling, and then unravels again. Showing up the host at his own party, Felassan thinks. That’s a mistake.

He steps in, to back him up. “Can you still be the Will when others have more Will than you?” He waves a hand through where Geldauron’s vibrato played. There are others staring at them, taking physical shape, and now the Abyss becomes a black castle, lyrium roots twinging at their feet. The air is hungry. He suppresses a shiver.

“Cute,” a voice drawls, and then there is a body to match: the slave Felassan saw, who warned them about the red lyrium in their quarters. Then the vallaslin melts away and he grows taller, face sharpening and eyes narrowing, pupils elongating to slits.

“Anaris,” Solas says neutrally. Felassan looks at him quickly. There’s history here. The most physical of the Forgotten Ones is unearthly handsome, as aesthetically perfect as a monument, and thus completely unfuckable. Judging from the slight tension in Solas’ posture, Fen’Harel once disagreed. Felassan checks a sigh. He looks at Felassan. “Give us a moment. I’ll meet you near the path.” Felassan pauses, because leaving him alone with the Forgotten Ones is ridiculous, however ridiculously overpowered Solas is, but Solas gives him that cold Fen’Harel look so he backs off without trying to argue. There is never any point. He never listens, and out of the few arguments Felassan has ever won with him, it has only been because Solas has already decided to agree. He bows slightly, only to make him uncomfortable, and wanders off into the Void. Maybe they are just meeting to talk over labor disputes. Maybe it is something more—but it is not every night that Felassan finds himself partying in the Abyss, and so he intends to take advantage of it while he still can.

Felassan has a crowd of sympathetic quasi-corporeal spirits surrounding him, and they all pet him and tell him he is right. He is drunk and this is the Fade leaching into the Abyss to massage his desires into reality, but that does not spoil it.

“I am done with bad bosses,” Felassan announces to the crowd. “Bad bosses who say they love you and take you along to arbitrate weird labor disputes with their exes and then cut you out of the interesting part. Bad bosses who when they’re promoted above you stop sleeping with you but keep you around anyway. This has been a centuries-long break-up and I deserve better.”

A Compassion spirit says, “You should tell him. Communication is always key.”

Felassan wails, “But he told me!”

The spirits rustle. The Compassion spirit looks slightly less sympathetic. A spirit of Authority and their friend, one of Geldauron’s lackeys who couldn’t quite eschew their form entirely, say in unison, “Is it the debasement that you like?”

Felassan pauses. “No. Yes.” He thinks. “No. Just the presence. I could handle the profession. I can! I am. But mixing business and pleasure?”

Suddenly, out of the Abyss, comes Solas’s voice, and then Solas’s presence. He says, amused, “Anaris is not my ex. How have you managed to get drunk off the Abyss? There is nothing here.”

Felassan flushes. Solas offers him a hand and helps pull him up. Felassan says haughtily, “I find the Nothingness very intoxicating.” Solas’ eyes crinkle, and Felassan hangs onto him a second longer before Solas gently lets go. Felassan says, “Someone manifested the drunk. Not me.”

Solas says, “Yes. Compassion, or Authority, manifested your current state of inebriation. Not any of your desire to taste oblivion.”

Felassan says, “Yes, that’s right. Everyone brought oblivion to me.”

Solas chuckles. “Ridiculous.” He takes hold of Felassan and walks him into the blackness. “Place more drunk,” he whispers. “We’re being followed.”

Felassan stumbles. Solas leans over to catch him. Felassan whispers in his ear, “Anaris? Geldauron? Ghilan’nain? Which one of your enemies is it today?”

Solas’ lips brush his cheek. “Andruil,” he mouths. He presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, and Felassan draws back, furious. Solas closes his left eye quickly, barely even a wink: Felassan whirls around, and Andruil jams a needle into his neck, and then he is falling as Solas backs away, eyes flashing with Mythal’s lightning.

“Where the fuck is that fucker?”

Felassan is rudely shaken awake. “Easy, easy,” he grumbles, putting his hands out. Anaris, beauty distorted by frothing rage, slaps them away. Felassan sits up, takes stock: he is sitting on the worn stone path out of the Abyss, hanging over the Avoid. Anaris looms over him. Fen’Harel is nowhere to be found. Felassan decides to play dumb. “What fucker?”

Anaris says, “That fucker. Your fucker. Fen’Harel.”

Felassan objects: Solas hasn’t let him fuck him since Mythal made him a god, citing the power differential. That, of course, has not stopped them from flirtation, tension, and angst, and Felassan is occasionally jealous that Solas seems to fuck everyone but him—Anaris, really?—but that all goes to say: Fen’Harel is not his fucker. He opens his mouth to say all that, but Anaris shoves him roughly to the ground.

“He’s mine,” Anaris says.

Felassan props himself up on his elbow. “Yeah. I had a nice talk with a spirit of Compassion early….” He looks over his shoulder, trying to find the entrance to the Abyss where Geldauron’s party was. There is nothing, which makes sense, because this is the Abyss. He shrugs. “Really, he’s no one’s but his own. Built his own brand on that. Terrible commitment issues, and not the most appropriate commander—you need to learn to let him go—“

“The fuck are you on about?” Anaris stares at him. “He broke our fucking contract. Mythal ordered him to sell us her workers, he backed out. And now he’s sitting on an entire kingdom of gold because of Andruil’s stupid gambit—biologic-fucking-weapons. Not like he’s doing anything useful with those dwarves. May as well test them out in one of Sylaise’s petty wars.”

Felassan stares up at him, disgusted. “They’re not weapons,” he says. “They’re people. Just because they don’t dream…we threw down the Pillars of the Earth and scorn them for making machines of their own people. We can do better than that.”

Anaris says, “Did I ask for moralism? No? Gods. You’re definitely one of his followers, ugh. Does he keep you around for his conscience?” He shakes his head. “I’m done with that shit. Geldauron said—whatever. Where the fuck is he? He owes me money. He broke our contract!”

Felassan thinks, I’m done with this shit. He rubs his aching head wearily. “I think Andruil took him.” He isn’t quite sure, but he thinks Solas was trying to protect him. He’s never been very good at letting his guards guard him, but Felassan is rather glad to still be alive. Doubtless enough time as Mythal’s thrall will teach him to let others die.

Anaris swears so loudly and angrily the path, which is itself a thought form, shakes slightly. Felassan eyes him warily. He points in a random direction. “I think they went that way.” A doorway, shining brilliant with white light, opens up onto the path. Felassan considers it. The wondrous thing about living in a malleable reality is that if one Wills hard enough, it comes true. Felassan wants Anaris to fuck off and find Andruil, so the gateway appears. “Nice,” he says aloud.

Anaris sets off. Felassan lays down on the floor, which obligingly broadens so his limbs won’t dangle into the Void. This is the sort of mess only Fen’Harel could get embroiled in. He thought they were just investigating a trade embargo, then a war, and now it’s a labor dispute. He pities himself and his aching head a little bit longer, and then rolls to his feet. “Right,” he tells himself. “Let’s get him out of there.” With that, he walks into the light.

The Void opens into a dark forest, somewhere south of Arlathan—Andruil’s demesne. The earth is warm and welcoming below his feet, and the trees press closely, watching his back. Felassan can hear the night-birds sing, bats chitter their paths through the darkness, and the ever-present insect scream. He looses a breath. He walks through the material world reassuringly, touching a tree or caressing a leaf as he goes. Anaris’ deep footprints mark an angry path through the mud. Felassan tastes the rain-rich air: it has rained before and it will rain again. Andruil will be quite damp.

A clearing with a warm fire opens up through the woods. Felassan hears Andruil’s laughter. Obeying his prey instincts, he hurriedly clambers up a tree to get a better view. Solas is trussed up, hands and feet bound, leaned against a tree. He is entirely nude, covered in mud, and looking a bit scratched up and tired. Felassan raises a hand and waves at him from the canopy. Solas looks up, makes a face, and looks down quickly.

Andruil says, “No. He’s mine. He ruined my bioengineering program and now my mother expects me to pay out of pocket for the trials. We’re going to test the red lyrium armor on him first and present him to her as a gift. You can use him when we’re done with target practice.”

Anaris stomps his foot. “He broke our contract and bankrupted half the Forgotten Ones—and you promised us you’d invest. I claim him, in the name of the Abyss.”

Solas, temporarily forgotten, begins to chew on the ropes binding his wrists. Felassan stifles a laugh. Intervening now would be suicide. He’ll wait for the right moment.

Andruil says, “Fuck off. Your Abyss is nothing.” Literally, Felassan thinks. It is an abyss after all. “He is mine to do what I wish. After what he did to Ghilan’nain, his life is forfeit.”

Solas mutters, “Notwithstanding what she did to me and mine.”

Anaris says, “Ghilan’nain isn’t here to pursue her claim.” He strikes a pose. “By the All-Mother’s law, there is only one recourse. A duel of honor!”

Solas says, “How flattering. And the winner gets my entrails. One does love to see the letter of the law followed.”

Andruil kicks him over; Solas takes the blow and falls with a grunt. She says, “Fine.” She draws her magnificent bow, reinforced with lyrium mined from the heart of the Titans itself.

Solas calls out, “Sylaise made her armor—there’s a flaw just above the right hip, where it curves to show off her shape. The silverite is weakest there. Stab well, my friend. And quickly, if you do want my entrails.”

