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the-kingshound · 3 years

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The third Arch Deleted Scene

The snippet here is a bit rushed at the beginning and in some other parts, as I did not want to go into even more spoiler territory. If you want to send me asks about this please be sure to advertise them as spoiler at the beginning, since not everyone will want to read them.

SPOILER

TW: blood, injury, poisoning, strong language.

3rd Arch – the seventh Trial

Your stomach was knotted by dark swirling anxiety from the moment Arthur announced the diplomatic visit. You were familiar with the House, it kept being, after all, one of the most influent beside yours before and after the Emperor’s fall. This did not mean anything, though. Your homeland was beautiful but deadly, ready to swallow anyone whole to quickly digest them.

You promised yourself you were going to be at Arthur’s side at all times, and that’s precisely what you are doing now.

Four days in, and the only major threat has been the amount of people wanting to interact with you. For the most part, Arthur smoothly deflects them to himself, for which you are endlessly grateful. You’re not in the mood to socialize, instead you keep on high alert, especially against the House leader and formal Ambassador.

You do not think he will pull anything while you’re here, after all you grew up together and you respected each other deeply, but one cannot be too cautious when the King is concerned – as demonstrated by the multiple scars that litter your body. You would go through all of it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping your King safe, but all you can do for now is stay by his side and keep the risks at minimum.

For this reason, when the Ambassador proposes a meal together with both yours and his knights, you are instantly weary.

“I don’t like this one bit, Arthur.”

“Me neither,” agrees Evaine, all the while lazily making their dagger spin on the table.

“I don’t deny that is not an ideal situation. On the other hand, a wrong move on their part would jeopardise their own negotiation,” counters Arthur as Morien finally snaps, blocking Evaine’s wrist with a tight grip and hissing an irritated “stop fooling around, for God’s sake!”

Evaine pouts. Yniol ignores them in favour of the matter at hand “they are certainly going to outnumber us, but if they wanted to attack us head on they would have done so before now, there were better opportunities. MC?”

You really think it through before answering “I wouldn’t put it past the Ambassador to try something, direct or more subtle, while we’re so exposed and out of our physician. Lania is not the head of his House for nothing, but aside from that he was always particularly attached to the Empire. We can’t afford to underestimate him.”

“Yes, yes” interjects Morien, having by now freed Evaine’s hand and left the table, dismissing themselves from the meeting “I’ll be prepared in any case. I swear you manage to hurt yourselves everywhere we go.”

And so dinner begins. It is a boring affair, but you won’t let yourself relax until it’s over. You sip on your wine, closely inspecting the hosts for any sudden or unusual movement. You find none, but you stiffen and your brows furrows. There’s something strange in your mouth, something strangely… bitter.

Time seems to freeze in front of your eyes. With an uncoordinated, panicked movement you jerk on the table and bat away Arthur’s cup, spilling its content on the table.

You place your hand on the table to support you as you rise, your dilatated pupils numbly fixed on the red liquid that’s quickly staining the tablecloth. It feels like an hour but actually only a second has passed before you regain your senses.

“Seize them.”

Arthur and his Knights are no longer seated by now, but the Ambassador’s men have drawn their weapons as well and pointed them to your delegacy, effectively halting their movements. You see icy red and do not spare another glance at the man now placed on your back while you snarl in the envoy direction.

Placing your fingers on the hilt of your sword, you hiss an enchantment to track the magic residue and the culprit is revealed in front of your eyes. Ignoring the taste of iron on your tongue, you spit out another enchantment and the room’s door is locked close with a lout snap. They will not get away.

Unfortunately, you lack the ability to free Arthur and the Knights, you are now surrounded and painfully outnumbered, but you know they can hold on until you have taken care of the threat at hand. You cough blood and half crash on the floor, but you ignore the alarmed voices of your Knights and crawl in the Ambassador’s direction.

How dare he. How dare.

“My, Lord…”

“Let them,” a voice says to your back “they will not go far.”

“How dare you” your breaths are ragged, your intestines raw and burning, your voice rough for the acid that invades your throat. The Ambassador’s face is a mask of contempt and stony resolution. He watches, halting his men while they try to block you, as you half-crawl to him, gripping with iron strength the wooden chairs to keep yourself upright.