Andruil shrieks, “Shut up,” but Anaris blurs, skin tearing into bear hide and his skull elongating into a bestial mix of lizard, bear, and elf. The two gods wrestle; Solas hurriedly rolls out of their way, towards the tree Felassan climbed. His nose is bleeding from the kick in the face, and his bottom lip is swollen. He holds up his wrists, and then twists them, easily slipping a hand out. He gestures: throw down a knife.

Anaris is stabbing wildly at Andruil now, trying desperately to get at the weak spot at her right hip. Andruil has her hands fixed around his throat. Felassan passes down the knife, unwilling to get involved in the carnage. Solas, rather than cutting through the bonds at his feet, stabs it into the grass and leans over the hilt, hiding it from view. He puts his hand back into the loops of rope, and waits.

“Try a sixty-degree angle,” he suggests idly. “No, twist the knife, if you please.”

Andruil’s hands fall from Anaris’ neck and he stands up, baring his bruised throat at the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf stares at him, amused. Anaris says, “Dead.”

Fen’Harel says, “Unlikely, but you are welcome for the break. Twist her neck to make sure. You owe me your victory, Anaris.” He smiles, teeth showing. Above, Felassan shudders slightly. He’s left his wolf’s teeth in—normally he eschews mixing shape as gauche. “She would have killed you outright, if I had not helped. You owe me my freedom.” He makes a show of displaying the ropes around his wrists.

“Go fuck yourself,” Anaris says angrily. “Fuck off, you halfbreed whoreson slavey bastard. I will burn my mark into your flesh, you imbecilic—” A gold-tipped arrow protrudes from his throat. His eyes widen, he tries to scream, but his knees crumble. Anaris collapses to the ground. Andruil, eyes flashing blood, drops her bow.

“My victory,” she says. “I never lose.” She presses a hand to her bleeding side and stumbles over to Solas. He scrabbles back, but she has him cornered against the trunk. Felassan pulls out his own bow and aims.

Andruil prints her bloody hand onto Solas’ face and pushes his head against the tree. Quickly he tugs his hand free of the ropes and grabs at the knife he hid, stabbing at her back. The armor dents the knife, and Felassan sees Solas begin to panic, but then she coughs in his face and falls over.

“Fuck,” Solas says. Felassan jumps down and quickly cuts the ropes at his ankles. Solas slowly pulls himself up, massaging his feet. “They’re in uthenera now, dreaming their wounds away.”

“And you’re naked,” Felassan says.

“And covered in the blood of my enemies,” he returns, holding his hands out. “Like one of Andruil’s own slaves.” He wipes at his face, but only succeeds in smearing the blood across his face. “Let us go—before they wake.” And so, they escape. Felassan tells everyone Solas chewed through the ropes, because that is better than the alternative: being drenched in the blood of your enemies, naked and afraid.

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alphardblacks · 3 years

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alphard black, the brightest of stars in the noble, ancient house of black — his story, in a post.

alphard was born in the may of 1927, in the month of springs last darling, marking hope for the winters end, to pollux and irma black. he had an elder sister, walburga, and a younger brother, cygnus. he was sorted into slytherin house in the september of 1938, with tom riddle.

on the way to hogwarts, he befriended the said young tom riddle. he was quiet and silent, and he seemed unfamiliar with the ways of the wizarding world. it was alphard who educated tom on the great wizarding families - something his parents had instilled in him from a young age.

it didn't take long for the young alphard to find his way. with his elder sister in the year above at school, he did his best to maintain his image. however, he soon shed it to play for slytherin in the quidditch team. his tastes were more active than academic.

one of the acquaintances he kept throughout hogwarts was tom riddle. as the boys became older, they became closer. he told tom of the history of the wizarding world, and the noble families, though he himself had no care for the subjects the strange boy wanted to explore so much.

when tom attends a quidditch match begrudgingly, he sees alphard in a new light. he's fascinated in ways men usually were not fascinated with each other - he had never known an emotion like it. it seemed as though alphard felt the same, but they kept it secret.

alphard finds that by his final year at hogwarts, he has fallen deeply for tom. and tom realises that being with alphard is the closest he would ever feel to experiencing love. alphard didn't worship tom the way the others did. they were equals. but alas; they could never be.

but toms heart grew darker and his ideas for the future became too much for alphard to bear. each day he was less of the man he loved. alphard confronts tom about this, and in a rage, tom tells him they can never be together regardless, because of society, so he will not change.

alphard leaves hogwarts to take part in the war effort, to distance himself from the wizarding world that tom was infiltrating and slowly disrupting. whilst the other soldiers discussed their future wives and children, he could only think of the life he would never have with tom.

alphard was involved in a battle that left him injured, and news spread to his family that he was dead, including tom riddle. this loss is what makes tom snap, and his spree of killings worsen. by the time alphard recovers, the pain of what tom has done is too much to bear.

when he returns, and despite his family's wishes, alphard never marries. he could never live a lie with a woman and could never live in happiness with a man. he never has children but adores his nephews and nieces - particularly sirius and regulus.

living with the blacks was terrible for sirius and regulus, and if it hadn't been for uncle alphard, they would live their lives in uncomfortable solitude, with suppressed personalities in order to be deemed "proper". with alphard, they were free, and for the first time, happy.

walburga detested her boys being around what she deemed "muggle activities". alphard, being in the war, had picked up much of these, and showed them to his nephews. the nephews would visit him over summer and inspect his medals, whilst he told the in awe pair his war stories.

a core memory for the boys was alphard taking them to muggle london; buying sirius his first record from a stall, showing regulus muggle books like treasure island. he takes them to see movies, and the boys were too giddy to stay silent, though had to remain proper at home.

often, he would find the boys in their room at his estate, battling with sticks and pretending to be "spartacus". regulus particularly enjoyed their re-enactments of "a hard days night", where he would play ringo and pretend to drum for hours.

and as a young child, little regulus had been inspecting alphards hogwarts memories when he smashed a photo of him, and a young man, side by side. of course, as he always did, sirius told him to run upstairs, often taking the blame to spare his little brother from the rod.

fear filled sirius' heart, thinking of his punishment when alphard has turned the corner to inspect what happened. "i'm sorry uncle alphard!" he blurted out, too used to his mother and fathers cruel ways, and their punishments.

however, the emotion on alphards face was not anger, but worry. "did you hurt yourself? there's glass everywhere ..." for the first time sirius had experienced, alphard looked at him with a smile, and ruffled his hair. "don't be sorry, my boy. it's easily fixed."

tears filled the child's eyes, and he hugged the man tightly; he had never heard those words before. he had never hugged anyone before. his uncle embraced him tightly, protectively, and sirius knew that he would never be unloved so long as he had his uncle.

when sirius was sorted into gryffindor, he was full of terror. but his monthly letters from uncle alphard were full of encouragement; encouragement that made him accept his difference to his family. he questioned his family and their beliefs.

but when sirius matures more, he starts noticing that his feelings for his friend remus were changing. not friendship - something more. something strange. he knew that even the muggles didn't accept this sort of thing. he was broken, just like the picture. what would he do?

he and the marauders had snuck firewhiskey from a teachers office and in the heat of the moment, he kisses remus. he's in shock when moony kisses him back. when the firewhiskey wears off, he feels mortified that he would do such a thing. his family would hate him.

he's utterly terrified. one summer break, he lets it slip accidentally to alphard. he knows that this would be the end of his happiness with his uncle, and he would be sent away. his uncle merely smiled, and told him he couldn't be fixed.

because just like him, he wasn't broken.

and with this, sirius has fully bloomed into his true self. no longer does he sit and let slytherins talk ill of muglgeborns. he challenges his family. he challenges his mother. he becomes everything that alphard is proud of, and walburga detests.

when sirius is kicked out, alphard welcomes him with open offers and arms, though his nephew had flew the best and grown up; going to james instead. dear little regulus, on the other hand, is distant and colder, and alphard worries deeply for his dear nephew.

due to sirius' boisterous nature, his mother worsens her destructive attitude on regulus. he falls in with difficult crowds. no longer is he duelling as spartacus, but learning curses. the only drumming beat was his terrified heart when he was first recruited.

tom riddle is still a looming threat, and alphard knows it. he's still believed to be dead and he doesn't want to reach out. when sirius joins the order, he supports his nephew - they're the only hope. he would rather see tom destroyed than the evil man he had once loved.

despite all this, alphard still holds deep feelings for his former lover. deep feelings he could never let go of. as if he clung to the hope that tom could change.

until, during dinner, one night, he sees a dark mark on his little nephews arm that makes his blood run cold.

alphard and his pleading with regulus to get away from tom is the final push for the boy. he implores regulus to choose a better path, he is not a bad person, and he is not a death eater. this is what drives regulus and his sacrifice for the locket. uncle alphard was never wrong.

alphard blames himself for the loss of regulus. his little nephew; the baby boy he once held when walburga detested the sight of her 'sickly' little baby. he's a broken man. the beloved boy he had once loved like his own son was no more. because he couldn't protect him.

meanwhile, peter tells voldemort of his plans to betray the potters. that sirius would be perfectly set up, and even his uncle couldn't support his case. voldemort freezes when he hears the name; the name he hadn't heard since he went by "tom". alphard was alive.

for a moment, peter sees something flicker in toms eyes. even bellatrix notices the beat in the conversation. all those years he had grieved for alphard in the most wicked way. rage consumed him. he would destroy the potters, and the wretched black nephew alphard loved so dearly.

the broken alphard sits, in solitude; writing his will and leaving his fortune to young sirius, in the hopes that the fight would continue on. he knew he was destined to end this way. no happy ending. he pays one final visit to a former friend.

his former lover.