“I have the upper hand, King Arthur. I’m afraid you are in no position to make such demands.”

“Release us, and call a physician for my spouse, and I will consider letting this incident go without consequences.”

Arthur’s voice is steady, calm and there is only a hint of something sharper, at least for now.

You can’t see your King, but the sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. They tried to kill him. The House you grew up to respect is full of nothing more than vile traitors.

As your strength start to waver, you lose your balance and crush to the ground with the chair you were pushing your weight on. Still, you get up again and you and fix your gaze on the second born, now Ambassador and traitor “I’ve had enough of you.”

You take a shuddering breath, your lungs filled with blood that’s now spilling over to your lips as you speak, but the pain you feel is nothing compared to the hot, blinding rage that’s consuming your every thought. Still, your voice is, as ever, cutting cold “you invite us here, offering a pacific discussion, and all you provide are poison in our drinks and weapons against my Knights and my King’s throat. You’ve exhausted my patience, Lania.”

You see him flinch at the use of his name. You remember a time long gone when you played together as kids, swearing you would be the ones to restore the Empire uniting your two Houses. Now these are broken promises and rotten friendships.

“MC,” the Ambassador says, “it’s over, you have to understand that.”

“Oh, you just wait,” interjects Evaine, almost immediately silenced by the Ambassador’s men.

You cough and choke on blood, and you can feel the physical weight of Arthur’s and the Knights’ worried eyes on your back, but you exhale and grip tighter your sword’s hilt. A wave of raw power invades your body and you are able to focus again.

“You know what I’m capable of, what I am willing to do for my King,” your voice is almost devoid of intonation, save for unforgiving hardness. His gaze falls on your non dominant arm and then on your throat, scarred by a thin horizontal line “I will gut you and feed you to my hounds. You’ll die like the backstabbing coward you are.”

They know as well as you do that you don’t make empty promises. There is a rustle around you that culminates in a sharp sigh from the Ambassador and swords pointed at your neck.

“Must we really do this, MC? I cared for you once, but you know that I will not hesitate to strike you down if you give me reason to do so.”

You don’t draw black nor move a single muscle, your eyes find Arthur’s blue ones and you find the King is dangerously immobile, his fingers brushing against Excalibur’s hilt in what could be mistaken for a soothing caress. When he speaks, his voice bears nothing else but firm command “you will not do that.”

Lania cocks his head to the side, appearing quite unbothered “oh?”

“How is your sister, Ambassador?”

At the same time as Lania stills, you blink. A violent cough than shakes your chest, and when your senses are fully back and you can breathe again Arthur has kept going with the same calm, calculated demeanor “I want to remind you that together with the Lord the wedded she’s now head of the Merthian feud, the nearer one to the south-eastern border.”

“What does it-“

“I am the one in control of the knights tasked with their protection. As per the arrangement we signed weeks ago, the border is under Camelot’s defence. But if I die, or if my spouse dies, my knights will retire, Ambassador.”

Oh, Arthur is not King for nothing. He is striking where it hurts the most – family – without even an drop of blood shed. You don’t hide a proud, feral smile at this. Almost immediately, blood invades your throat again, you can feel its taste on your togue, but you shove the pain back where it started in your burning stomach. You shiver. You love and hate seeing your King like this.

Lania swiftly unsheathe a long, curved dagger and you are immediately ready to bolt– swords to your throat be damned, you’ve had worse – but he makes no move in Arthur’s direction for now.

“Figured you had to hit low to get a reaction.”

“Release us,” Yniol commands, standing tall near the King.

“No” spits out Lania, his composure now fully broken “you stole our independence and our pride, Pendragon, you humiliated us and stripped our Houses of the opportunity to unite again. You are every bit of your father’s blood!”

He then turns to you, his eyes frantic, his expression pained and almost feral “I thought you were on my side!”

Blood rushes to your ears, a high-pitched whistle the only thing you’re able to hear at the moment. You feel sick. Sicker than before – sicker than what you’ve felt in years. You spit blood on the floor, your answer is weak and unnaturally subdued, “it was a- a long time ago.”

“We were like siblings!”

You can’t say anything, you only choke on your words. All that you manage to do is keep yourself upright only thanks to your sword.

“They are right, you really are your King’s hound, nothing more than Camelot’s bitch,” he tries the next word in his mouth like they were both foul and inevitable “the haghàn bajek*.”

Your vision is overcome by whit spots, your skin hot and freezing cold.

“Kill them all.”

You force yourself to focus. Protect your Knights. Protect your King.

After that it is pure, unbidden chaos. You tighten your grip on your sword, assessing where you’re needed the most. With the corner of your eye you spot Arthur, he’s a beautiful fighter, he is no match for – Lania.

Your magic flares alongside most of your nerve endings as you sprint in his direction, interjecting his blow with your own weapon. Unfortunately, the Ambassador is a skilled opponent and you’re already considerably weakened, all you can do is channel in your arms the strength of your steel determination to not let him reach your King.

“Stop trying to defend an enemy, MC!”

“Stop trying… to kill him.”

You are barely managing to defend yourself when Lania strikes back. You catch the dagger with your arm, it pierces through your skin just over your elbow but it won’t reach its intended target. No one will hurt your King while you’re still breathing. No one.

Pain paralyzes your arm, your breath is stuck in your throat together with a blood clot that feels intrusive and that fills you with panic. The finishing blow never comes, though. As you inhale again, you refocus on the room’s occupants and notice how Arthur’s Knights have the clear upper hand.

“Ah, and you thought you could beat the Round Table so easily,” Evaine all but purrs in a knight’s ear “that’s precious.”

“Stand down” Gawaine commands “you’re surrounded.”

You can hardly distinguish the shapes of your own knights, you’re nauseous, your stomach and throat are on fire. You fall down on your knees, exhausted and hurt. You feel like you’re going to throw up–

“MC’”

Where is Lania, where is –

“Wh-where…?”

“Kai, get Morien here, please.”

Arthur’s voice is soothing, as ever, but tainted with worry. You can’t make his face out. There are arms supporting your weight, not his but equally familiar – Yniol?

“It’s going to be alright, dear.”

It’s the last thing you hear before the world goes black.

*haghàn bajek = [REDACTED] traitor

#deleted scene #SPOILER #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw:poisoning #tw: strong language #I was quite happy with it as I wrote it #but now not so much I'm having second thoughts #if it's deleted by tomorrow you know why

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one-last-puku · 3 years

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So.. I'm just gonna write this out because I'm having a difficult time conceptualizing how I feel about the hints pointing towards why people think Vyn is so suspicious.

Let's first address the ominous way he was introduced. My brain isn't working right now so I think I'm going to just quickly short cut to what that was. I'm pretty sure it was just referring to the hints that get thrown around that MC/Rosa should be exposed to the truth and be able to experience things herself, despite how Artem seems to want to shelter and protect her from that. It, at least, is the context I've gathered thus far.

But, Vyn is a hypocrite and I like that it's super apparent that he has that flaw. Despite wanting her to be exposed to the truth, he is also obsessed with keeping her safe from harm as well. Perhaps because he fell for her shortly after actually meeting her.

Also, he's constantly on about how people should just be upfront and express themselves, but he cannot seem to do that very thing when it comes to expressing his own feelings for her and what he's feeling or wants. From that, I can probably deduce that he comes from an overbearing parentage, as those sorts tend to tell you what you need to want instead of properly teaching you from a young age how to express your desires and realize you have desires at all. This deduction is backed up by the horse side story where it is hinted that Vyn comes from high society, having overbearing parents that require a "stiff upper lip" and for you to bottle everything up is very common is said households.

Taking that info, we go onto what people have been calling the red flag, "false tears".

Not gonna lie, I am truly, admittedly mixed on that as well, since I've actually read through all of his side stories except for the mideaval one and the rest of the one with the magician, and I thiiink one other.

See the issue is -spoiler- he was distraught about a patient under his care that attempted to commit suicide, and ended up paralyzed (it's a bit contradicted in text whether it was para or quadriplegic). The thing is, he was distraught and truly hurting over it, but he made it appear he was hurting more than he actually was to seek comfort from MC. Now, whether that is unforgivably condemnable, I'd say is up to the individual, but I honestly wouldn't put it passed anyone to have done something like this out of weakness. You can tell in his later self-analysis that he seems surprised and probably regretful for letting himself lose face for that moment, but at the same time, it's healthy to express your desires, even if in small ways like this that are unlike him to do.