"all those years wasted, fighting opposite sides - and here we are, having precious few moments back. we could've ruled together, the two of us. i wanted you by my side.

goodbye, old friend."

if you've made it this far, thank you for reading my rambling headcanon on alphard black. three cheers for the best uncle in the world, and remember to stan tomphard.

(thread credit: narcissariddles on twitter)

#harry potter #alphard black #tom riddle #tomphard #serpentstar #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #regulus black #harry potter headcanon #headcanon #marauders #all the young dudes #atyd

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hopeymchope · 3 years

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I finished World’s End Club

The hardest thing about completing a Kodaka or Uchikoshi game is always that bereft feeling; the knowledge in my heart that there’s nothing out there that will fulfill me as much as these guys’ stories do, and now I’m fresh out of their stuff once more. Y’know? It’s like “Well shit, now I have to settle for something lesser.”

Anyway. I finished World’s End Club. The whole thing took about 16 hours (according to the in-game clock on my save file), and I’m currently redoing a couple of stages for stickers that I missed. I doubt that’ll last me more than another hour, though, so I should be 100% finished at 17 hours. Granted, that’s with me bypassing the first hour because I’d already completed it in the demo... so that makes it around 18 hours long in total. Much shorter than the average Uchikoshi or Kodaka work, clearly!

And man, they sure do pack a lot of twists and turns into those 18-or-so hours. Admittedly, there is time to slow down and talk to the characters to learn more about their backstories or what they’re thinking (typically during “Camp” scenes). But the other two types of scenes — “Story” and “Act” scenes — are chock-full of new reveals or weird plot developments up until like, hour 15. It’s all of the usual twistiness of an Uchikoshi story compacted into a shorter timeframe.

In addition to this being shorter than Uchikoshi’s or Kodaka’s most notable prior games, it’s also much lighter. Despite somewhat dark themes cropping up at a few points, this is a far kinder and more uplifting game than Zero Escape or Danganronpa ever were. I mean, hey, it’s about a group of 12-year-olds, so it almost necessitates that lighter tone.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I love the core cast of kids. Sure, there are a few of them who remained thin enough that I never got very attached to them, but I mean, it’s a pretty big cast. Most of the storytelling time is spent on the central plot, so I understand the shorthand of using some stereotypes in there. Some of them do get mined for depth. If there’s one problem with them, it’s that they’re too young for me to feel comfortable shipping any of them. :P They’re BABIES!

The bottom line here is that I loved the latest Uchikoshi-penned ride. I will remain in the tank for his works for a long time to come. But now, In order to actually list and go off on some of my (relatively few) gripes with the game, I have to get into Spoiler Mode.

MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT!

SPOILER MODE ACTIVATED

Look; I didn’t love all of the twists thrown at us. I can come up with workarounds for some of the ones that bugged me, but let me go off on which twists most irritated me and why, okay?

First off, the reveal that all of the strange monsters and creatures were just “illusions” doesn’t make any sense. If they were just illusions, there’d be no physicality to them. So there’d be no way that a giant pillbug could abduct Pai, or that some Yetis could run off with Pochi or Yuki. So they’re very obviously NOT just illusions. Hell, while we’re at it, maybe we should inquire as to how we got “Game Over”’d by a bunch of things that weren’t there. Some of the available deaths are even specific to the exact form of the monsters we see, like if Reycho gets snapped up and chewed up by one of the large flytraps in Kagoshima. You’re telling me an illusion did that?! Maybe they’re some of MAIK’s robots that are projecting illusions around themselves or something? That seems like the best way to accept this. It keeps the basic spirit of what MAIK said to be true while also justifying how it could operate. And yet..... the game even goes so far as to claim that Pielope’s transformations are just illusions. For some, that makes sense, but we clearly physically interact with at least one of those transformations — the kids actually grab onto the Train Pielope and hold onto numerous individual parts of his transformation while riding the train. So again: That CAN’T be an illusion if you can grab onto all the parts of it. So... what gives? If Pielope never physically transforms, then how’d they grab all the pieces of her transformation like that?

The twist with Reycho doesn’t quite work logically, either. For starters, if you go back and read his “inner monologue” dialogue from the game, there are numerous instances where the dialogue doesn’t seem to fit with it being the thoughts of the “Otherworlder” OR Pochi, the two parties supposedly controlling him. The thoughts in question only work if Recyho was somehow thinking for himself already, so I guess we have to fanwank it and just assume that his “self-awareness” was starting to come through early? (I didn’t care for the reveal that Pochi was controlling Reycho either, because it has this whole tone of “You were controlling someone who never mattered because they were just being controlled by somebody else who wasn’t even the player character, ha-ha!” But the later twist that the “Otherworlder” was actually controlling Reycho made it better for me, so I’ll let it slide.)

The other thing that didn’t work for me is the reveal that Pochi is a robot. Even events that come AFTER this reveal are made more problematic as a result of it. First off, it makes it confusing as to how/why certain “X-Type” robots exist. I guess MAIK created the X-Type robots? Because he somehow reached the ability to communicate with another world? If so, where are the other X-Types? We know there have to be some others if Niyan and his gang are already familiar with the whole concept. What was their purpose? Did MAIK also program his own robots to have emotions? Because Pochi is clearly very emotional. Even though MAIK hates emotions... ? Perhaps this game isn’t meant to answer everything, and they’re setting up for some kind of sequel. I find that pretty unlikely, but I can’t say it’s impossible. However, the big reason I don’t like the Pochi Robot reveal isn’t really the logic problems with it. It’s that they knew we’d like Pochi because he’s an introverted gamer, but then the reveal of his true nature takes all that away. He was never a gamer at all. He wasn’t even all that shy. He was just keeping to himself to hide his true nature... and his “gaming” was just him controlling Reycho. So the things that your players were most likely to dig about him are utterly erased. So in the end, who is Pochi? He’s a compassionate, heroic, self-sacrificing protagonist. Which makes him a lot more generic.

A closing thought: If, by some miracle, this game ever gets a follow-up sequel or spinoff, I see a lot of potential in how they could mix and match the various characters’ abilities. I understand that the platforming isn’t really the point of the game, and that’s why it feels undercooked... but that also makes it the area that could most easily be improved upon. I was initially excited for the chance to be able to swap between characters so that I could have Mowchan turn into iron, then Reycho would throw him onto a ledge. Or maybe Pai could block an attacking enemy while Tattsun shoots it! Alas, this is a simpler game than that. And while I am ok with that, if they ever take another shot at it, it doesn’t have to be this straightforward and simple. They can have more fun with the platforming side. Let’s go ahead and mix and match our powers!

#world's end club #wec #go-getters club #video games #kotaro uchikoshi #kazutaka kodaka

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crayonwriting · 4 years

Text

01 - Mamma Mia

Summary: Maiko just wanted her good ol’ dad to walk her down the aisle. So, she invited the three men from your past in hopes of meeting him. The only problem was, which one of them is it?

Pairings: Oikawa Tooru x Reader, Bokuto Koutarou x Reader, Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

Disclaimer: This is based on the movie directed by Phyllida Loyd and written by Catherine Johnson which is inspired by the music of the pop group ABBA.

catch up here!

"Kuroo-san?"

The said man looked up from his desk to his secretary. He was buried deep in paperwork; his sleeves rolled up to his elbows; coat off. He raised an eyebrow in question. The secretary walked into his office and handed him a cream-coloured envelope with a waxed seal. Kuroo flipped the envelope over and there at the back of it was his name, written in perfect penmanship.

“What is this?”

“Came in the mail today. It looks like an invitation of some sort.” The secretary bowed in respect and went out of the room. Kuroo was naturally curious. Without wasting any second he opened the envelope carefully and pulled out its contents. A neatly folded piece of paper was in between his fingers along with a simple, yet elegantly, designed card with the names Umeda Minoru and Obara Maiko, on it.

“A wedding?” He had said out loud. He couldn’t recall knowing anyone with those names. Although, the last name Obara sounded familiar. And he couldn’t even remember any of his friends getting married soon. He flipped open the paper and read the letter.

Hi Tetsurou!

I know it’s been a long time but I hope you can come to Maiko-chan’s wedding. It will be held in Kalokairi. Remember the small island we used to go to?

I hope you can make it.

From,

Y/N

His heart skipped a small beat as he read your name at the bottom. That’s why the last name was familiar. Obara Y/N. He hasn’t heard anything from you for how many years and now, out of the blue, you invite him to a random girl’s—a relative, maybe? Was she your cousin?—wedding on the island where it all started. Maybe that’s why you invited him? Because the island reminded you of him.

No. That can’t be right. From what he knows, you hated his guts. Hated it since the moment he left you there. But if you were inviting him to a wedding, could it mean that you’re not mad anymore?

With his mind going miles a minute, he checked the date on the invitation and called his secretary back in to book the soonest flight.

—

Bokuto slipped his shades on as he walked through the docks. He waved at the other boat owners as he passed by them. The sun felt warm on his skin and he just knew that this was gonna be a good day. When he reached his spot, he smiled widely, beaming at the vessel in front of him.

"Good morning, sunshine." He greeted no one in particular. He hopped onto the deck of his beloved sailboat, running his fingers on the grabrail. He picked up the ropes lying on the ground and prepared the boat for voyage. "We're going on a trip for a few days, my sweet."

Patting his pocket, he pulled out the slightly crumpled envelope out of it. He couldn't help smiling down at the invitation in his hand. It was a bit peculiar to get a letter from you—a wedding invitation no less!—after how many years. Your brief...meeting with him only lasted for a week and yet Bokuto yearned for your presence even after that.