The thing that Vyn has managed to make harder for himself is setting other's expectations of himself too high, making it easy to forget that he is a person capable of fault and even falling into accidental manipulation tactics. I mean, I know it seems scarier because he is a psychiatrist and knows how manipulation works and like he could easily use that knowledge and stoicism against people, but I'm certain that he is truly a genuine person who means well with each action he takes.

If anyone takes the time to read the side stories, when he's alone, you can see how soft and smitten he is for MC, he's an idealistic romantic at his core. I truly believe that and I think he truly cares about helping people or he wouldn't do for them what he does. He is absolutely at her mercy, if she wanted that.

As for the jealousy thing, yeah, that can be a problem, but again. Reading into the context of what we've been given, you can see he's probably very deeply insecure, which is why he's so anal and a perfectionist, and never wants anyone(especially MC) to see that he is capable of making mistakes, and needing help, or that he might look uncool or unknowing at any situation.

He's also pretty naïve and lacks "common sense" or social skills in some situations, but that's... I digress. Haha. Let's just say, that's pretty common with highly intelligent people. So is nearsightedness as it so happens. I can kinda see where his grace with interactions was a learned trait and he seems to also be a perfectionist with keeping that up as well.

I'm thinking these will be subjects of interests for his own character arc(s).

I'm a psychology enthusiast, myself, and I love character analysis, so, so.... Keeheehee. I'm thinking I'll pull screens later, but there are a lot and I'll probably emphasize more on the points either in an edit or a future post, but for now, I kinda just wanted to tidy up my disorganized thoughts into a more coherent post not only for anyone interested in my two cents, but for my self as well. orz

#tears of themis #vyn richter #tot vyn #tot spoilers

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crystaljins · 4 years

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Equinox

Characters: Jimin x Reader

Word count: 7.2K

Synopsis: When it first was announced that the King of Spring was to marry the Queen of Winter, shock and outrage poured across the nation. Now, six months later, Jimin can’t help but feel maybe the Queen of Winter isn’t as evil as she seems.

King of spring!Jimin x Queen of Winter!reader

Notes: This is NOT the huge fic I’m working on LOL. It’s a drabble that turned into a BIG drabble, in dedication to my good friend, who wanted to see a fic where both main characters are royalty.

Well, here we are.

Warnings: Not really any? Pining, maybe, mentions of death and tragedy, and maybe one big kiss?

Jimin has spent an entire three months of the year in the Central Palace every year since his coronation as the King of Spring. Yet, despite his familiarity with the luxurious building, this year it feels particularly unbearable.

It isn’t the palace itself that is unbearable. After all, the Central Palace fulfils any need he could have for luxury and then some, with expansive grounds and an imposing throne room and a ball room that many have only dreamed of seeing. It almost reaches the point where he’s sick of it sometimes- the gold rimmed pillars and the intricate carvings of the stairwell railings and the other numerous unnecessary and excessively decadent detailing.

It’s just... He much prefers his small cottage and the lovely little orchard he looks after. Sometimes children from the local village will sneak in and steal fruit but he merely smiles privately to himself when he hears the peals of laughter filter through the open windows of his home. And ever since he received a letter a week ago informing him that you had made his cottage your current abode, he has been inexplicably eager to return home.

The end of his current stay (which has actually been a six month stay this time around instead of the usual three) draws near, with Spring just on the precipice of Summer. As the reigning King of Spring, it is his duty to oversee the entire kingdom during the season where his powers are strongest, to manage the season and ensure his people prosper, and then prepare the way for the Queen of Summer to take his place for the next three months.

Today is one of the days where his duty feels particularly tedious- he has never particularly minded Haeun and her chatty nature, but today she just seems absolutely asinine. Perhaps it is the fact that she seems uninterested in discussing anything aside from the current status of the Queen of Winter when there are so many more important things to discuss, like the crop maturation this year and how much sunlight would best benefit their ripening, or even the Equinox Ball tonight which marks the official changeover between his season and her’s. Instead, the only words that have been coming out of her mouth are with regards to you, and him, and your fairly recent wedding.