Sure he's been with his fair share of women over the years but, there was no one quite like you if he had to be honest. Looking back down at the invitation, he was glad it wasn't your wedding you were inviting him to. He couldn't help but think of the 'what ifs' once he gets there…

Excitement pulsing through his veins, he prepared to set off into the sea, back to Greece.

—

"Aeropuerto por favor. Rápido." Oikawa told the cab driver as he got on. The driver understood immediately, despite Oikawa's accent. Soon enough, they were zooming through the city of Buenos Aires. He checked his bag for his passport, wallet and phone. He also caught a glimpse of the envelope he got just two days ago. He hesitated in the slightest before deciding to pull it out and re-reading the letter.

Y/N…., he had thought to himself. If there was one thing Oikawa couldn’t let go of it was volleyball. But if you were thrown into the equation, he just might give it up for you. He didn’t even know what had happened; he just met you one day and boom, he was in love. He loved you with all of his heart and he was willing to follow you wherever you wanted to go. But alas, after that one night, you just decided to disappear, leaving a small note.

He doesn’t really know why he had said yes to this wedding. He doesn’t know what to expect when he finally gets to Kalokairi. Closure? Rekindling with an old flame? He huffed out, dismissing the idea. Only one thing is for certain: he wanted to see you. So bad.

Letting out a deep sigh, he placed the envelope back in his bag. His palms started growing sweaty at the thought of seeing you in a matter of hours.

—

A shrill scream echoed throughout the docks, catching the attention of the locals. Maiko ran at a fast pace, meeting her friends halfway, who had just got off the small motorboat from the mainland. She got to her friend Nana first,—who was the tallest in their friend group—picking up her tiny frame and spinning her in a hug. She turned to Eri—the toughest of the bunch—and gave her a hug so tight. When they parted, a soft glint on Maiko’s hand caught her friends’ eyes.

“Maiko-chan!” Nana gushed. She held Maiko’s left hand in hers and there, a small, elegant ring sat on her ring finger, shining under the strong rays of the sun.

“I’m jealous!” Eri pouted jokingly. “Now, I want one.”

Maiko blushed, trying to cover her face. “Stop it! I’m getting married in a few days!” She squealed in excitement. The three girls picked up the luggages and walked up the dock. Maiko wrapped her arms around both of her friends, feeling giddier than ever.

“I’m so glad you’re both here because…,” she paused, the smile on her face growing, “I have a secret.” Nana and Eri looked at each other. Their eyes grew wide in realization and knelt in front of Maiko.

“Maiko-chan! You’re already pregnant?!” Eri shrieked. Maiko laughed loudly and dismissed the thought.

“No, no, no! It’s not that.” She grew quiet for a moment, pulling her friends closer. “I invited my dad to the wedding.”

“You’re kidding!”

“You finally found him?”

“Uhh, not exactly.” Her friends were confused. She smiled and led them to a nearby rock by the end of the docks where they sat down. She breathed out a sigh, “You know what my mom says whenever I ask about my dad. They met in the summer, fell in love, but my dad left even before she realized she was pregnant with me. All these years, I’ve accepted that that’s all I’ll never know about him.

“But then,” she rummaged through the tote bag she brought with her, pulling out an old, worn journal. “I found this.” she said, proud.

“What is it?” Eri asked.

“It’s my mom’s old diary the year she was pregnant with me.”

“Oh my god!” Eri sat closer to Maiko as she opened the journal. “So we’re really gonna read Y/N-obasan’s journal?”

“Oh shush.” Nana dismissed, sitting on Maiko’s right side.

“July seventeenth,” Maiko started. “Kuroo—Tetsurou as he insisted to be called—rowed me over to the little island. That’s here, Kalokairi. He took me on a small picnic by the beach. We danced under the moonlight by the beach. He kissed me by the beach and…,” Maiko trailed off. Nana and Eri waited.

“And what?” Nana asked.

“That’s it. They did it.” Maiko wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Nana and Eri burst out laughing. She smiled and continued reading, “Tetsurou’s the one for me. I just know it. I’ve never felt love like this before.”

“So, this Kuroo-san is your father?” Nana questioned. Maiko eyed her, silently telling her that there was more to the story.

“For the time that we’ve been together, Tetsurou has said he loves me, several times. But now, he’s announced that he’s actually engaged. He just left earlier this morning to get married and...I’m never gonna see him again.”

“Aww, poor obasan.” Nana pouted, sympathizing you.

The three of them continued their trek up the island, while Maiko continued to read out loud the contents of the journal.

“August fourth, what a night! I met someone. Bokuto Koutarou. He was vacationing around the mainland, visiting his aunt. I passed by and everything clicked. He rented a motorboat, so I took him to the little island. Even though I know that I’m still in love with Tetsurou, Kou is just so...WILD!” The trio widened their eyes at the comment. “One thing led to another and…”

“So there’s a Bokuto-san as well?” Maiko just grinned excitedly and continued.

“August eleventh, Oikawa Tooru appeared out of the blue. I saw him struggling to order food from a restaurant so I helped him out. He was on a layover for a flight to Buenos Aires that got delayed for a few days. So I said, why not show him the island. He was so sweet and understanding. And he’s so pretty too! Oh! I couldn’t help it! And…”

They’ve finally reached the top of the island where your villa was. You ran a small hotel on the island, which wasn’t as successful as you thought it would be seeing as there weren’t many tourists and not many people knew about the island itself. Nevertheless, you were able to care for Maiko and that was all that mattered.

“Oh my god!” Eri squealed. “Y/N-obasan was so adventurous wasn’t she?”

“I can’t blame her. I mean have you seen her? She looks good even now!” Nana sighed. A bustling sound was heard from the entrance of the villa, with you appearing not seconds later, a broom in hand. You glanced in their direction. You did a double-take when you saw your daughter’s friends, waving at you. Maiko quickly hid the journal behind her back.

“Oh! You’re here already!” You set the broom by the wall, wiping your hands down on your old overalls. “It’s been so long!”

Nana and Eri walked over to you. You engulfed them in tight hugs and sweet kisses on their cheeks. You held Eri’s face in your palms, brushing her hair away from her face. You turned to Nana, placing a hand on her cheek.

“Look at the both of you! You’re practically all grown up! I remember when you were all wreaking havoc around here.” You beamed at them, proud. “And you look like you’re already having fun!”

“We are!” Eri cheered. You hummed in response. Your mind went somewhere else for a quick moment—a memory—and you mumbled,

“I used to have fun, too.”

“Oh, we know.” Nana quipped. Maiko pinched her arm subtly. You eyed them suspiciously, not really hearing what Nana had said which Maiko was thankful for.

“Well, I better leave you all to it. I know you have some bridesmaids duties to get to. I’ll see you all later.” You picked up your broom again and disappeared further into the villa.

When they were sure you were gone, the trio breathed out a sigh of relief. Maiko led them to her room for the moment as her friends’ belongings were getting checked into their respective rooms. They rushed inside, away from listening ears and wandering eyes.

“So, who is it?” Nana asked. “Is it Tetsurou-san, Bokuto-san or Oikawa-san?”

Maiko just shrugged her shoulders, laying down on her bed. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Eri interjected. “Who did you invite?”

Maiko just looked at them expressively. Her smile grew wider as her friends finally realized what she had done. Eri and Nana screamed. They jumped up and down in excitement—and disbelief—at their friend. They knew how impulsive Maiko was but this was just a bit too much, wasn’t it?

“Do they know?” Nana’s eyes had widened.

Maiko rolled her eyes at her. “Of course not. Do you think I can just write to them and say, ‘Please come to my wedding. You might be my father.’? No.” She shook her head. “They think that mom sent the invite. And with what we’ve learned today, they all said yes!”

—

Kuroo was panting heavily as he stared at the ferry not too far from the jetty, buzzing away to Kalokairi. He cursed under his breath kicking at the ground. A few seconds later, another man was beside him, panting just as he was, staring at the ferry.

“Shit.” Oikawa muttered. Kuroo scoffed and nodded in agreement.

“I know.” He said. Oikawa turned to look at Kuroo, eyeing him up and down. They trudged back to the ticketing booth and checked the schedule for the next available ferry.

“I don’t speak Greek.” Oikawa groaned, not understanding a single thing on the board.

“Deftera.” Kuroo read out loud. “Monday.”

“Ah, shit.” Oikawa cursed. He hastily opened his bag and pulled out the invitation, checking the date of the wedding. This catches Kuroo’s eyes.

So, he’s here for the wedding too, huh. He thought to himself. “Bride or groom?” He asked the man. Oikawa looked at him, startled. It took him a moment to realize that Kuroo was also going to Kalokairi for the wedding.

“Oh, bride’s.” Oikawa answered. “Although, I haven’t actually met her.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” A loud voice called. “Up here!” Bokuto called, as he was sitting atop of the mast of his boat which was docked near the jetty. Kuroo and Oikawa looked at him, confused.

“You guys need a ride to Kalokairi?”

taglist: @yikes-buddy / @ushi-please / @melodiamore / @akaashi-todoroki / @honeymoneyy / @minty-mangos-world /

a/n: thank you so much for all the support (despite me just posting the masterlist.) i’ve re-read and edited this first chapter a lot of times and i hope i’ve met your first expectations for this series. lemme tell you that first chapters are the hardest to do. i apologize if some characters seem out-of-character or weird, especially my OCs. i’m not used to OCs since i’ve only ever written reader inserts. stil, i hope you love them as much as i do!

i actually have no idea how i’m gonna steer this story so, here’s to winging it. haha! leave some comments! i love you all!

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bad-bitch-beauchamp · 3 years

Text

Songs About Me: Thistle & Bloom (CH7)

Jamie and Claire end up in Claire's shop. More revelations, a mysterious phone call, and exchanged promises. SO sorry about the gap between chapters! I've been pretty sick over here, and just needed a break to get better. I'm feeling better and glad to be writing again!

READ ON AO3

CHAPTER SEVEN

Claire Beauchamp’s front porch, a late October night, Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston

“Claire, I--” he swallowed and took a step back from her. She noticed that in the distance he created, his hand still held onto her waist. His fingertips pressed into her flesh and goosebumps erupted under the fabric. She met his eyes and sank into their ocean depths.

“I’d verra much like to kiss ye. May I?”

Words had never failed Claire before. She spent her free time letting sentences flow around her, wrapping her in warmth and comfort. Words were her solace and succor. When Jamie’s eyes flicked from her lips to her eyes in question , in longing , any word she thought of failed her completely. She nodded quickly, for it was all she could manage in the moment. Whatever she had been expecting from Jamie, whatever she expected a first kiss to be like with the stranger who had enchanted her from their first meeting, whatever she expected failed in comparison. Jamie leaned forward, and steeled himself with a slow swallow. Claire watched his throat bob with the effort, and for the first time, wondered to herself how much power he was holding unchecked in the moment. There wasn’t time to think before he had regained his composure and moved closer into her. His clear blue eyes had darkened to the color of Claire’s favorite coastline, and her breath caught in her throat. The moment she met his eyes, everything faded away. There were no words, no chill in the late October air, no more spiraling thoughts… there was just Jamie. His woody cologne swirled together with the scent of fallen leaves on wet, worn bricks; their air mingled together, and it was happening. His mouth found purchase with hers, softly, tenderly. He tasted like a smoke-filled whisky and something so inexplicably him. Had she been sober, she might have had the thought to hold back some, to not devour this man before her… but she wasn’t sober, and couldn’t have been with the intoxicating feel of him against her body and in her mouth. Her hands moved from his chest up his neck and into the curls at the nape of his neck. He moaned when her fingers moved upwards into his hair. “God, Claire…” His hands roamed around her waist and up the expanse of her back, down her ribcage and almost to her arse, but pulled back to crush her to him instead. She moaned in protest and he laughed breathily as he whispered, “Ye have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to kiss ye like this.” Claire smiled through his returning kisses. An arm snaked around her waist while the other ran up the length of her spine. She was being greedy, she knew it, and couldn’t stop it. Her tongue softly ran along his lips and he nearly spasmed at the contact. Apparently one little tease was all the invitation he needed -- a hand was in her hair, his tongue was in her mouth, her body was crushed against the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. They were playing a dangerous game, the two of them, and she was ready to explode with the fire he set in her.

“You’ll stay…?” He moved his mouth to her ear, nibbling her earlobe just a bit. “God, Jamie…” Hot breath from a small chuckle made her skin erupt in shivers. “You’ll stay? Tonight?”

Stubble scratched her neck, soothed by wet kisses. “Hmmmm?”

She drew his face back to hers in her hands and kissed him soundly. “Come upstairs with me, Jamie.”

Navy orbs met dark gold ones in the glow of lamplight. He made for their mouths to meet again, but didn’t close his eyes. He released her finally, but kept a tight grip on her waist. “Yer so beautiful, Claire.”

She felt her cheeks burn at his compliments. How did he do that to her? Just a few words, a pointed look, a whisper in her direction and she was absolutely melted. She reached for his hand and moved to open her door, but Jamie stayed rooted to the spot.

“I cannae go inside wi’ ye tonight, mo nighean donn.” Surely she hadn’t heard him right. Was he rejecting her? She dropped his hand and stepped back, turning toward the door to turn her key in the lock.

What the fuck happens now? Claire turned, stood up straight, and outstretched her hand. “Well, this really has been a great night. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?” She tried to keep the hurt off her face, but knew she was failing.

Jamie looked at her hand like it was a foreign object, and stepped forward. He took her small hand in both of his and brought her knuckles to his lips. “Claire, ye have to know how much I want tae go inside with ye. God, I’ve never wanted anything more than I want ye in this moment. But lass, I don’t just want this moment… I want so much more with ye. The way I feel about ye, I know ye feel it, too. I’m not willing to let this get out of hand. Ye mean too much to me. This, means too much to me. I’m going to do this right, mo chridhe.” Claire’s whole body had felt warm with adrenaline moments before, but now it surged with affection for Jamie. “If ye wanted to kiss me like that again though, I wouldna complain one bit, though,” he added with a smirk breaking through his serious facade.

Claire laughed in earnest and kissed him with all the passion she could muster. Her hand rested on his heart and it pounded faster with the seconds shared in their kiss. Before she was lost in him once again, she pulled away and he let out a strangled cry at the loss of her. His eyes hadn’t opened before she had completely extricated herself from him and had her front door open. “Goodnight, James!” she laughed.

---

“You’ll be the death of me, Sassenach!” The door was closed before he had time to recompose himself. He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed curls. He absolutely stood by what he said about wanting to honor what they had, and he had not planned on following her to bed tonight. He wouldn’t treat this like it was disposable or quick. Then again… no lass had ever kissed him the way Claire Beauchamp did. Before he could knock on her door and beg her to let him in, he forced himself off the porch and down the sidewalk. One more look at her windows, one more second in place thinking about her, and he’d end up back in her arms tonight. One day, lad. One day.

Jamie had mentioned he had to be at the bookshop the next day, and Claire had every intention of not bothering him at work. She had planned to answer a few emails and do some administrative work with a coffee and then head down to her own shop to work on propagating some of the rarer plants. She loaded her leather messenger bag with her laptop, notebook, writing notebook, an assortment of her favorite pens, and headed down the street. Twenty minutes and a large chai later, she aimlessly strolled toward her shop on Garden Street. She found herself drifting a few blocks south of the direction she should be headed in and a few blocks closer to Fraser Literature. Surely there was no harm in working at one of the tables in the courtyard at the bookshop, right? She wandered through the streets with a new purpose and was soon setting up shop at one of the familiar cafe tables outside her favorite shop. Had the store not been open today, she would have wasted the morning away there in the courtyard, letting the sun glow around her, warming her chilled surroundings. Alas, being a business owner was not exactly as freeing as someone may think and she had work to do. A while later, Claire was zoned-in on an email about variegated monstera deliciosa orders when a voice behind her nearly made her fall out of her chair.

“Whatcha working on today, Sassenach?” She clutched her chest and turned to see Jamie arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms, clearly pleased with his startling announcement of arrival.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Jamie! Are you trying to give me a heart attack over here?”

“Ach no, jes’ reveling in the fact that ye clearly can’t get enough of me. Getting me drunk at dinner, encouraging puir decisions, the way ye kissed me last night, trying to get me into yer bed, and now, I find ye waiting for me outside my shop. I jes’ find it interesting , is all.”

“I was doing no such thing! This is just were I work! I’d been working here long before I knew this was your shop!”

“Likely story, Sassenach.” Claire assumed he was trying to wink, but in much the same way an owl does, he just blinked both clear blue eyes at her and scrunched up his nose, making Claire snort in laughter at his attempt.

“I do actually have to work, though, and now that I know you’re distracted, I should go so we both actually get something done today,” she said, and began to pack up her bags.

“Tis a timely distraction, actually!” Jamie handed her a yellow notebook and raised his brows when he gestured throwing her empty drink in the trash.

Claire nodded in response to the cup and continued to pack up. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“We’ve been getting some feedback from customers lately that they’re very much enjoying the ‘atmosphere’ of the store, and more and more people at checkout say they like all the plants hanging around! The boys and I were discussing taking that idea and running with it… kind of an arts experience, ken? The music, the books of course, and bring nature into it all. I’d like to add in some more plants, but dinna ken what would work best. Is there any way ye could help me figure it out? Maybe I could stop by your wee shop sometime and we could talk it out?”

Claire swung her bag over her shoulder and smiled at Jamie’s nervousness in asking her for something so… chill . “Of course you can stop by, Jamie! Actually, I’m headed there now, if you’d like to join?” His smile could have rivaled the sunshine for brightest thing in the courtyard. Claire waited inside the store’s entrance while Jamie told Angus and Rupert he’d be back in a while and noticed the way Jamie’s ears pinked at the tips when Angus leaned in to whisper something and Rupert playfully punched Jamie in the arm. She pretended to fuss with something on the bookshelf, but smiled to herself nonetheless.

“Ready, Sassenach?” Jamie was waiting by her side a few moments later. It was Claire’s turn to beam up at him.

“Always.”

---

Thistle and Bloom was Jamie’s second-favorite place in all of Boston. It was the word “thistle” that had originally drawn him into the shop shortly after moving to the city. It reminded him of home, of the Highlands, and of all the things that just felt like home. He had met the redhead behind the counter a handful of times, always hearing the owner was out back working, or gone searching for herbs, or otherwise occupied. He and Geillis had become friendly over the years, and the other lads had become more than friendly with her on more than one occasion. It was Geillis that had invited them all out to karaoke, and he would forever be grateful for how fate had worked in his life. Geillis, this shop, his bookstore, Scotland… all of it played a part in getting him here today, with Claire.