When he had been wedded to you on the Winter Solstice, many had been shocked, but none more so than the Queen of Summer. After all, for the last few hundred years, the one who bears the crown of Summer had always been betrothed to the ruler of Spring. It was only natural, as Spring prepares the way for Summer, and such a pairing enhances the powers of both parties. The kingdom had faced many centuries of prosperity thanks to what was essentially a match forged in the heavens. No doubt in Haeun’s mind, her rightful place was as his bride. And Jimin can’t blame her- for many years, he had thought the same thing. He had assumed his life would follow a similar path to those of his predecessors and that he would inevitably end up marrying Summer. And yet, here he is, married to the evasive, mysterious, and apparently cruel Queen of Winter.

It had been the Elders to make the call to arrange such a shocking match up. To have the Queen of Winter marry the King of Spring was unheard of- ridiculous, even. But you were unlike the rulers that had gone before you- your powers were endless, unstoppable, and the Winters brought by you were unforgiving and cold, and many lost their lives. Something had to be done- your powers had to be balanced since you couldn’t seem to reign them in. And since it has always been Spring to conquer the cold aftereffects of Winter, to warm the earth and coax life back into places where frost had chased it away, it fell to Jimin to take the place as your husband and to prevent disaster striking the Kingdom. A duty which he had taken up with a resigned sense of obligation.

At least at first.

“So are the rumours all true about her?” Haeun enquires. Her question seems innocent enough. For whatever reason, you had always remained frustrating allusive to the others. Locked away in your wintry fortress (or at least, everyone assumes that’s where you must be despite the fact that no one has ever confirmed the presence of a fortress within your domain), everyone reports that you must be ruthless and cold-hearted. Perhaps even evil- after all, when you are seated upon the throne, the harshest and most brutal Winters ever seen in history terrorise the lands.

But the question has Jimin on edge, for he has found that you do not fit nicely into the box of icy and cruel that he had thought you would.

“I would say those rumours do not hold an ounce of truth to them.” Jimin offers mildly, pausing from where he strolls along Haeun to observe a rose bloom that has begun to wilt. Normally, the palace gardens are impeccable, and the gardens thrive during Jimin’s reign, but things always seem to get a bit messy at the transition between seasons. This particular bloom must be the victim of his and Haeun’s powers clashing as she prepared to take the throne for her season. He gently runs his fingers over the drooping petals and instantly the rose brightens, petals curling upwards as it finds new life in response to his presence. It reminds him of the first time you had borne witness to the effect of his powers and the quiet awe on your face. Not for the first time since Spring began, he feels a strange ache in his chest at the thought of you. You’re at his cottage right now, surely. What kind of expression are you wearing as you gaze upon his carefully kept orchard?

“Really? She’s always so haughty at the Equinox ball that I was sure she thought she was better than us. Just because her powers are stronger- does she not know that people die because of her?” Haeun sniffs, clearly displeased by the way Jimin has not joined in her obvious attempts to complain about you.

“I think she is aware of it.” Is all Jimin offers to Haeun, but internally he recalls the way you lock yourself in your quarters for the night whenever word reaches you that another innocent has died at the cold hands of Winter, and the way you spend most of your free time pouring over books and texts trying to learn how you might control your powers and soften your Winters. Haeun makes an annoyed scoff and folds her arms across her chest.

“Being aware of it isn’t enough, Jimin.” She says, and Jimin does not miss the way she uses his name when it is customary to call him by his season. “She needs to control it. We all do! It is the whole reason we take the throne. What use is she, if she cannot manage her own season? If I had were Winter, I would-“

“Haeun.” Jimin says firmly, and her eyes widen because even though she often takes liberties and calls him by his name, he has always been respectful and referred to her as Summer when it comes to the transition meetings between seasons. “It is not my place to discuss the personal life of Winter. And as her husband, I respectfully ask that you do not speak so liberally about my wife again. Unless you have anything further to discuss about the Equinox Ball tonight or about the occurrences during my season, I’ll be taking my leave now.”

He bows deeply, demonstrating the respect her position demands, before turning on his heel.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” She calls out. Jimin pauses, glancing over his shoulder. The sun peeking through the pillars of the pathway catches Haeun’s hair and highlights the softness of her features. Across the land, she is known as the sunlit beauty- warm and gentle and pretty, like the Summer season she reigns over. When he was young and still a prince and everyone had thought she was his future wife, he had even harboured a crush on her. “That you’re stuck with her? All she brings is coldness and death. You were forced into it- I know you were! Doesn’t it hurt to be wedded to her?”