They approached the storefront and Claire absolutely beamed with pride. The outside of the shop was ornate for Boston, but beautiful. The building was brick, with a white-washed wood first story with large arched windows. Painted with forest green on the arches of the facade, a heavy naturally-stained wood had the name of the wee shop painted in gold lettering, and a heavy carved thistle painted in gold sat as the crowning jewel in the signage. English ivy crawled and sprawled up the planters on the sidewalk and up the white wood over the green arches and up the antique brick. Whisky barrels sat in front of the windows exploding with blooms in modern arrangements, like they had truly come to life in the most whimsical and elegant way. Now knowing it was Claire behind it all, everything made sense. He thumbed a rogue branch of the ivy, it’s Englishness not lost on him. Inside the store, Jamie saw it all with fresh eyes.

Jamie was a fair gardener -- truth be told, he hadn’t needed explicit help in finding the right plants for his store, but he’d near say anything to spend time with Claire. She nervously showed him around, occasionally muttering the scientific name of a houseplant or remarking about the rarity of another under her breath. Only once did she catch one yellowing leaf on something that trailed up the wall, and she plucked it off and shoved it in her jeans pocket. Jamie shook his head in exasperation at her -- didn’t she know, everything she did was perfect? They continued their little tour and examined every plant in the store for Jamie’s needs. Jamie occasionally hummed or nodded in agreement of Claire’s assessment of the plants, but he knew she really wasn’t talking to him. Sometimes, she’d look at Jamie or ask for his opinion on a plant, but otherwise, she existed in her own little world. Claire had amassed a collection of medium-sized plants on the counter she assured him wouldn’t be too much work but would flourish with his attention, and turned the most brilliant shade of pink when she caught sight of him watching her work.

Seeing that the shop was empty for the moment, Jamie moved in toward Claire. Watching her like this, in her element, so happy, he just wanted to kiss her again. Just steps away from her, she turned to him, smiling. One more step until bliss…

Jamie jumped. His phone rang loudly from his pocket. Rushing to silence it, he pulled it out of his pocket to a blonde woman’s smiling face on the Caller ID. He shut off the ringer and looked for Claire. She was shuffling plants at the counter, not really rearranging anything but trying to make herself busy nonetheless. Ifrinn. She saw the damned phone.

“So, Claire…” he was interrupted by a voicemail notication. He ignored it. “I was wondering if ye grow these plants yerself, or…” another loud beep followed by another indicated he was getting texts at a rapid pace. “Jesus, fuck!”

“If you need to get that, it’s really fine, Jamie!” Claire was trying for a breezy tone and failing miserably. She’d seen the beautiful woman on the phone. They never said they were exclusive or anything, it was awfully presumptuous of her to assume that in the two days they’d known each other, that he didn’t have any other ties. She was spiraling but a warm, steady hand brought her back down to reality.

“I dinna need to do anything, Sassenach. Nothing matters to me now except for being here with ye.” He gave her a reassuring smile, and with only the briefest hesitation to make sure she was caught up with his feelings, he kissed her chastley. “Now, I was asking how ye came to amasse such a small jungle.”

Claire smiled adoringly at Jamie, pushing any nagging thoughts about the mysterious caller to the side. “I’d like to show you something, if you can be away for a little while longer,” Claire said. Jamie nodded and followed her when she went out the back door of the shop.

Instead of finding a back door leading to an alleyway or a small yard, Jamie stepped into pure light. A white wooden door with paned glass led the way into the most beautiful greenhouse Jamie had ever seen. It was a few small rooms, each terraced with a few cement steps leading into the next. Slowly walking through, Jamie noticed each tiny room was a different biome: one for tropical plants, one for houseplants, one for cacti and sand-dwelling plants, and one with plants he’d never seen before. The windows were probably once crystal clear, but now the glass was clouded with condensation and moss in the corners. The cream paint on the window and door panes was chipping away in places, and the floor was covered in loose dirt and a few errant leaves. Everything was diffused light and shades of green and white and warm air. It was warm inside and Jamie wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead. He turned to Claire, who stood in the far corner, awaiting judgment like a child. She smiled shyly, hugging herself and leaning against a potting bench. Her hair was conspiring with the humidity to add more curls to her head at an alarming rate, and she looked like the queen of her own personal Jumanji. Jamie had never seen a more ethereal sight in his life.

“Ye know, I always come here when I miss home,” he held a leaf the size of his own head in his hand and made his way along the rows of flora as he continued. “Scotland is so green, ken? I think it’s the thing I miss most. The traditions there are so old but it’s so green and fresh and new out in the moors and the lochs and munros. This shop, yer shop,” he smiled at her, “it always felt the way I felt about being home in Scotland.”

“Have I told you I grew up in Scotland?”

Jamie’s head snapped up at that. “Ye said ye were from Oxford?”

She nodded. “Yes, originally. I went to school in Oxford, and Oxford was where I thought I’d build my life. Actually though, in between travelling with my uncle, we’d always end up in Scotland. My uncle had a place in Glenfinnan?” Jamie’s jaw dropped. “I take it you know the place?”

“Aye! I’m from Inveraray!”

“I’ll jot that down in the list of things we have in common!” She laughed. “Anyways, he had a croft up there and we’d go all the time. It’s mine now, but I haven’t had time to make it back there after opening up shop here in Boston. Scotland holds a very special place in my heart, though. All the important moments in my life happened in the Highlands: my best birthdays, my first kiss, my biggest adventures, it’s where I went when I left my ex, when my uncle died…” Jamie came to her, stroking her arm when he saw her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “The highlands always felt wild and peaceful and magical to me. I wanted to have a slice of that here. It’s obviously for work, too, but this… this is my favorite place. My oasis. It feels…”

“Like heaven,” Jamie finished. The moment he said it, he almost wished he could take it back not because he didn’t mean it, but because it really did feel like heaven here with her.

“Like heaven,” she repeated. He found her staring longingly at him, and he couldn’t help it then. He kissed her with as much admiration as he could possibly muster in a kiss, and it still didn’t feel like enough when she drew back for air.

“Having you here with me, in this place… This is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

“Make me a promise, Sassenach?”

Claire was puzzled. She brought him into her very favorite place, and he’s asking for random promises right now? “Yes, Jamie?”

“Promise me we’ll end up in Scotland together. I’ll take ye up the munros and down in the lochs and we’ll laugh and drive and get caught up in sheep herds together. We’ll drink ‘til we cannae walk we’ll talk about how the universe conspired to get us here. Me and you, mo nighean donn. Promise ye’ll let me follow ye around the world and back to the place we both love. Promise me that one day, we’ll get back there together.”

Despite knowing Jamie for such a short time, despite the day that was supposed to be a fun, non-committal one picking out plants, Claire found herself swimming in the depths of his ocean eyes with no plan to get out and dry off. Despite the rational part of her brain telling her she should not be making plans so soon, she saw an entire lifetime in his face. Maybe it was the ethereal atmosphere, maybe it was that he made her drunk on his presence alone, maybe it was magic that made her match his eyes and say, “Scotland it is. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

#in which tessaactually tries fan fic #songs about me fic #outlander fic #outlander fan fic #jamie x claire #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #FIRST KISS FIRST KISS FIRST KISS #things are amping up to get v angsty #but until then #things are V FLUFFY #and are about to get vvv smutty.

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tomtenadia · 3 years

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Island Dreams - Epilogue

So, this is it. We officially reached the end. I must admit I am very sad. Writing this story has been such a great journey but Aelin and Rowan have their happy ending. This chapter is set 5 years after the events of the previous chapter. it's divided in two parts. The first one we have Aelin telling in first person what happened in five years. Part two has a snippet of our beloved Whitethorn-Galathynius family. we get to meet Freyja and Morrigan and a surprise too. I hope you love the girls.

I want to say a massive thank to every single person who read the story, reblogged it or left a comment. Thank you. I am so grateful for all the support you gave me.

I am coming back.. A Little Braver is going well and I hope to be brave enough to post chapter one soon.

And now i'll leave you to the story. Enjoy <3

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5 years later

My name is Aelin and my story began five years ago. I was once heartbroken and one day I left my old life behind and took a flight to Scotland, and then a ferry and I ended up on this island called Lewis. I am a bookworm and one of the first thing I did once on the island was to go and hunt for a bookstore. And well, you know the story after that. It’s been five years since the day Rowan and I officially tied our lives together at Callanish. As promised we went back there after a year and a day and renewed our vows.

Married life had its ups and downs but Rowan and I fought through every single challenge that came our way. We made it work, we fought for each other as we promised and we love each other just as we did when we began. And some. Every year Rowan has been celebrating the anniversary of the day I arrived on the island and officially entered his life. Sometimes I think he prefers that day to our wedding anniversary. Anyway, as you remember we finished the story with the four of us, Rowan, me and our two girls Morrigan and Freyja. Those two cute bundles of flesh are now two very active five years old driving mum and dad crazy but also being the most precious thing in our life. They will start primary school next month and I am trying not to cry if I think how much they have grown. Physically they are their father’s clone. They both have deep pine green eyes and his same silver hair. Freyja likes it long and loves when either I or Rowan braid it. He has become quite a wizard at braiding our daughter’s hair. Morrigan, on the other hand, prefers it short. But the similarities end with that. Personality wise they cannot be any more different. Freyja is like me. Rowan calls her his wee Fireheart. She is fierce and stubborn. She has a very strong personality and for a five year old she has her ideas clear on what she wants. She is like quicksilver and always active. She is the first one to wake up and the last one to go to bed. She is curious and fearless and loves nature just as much as her father. She is out little hurricane. Morrigan, on the other hand, is the calm one and reserved and she reminds me so much of Rowan. She observes a lot and when you think she is not paying attention, she comes up with question that makes you realise she was listening after all. She has an inquisitive mind and her non stop questions can be exhausting after a long day. She is shy. Where her sister had been since tender age happy to be with anyone, Morrigan has always been very selective. Growing up she has her favourite selection of adults. She is very close to her father, probably because they are very similar, but Uncle Malcolm and Aedion come second. Aedion got her hooked on planes. Once we were at his and Lys’ house and Morrigan grabbed one of his models planes and started playing with it. Aedion had started talking about the plane and now when they are together she always ask him about planes. We think she’ll be a pilot. Both girls are obsessed with books just like her parents and Rowan has taken upon him the job of teaching them to read. Morrigan can read very simple words and write her own name. Freyja would too if she could sit down for more than five minutes. Good luck with the teachers. She is very bright, she just can’t stay still for very long. She was probably the one doing all the kicking while in the womb. The amazing thing is that they get along. It took us a while to teach them to sleep in their individual rooms. For a while in the morning we would find one in the other’s bed. Always curled up together as they used to do when they were little. Freyja at the park always play the protective one and looks after her sister and chases away the kids who try to take advantage of her sister’s calmer nature. If we were in a fantasy I would imagine Freyja being the woman learning to wield a sword and who would train with the guys and dreamed of becoming a knight. Morrigan, I imagine her as the one with her nose in books and who dreams of becoming a healer. I think Rowan is writing a story about them. Oh yes, I will tell you about his book in a moment. There is a further family member that I need to introduce: our son Dalamar. Yes, Rowan and I have scandalised parents at kindergarten with our weird names. Freyja did not cause much problems but a couple of mothers had a go at me for calling my daughter with such as negative name as Morrigan. I usually explain that I do not expect my daughter to become the goddess of war but that simply Rowan and I liked the name. And do not get me started with Dalamar. No-one apparently has read the Dragonlace chronicles so when we say Dalamar is a dark elf in the books, well, the glares we get are incredible. But again, Rowan and I wanted an original name. We started searching in books to find something we liked and then Rowan found his old copy of the Dragonlance chronicles and he suggested Dalamar. I joked that if we truly wanted to scandalise Stornoway, we should have called him Raistlin. So in the end we went for something less alien and settled on Dalamar. Anyway, Dalamar is two. He was planned though. Rowan and I had decided we wanted a big family so once the girls were around three we started to try and add another member. When we had the conversation we had talked about having four kids, but alas, Dalamar’s birth has been so full of complication that my chances of another pregnancy are now non existent. But Rowan and I are happy. We have our big family. So, Dalamar has blond hair, much fairer than mine and very light blue eyes. He is a gorgeous wee boy. In terms of personality he is halfway between his sisters. He can be adorable one moment and stubborn like a mule the next. But at least they get along and again, Freyja has taken him under her wing. She really is our knight in shining armour. Both girls are fluent Gaelic speakers. After they were born I asked Rowan if he wanted to teach Gaelic to the girls and he had been very happy about it. So we decided that he would speak only Gaelic to the girls and I was the boring parents with English, although sometimes I am brave and I practice with them, then I embarrass myself and revert to English. We have started the same process with Dalamar and he is like a sponge. Morrigan sometimes helps me with my exercises and Gaelic homework. I am taking classes as well when I can. It’s quite embarrassing when you are almost forty and your five years old daughter tells you “Don’t worry mum, you are doing great.” And then adds something in Gaelic and you need to wait for your husband for a translation. Kids, aside… our lives haven’t changed very much. Rowan still works at the bookstore and Malcolm’s sister is still his assistant. She had been wonderful and he could easily count on her when he needed to stay at home with me and the kids. The shop is becoming very popular, my Facebook page has now reached many followers and a year after our daughters were born he finally managed to set up a website for online ordering. My dearest husband also managed to write a book, find an editor and have it printed and distributed in some smaller bookstores. Of course I told him to have in his shop. We did a book signing hoopla and I don’t think I ever seen Rowan so embarrassed. Anyway, he wrote a fantasy and as promised I was in it and I was Queen as requested. He was my warrior. Loads of angst and epic battles but we end up together. I am very proud of him. Now he is working on one were our children are the main characters. I have only read the fist few chapters and I love it already. But I am his wife so I am biased. I still work at the hospital and still love my job. I started helping as well as paramedic and specifically in the air squad. The team that gets to be airlifted at the site of accidents and the whole thing required a special type of training and it had been amazing. On occasions, I get to work with Aedion. He flies, I save lives. I wish I could tell the London guys that they were wrong. Working in a small hospital is not throwing away my career. I feel more satisfied than I ever felt when I was down south. Malcolm is still my second and I still adore him. Three years ago he finally got married. After my wedding Aiden went for his last deployment and made it back alive and then retired from the navy. He and Malcolm started dating seriously. A year later they moved in together and a year after that Malcolm finally proposed. Aiden has found a civilian job and well, they got their happily ever after. Another couple who got their happily ever after is Lysandra and Aedion. He proposed about five months after mine and Rowan’s wedding and three months later they were married. They had gone for a very small and private ceremony. One year later they had their fist child a boy named Marcus and now Lysandra is pregnant with their second, a girl. She climbed up again the ladder at the hospital and now she is just one level below the head of the department. Then we have Elias. How can I forget him? He is still in Shetland and we keep in touch and we meet when he is back on the islands. His job is going wonderfully and recently got promoted. Two years ago he got married to Ciara and he is happy and a few months ago she gave birth to an adorable little girl named Martha. She is cute. I have seen her when they came down last month. We remained good friends and both had the happy ending we wanted. We still joke and we love to compliment each other on making marriage number two stick. His book addiction got worse and I think I created a monster. He also bought Rowan’s book and raved about it for months. Then we have Elide and Lorcan. We see each other quite regularly. Every year in July they come to Heb Celt and now they can stay at our place. We have been down to Glasgow a few times and Lorcan yearly provides Rowan with tickets for the Six Nations and we religiously go and see the matches. I am officially a Scotland’s fan and I even learnt Flower of Scotland. The boys are proud of me. Elide is still a teacher and Lorcan still the coach of the Warriors. Their family has gotten bigger as well and they have a boy and a girl and Elide is expecting a third one. Apparently they want a big family too. Oh and Lorcan can smile for more than a second. I must admit I have changed my mind about the man and once he gets comfortable with someone he is actually quite a decent human being. He as a dark sense of humour and us two are usually the ones scandalising the group with dark jokes. Aunt Maeve is still running her cafe and she had been a great help as well while the kids were growing up. She would come up with crazy excuses to offer to babysit them and gave us plenty of chances for me and Rowan to have some time alone. Especially after the two births. She also spoils the girls and love to bake for them. Freyja loves to bake with Maeve and, like me is obsessed with cakes. Also, baking is the only activity when our energetic daughter can stay still for more than ten minutes. Morrigan, on the other hand is fussy as her father and not a fan of sweet stuff. We really got one clone each. Dalamar is still too small but he eats anything. My mum has joined the group as well. She has bought a flat up here and sold the house in London. She decided that she wanted to be a part of her grandchildren lives so she moved up here and she is in good terms with Maeve and sometimes she helps her at the cafe. The two of them cooking are becoming very popular in town.

***

“Come on, let’s go and see dad in the shop.” Aelin took Dalamar’s hand and made sure the twins were walking in front of her. Morrigan started blabbing something in Gaelic but Aelin didn’t understand. “Beurla, mo chridhe,” said Aelin to her daughter. “Tha mi duilich, mum.” Morrigan gave her a toothy smile, showing off her missing tooth. They walked to the shop and once they got in the two girls ran to their father who crouched down and they crashed into him. “I bring chaos.” Joked Aelin while Dalamar was still holding her hand. Rowan had started hosting afternoon for kids in his shop when he would reads books or just have storytelling sessions. He had started during the school holidays to have a way to keep the younger children busy but then it became very popular and he kept going, so once a week the shop is invaded by parents and their kids. The twins loved to listen to their dad tell stories. Dalamar loved it as well but he was far too young to understand what was happening so most of the times he would end up playing with Lys and Aedion’s son Marcus. Aelin reached Rowan and gave him a kiss and the twins made disgusted noises and Aelin laughed “one day you will find a boy or a girl and you’ll want to kiss him or her as well and it won’t be as disgusting,” she said tickling Freyja who was the one who was the most disgusted. “I am going to be a knight. I don’t need a boy.” Added Freyja proudly. “I am going to be a doctor like mum.” Was Morrigan’s turn. “So, a knight and a doctor, I guess we got very lucky.” Rowan pulled Aelin in his arms “looks like the goddess of love wants to fight and is not interested in love and the goddess of war wants to heal people.” “Well, you can’t say that we don’t have an interesting family.” Joked Aelin. Then Rowan bend over and lifted Dalamar in his arms “and you?” He kissed his cheek “what do you want to do?” “Tuathanach.” Replied the boy hugging his father. Aelin laughed and brushed his blond hair “that is lovely, my love.” With time and once they were properly settled down they had decided to dedicate a part of the land they owned to have a small farm. They had a couple of cows, a few chickens and loads of sheep. Dalamar loved to run after the sheep and help his dad look after the animals. That’s why Aelin and Rowan were not surprised when he said he wanted to be a farmer. The twins went behind the counter and grabbed the colouring books that Rowan kept stashed for when he had them in the shop and the pencils and ran to the kids’ table at the bottom of the shop. Rowan placed Dalamar on the floor “Go and colour with your sisters.” “Tha.” And the boy joined the two girls. Aelin leaned exhausted against Rowan. “You look tired.” “They have far too much energy. We went to the park. Freyja ran and jumped the whole time. Morrigan wanted to pat the ducks and almost ended up in the pond and Dalamar chased every single dog or cat.” She explained, looking at their kids with affection “then we had ice cream, we went to say hi to Aunt Maeve and grandma Evalin and Freyja and Dalamar stuffed themselves with carrot cake. Morrigan just had a carrot. She is annoyingly healthy like you.” “My girl.” Said Rowan proudly. “Don’t get me wrong, I love them madly, but I just wished they had just a smidge less energy.” Rowan kissed her forehead “I’ll entertain them tonight and make sure they go to bed early. Hopefully they will run out of energy soon.” “Morrigan and Dalamar perhaps. Not Freyja, that girl has limitless power.” “Just like her mother.” Rowan’s arms squeezed her tight “The girls are going to school next month so hopefully they will calm down a bit.” “I am terrified at the idea of Freyja sitting on a chair all day. I feel sorry for the poor teacher.” Rowan laughed “she might find it interesting and actually sit.” “Ro, she can’t even stay still when you read stories.” He scratched his head “I was thinking we can sign her up for some sport.” “You can take her swimming.” Suggested Aelin. Rowan had kept his job as swimming instructor with Dorian and they had made it work. When the kids were at home she would take them to the swimming complex and once Rowan was done they would all swim together. He had begun teaching the twins to float and some very basics techniques. Freyja had loved it, but she preferred jumping from the smallest platform. Morrigan on the other hand had been a good student and had followed her dad’s instructions and could do a nice basic breaststroke. Dalamar would soak with Aelin with his water wings. He loved being in the water. “She could become one of those athletes who jump from platforms into water. A professional diver. She is surely fearless for a five years old.” “I can see her as a rugby player.” And Aelin laughed. “We’ll let her decide.” “Of course,”Aelin kissed him “Look, some mum and kids are arriving.” Rowan was due to start his storytelling session very soon and mothers, fathers and kids had started to arrive in the shop. Five minutes later Rowan took his position at the bottom of the shop on his chair. All the kids sat on the floor on the colourful mats Rowan had bought. Morrigan and Dalamar would sit at his feet, but Rowan would alway keep Freyja in his arms so he could hold her still for a while. “Thank you everyone for coming this afternoon. Kids, are you all comfortable?” Aelin stood in a corner and stared at him as per her usual. Rowan was such a natural around kids. It had been so easy for him to settle into his role as a dad. He had been amazing with their kids and he’d do literally anything to make them happy. But at the same time he had managed to keep the wonderful balance to prevent them to become spoiled brats whose parents would give them anything. “Today’s story is about a princess. Her name is Aelin.” “Like mum.” shouted Freyja in her father’s arms. “Tha, mo chridhe.” And Rowan kissed her head and a smug smile appeared on the girl’s face. “She is fierce and brave and very, very beautiful. So beautiful that all the princes in the realm wanted to marry her.” Aelin laughed and blushed a bit. “Is there a dragon?” Asked Freyja who seemed had already passed her attention span limit. “Shhh, my love.” But he knew it was a desperate hope. “The princess had been put under a spell by her horrible stepmother who was very jealous of her. She could not enjoy true love with the man she loved until the dragon that held the necklace with the spell was killed. Aelin was in love with the captain of the guard, a man called Rowan. The wicked stepmother had found out and so punished her. She had planned to marry her off to a wealthy old man.” When Aelin noticed Freyja was getting fidgety, she took a chair and sat beside her husband and grabbed their daughter so that he could continue his tale. “Rowan offered to go on a quest and kill the dragon but Aelin refused to be left behind. She was not a damsel in distress. So during the night she gathered some of her stuff, donned her armour and together they set off on an adventure. During their trip he would train her with the sword so she could defend herself. It took them a few months but they did manage to reach the dragon’s lair.” “Dragon.” Freyja was ecstatic and Aelin held her tight. “But while they took the path through the magic forest to reach the dragon lair, Rowan and Aelin got separated. The forest was very dangerous but they were both very brave and fought all the perils and when Aelin finally reached the lair she saw that Rowan was already there but he was injured. She drew her sword and decided to face the dragon alone. In the forest she had discovered that she had fire magic and she wanted to punish the dragon. So she started fighting him, but the dragon was huge and she was getting tired. In that instant Rowan woke up again and walked to her. Together they fought the dragon and eventually killed it and destroyed the necklace, setting Aelin free. She finally kissed him and slowly they returned back home. Once back at the castle, they discovered the wicked mother was gone and Aelin and Rowan decided to get married. They invited all the villagers and they lived happily ever after.” Rowan had to simplify the story to make it acceptable to young kids but they seemed to have liked it. He told a few more stories and two hours later the shop was empty and he was alone again with his family. Dalamar had fallen asleep in Aelin’s arms. Morrigan had gone back to her colouring book and Freyja was pretending to be a knight, swinging around the toy sword Rowan had given her. “I am princess Aelin and I kill dragons.” She shouted while Rowan chased her around the shop. Rowan finally grabbed her and lifted her like a sack of potatoes “dad, the dragon,” she protested while trying to wriggle out of her father’s grip. “Freyja!” Aelin noticed Rowan’s command voice. The one that could actually slow down the little terror. The girl stopped moving and Rowan sat her down beside her sister and she grabbed a colouring book and joined Morrigan in silence. “You really have super powers.” Rowan leaned over to kiss his wife’s head “Give me ten minutes and we’ll go home.”

Half an hour later they were finally at home. Rowan carried a sleepy Morrigan and Aelin carried Dalamar who had been sleeping for an hour now. Freyja had followed in silence, with her sword tucked in the belt loop of her trousers. “I’ll make dinner, you change the kids.” Aelin nodded “Let’s go Freyja it’s jammies time.” The little girl gave her a huge smile and followed her mother with Morrigan at her side. Aelin placed Dalamar on the bed, and helped the two girls change into their night clothes. “Did you have fun at dad’s tonight?” “Yes.” They both squealed. Once they were ready, Aelin tied Freyja’s hair “now go back downstairs to dad but let him cook, okay?” The two girls nodded and left the room. Aelin grabbed her little boy and took him to his room, changed him into his pyjama and tucked him in bed “I love you,” she told him while kissing him on the cheek. Then grabbed the baby monitor and joined the rest of her family downstairs. The twins were on the carpet playing quietly with Morrigan’s planes. Aelin joined Rowan and hugged him from behind “Dalamar is in bed and the girls are playing.” She kissed his back “and your food smells amazing.” “Freyja finally calmed down.” “My mum says that she reminds her of me when I was little.” Aelin squeezed him. He switched off the hob and turned engulfing her in his arms “It does not surprise me.” And he kissed her deeply and Aelin replied in the same manner. He pushed her to the table and she grabbed his butt pulling him to her and she moaned against his mouth. He kissed her neck and Aelin’s hands found their way under his t-shirt. Then she pulled away “Ro, the kids are in the other room and awake.” Rowan leaned his forehead against hers cupping her face in his hands. The kiss he gave her was full of need and love “I know.” He sighed pulling away. Their intimate life had taken a bit of a hit and most nights they were too tired to even try and do something. The last time they had managed to get some action was when Aelin’s mother had kidnapped their kids for an entire weekend four months before. And the mornings were not good either because the twins had the habit of waking up and joining their parents in bed for some family cuddling. Aelin crashed her forehead on his chest “I miss our wall…” she laughed “but I know that I would fall asleep as soon as my back hits it.” Rowan kissed her again “I miss you too.” Then pulled away “Come one, let’s go and feed our hurricanes.” In that instant she heard Dalamar calling her through the baby monitor and five minutes later Aelin was downstairs with a weepy boy in her arms “Someone else is joining us for dinner.” The five of them had dinner and once they were done the kids moved to the sofa and Aelin gave them her old laptop so they could watch their hour of tv. She and Rowan had never bought a tv and the kids never asked for it but allowed them to watch an hour of cartoons on Netflix in the evening after dinner while they cleaned up. Most of times they got bored after half an hour and went back playing until bed time but when they were tired they did manage their hour. “They are watching Totoro again.” Said Aelin, joining Rowan in the kitchen with a pile of dishes then she grabbed a towel and started drying all the ones he had already washed. “They do love Totoro.” He added smiling. “Morrigan the other day said she wants to study Japanese so she could talk to Totoro and Freyja wants to go in the woods to look for him.” Rowan roared with laughter “I love the idea of studying Japanese, though.” “Our two wonderful weirdos.”Aelin stored away all the dishes. Once they were done they got back in the living room and silence reigned. The laptop was on the carpet and the three kids were are all hugged together on the sofa. Dalamar sleeping on Freyja’s chest like in the scene where Mei sleeps on Totoro’s belly, her arms protectively around her brother’s back. Morrigan was snuggled against her sister, her hand holding one of Freyja’s. Aelin gasped at the scene and Rowan pulled her to him and kissed her head “they are finally fell asleep.” He turned Aelin and held her from behind, his chin on her head and his arms tight around her. “This is it, Buzzard. This is my island dream.” Rowan kissed her temple. “This is my dream too.”

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