The unspoken sentiment that Haeun does not voice is “when you could have been with me”. Looking at her now, perhaps her sudden interest in you has more to do with Jimin than any real sentiment towards your actions.

And perhaps, Haeun’s words are closer to the truth then he wants them to be. Initially, it had bothered him. Why had the Elders had forced him to marry you? Was there not an easier way to subdue your immense powers? Why could you not just... control them? Even Autumn, free-spirited and lazy as he was, kept his season well-managed. And why did it fall to Jimin to fix something that was your own fault? Haeun was a much better match for him in terms of strengthening his powers, and he absolutely loathed the season of Winter- marrying the ruler of his least favourite season is certainly not something he had ever imagined doing.

He had spent the first three months of his marriage staying with you in the Central Palace fuelled by that sentiment and at first you had made yourself very scarce. It had suited Jimin just fine- after all, he did not bear any particular affection towards you- perhaps he even detested you a little, and if the rumours were to be believed, he’d be better off interacting with you as little as possible.

And then things had changed, for whatever reason. He can’t be sure what prompted you to do it, but one morning you had been sitting across from him in the dining quarters, enjoying your breakfast in silence as had become customary for the two of you, when you had decided to speak.

“Winter isn’t as bad as you think.” You had said softly, taking a long sip of your drink, before fixing Jimin with a level gaze. He had glanced up in surprise- at that stage he could probably count on one hand the number of times you had spoken in his presence.

“I never-“ Jimin had begun, ready to defend himself but you had cut him off.

“You didn’t have to.” You had said, though your tone had not been unkind. You actually have a very sweet voice, one that contrasts with your icy reputation. “But, today I have nothing scheduled, and I wouldn’t mind showing you a few things. It must be better than wondering aimlessly around the palace.”

Against his better judgement, perhaps, Jimin had accepted. Whatever his feelings were towards you, he was sick of wondering aimlessly. He missed his little cottage and he was beginning to grow sick of the giant, draft-y Central Palace. Any change to the lethargic rhythm of his days, even if it meant spending the day with you, was a welcome one.

And you were right. Wintertime is more than coldness and death. As the ruler of Spring, he had always thought of it as such- after all, it has always been his duty to remedy the devastation left behind by Winter. But Winter is also a time of festivities- of huddling in the warmth of a fire along side your family. Its catching snowflakes on your tongue and children laughing as they skate over frozen lakes and form little ice sculptures from snow. He hadn’t known it until he spent those three months with you. And after that first day where you had taken him out to a frozen lake close to the palace and shown him how to ice skate, spending time with you had become more of a regular occurrence.

Which brings him to today.

“I’m not stuck with her.” Is what Jimin finally says to Haeun, who deflates, just slightly. He does not explain any further- he’s not sure he can. He certainly doesn’t feel the burden of obligation that had weighted his every step when he first married you. He perhaps even misses you, after three months of separation. It’s all a little scary and confusing but all he knows for sure is that being married to you is no longer the offensive chore he initially viewed it as.

This time when Jimin turns away, she does not stop him. He is relieved- he is sick of hearing Haeun speak so disrespectfully about you. He’s sick of the way servants whisper in the halls when you walk past. He’s sick of the way travellers tell stories of evil Winter, who takes lives for fun and revels in the cruelty of her blizzards. He doesn’t know why, given that it has only been six months since he married you, and three whole months since he even last saw you in person, but he feels a strange protectiveness towards you. Just the thought of those whispers when he knows of you, curled up beneath the security of a warm blanket on the hearth, with the fire’s glow highlighting your features, still studying away even after a full days’ worth of royal duties so that you can learn to control your powers makes his heart ache. He wishes, just once, that he had been brave enough to curl up beside you and to listen to the steady sound of your breathing, the rhythmic turn of a page, the crackle of the fire’s warmth. Or brave enough to hush the terrible whispers. Anything to wipe that expression you get on your face when you know people are thinking unpleasant things about you. That guarded, reserved expression that he knows is concealing a broken heart.

“My Lord!” Jimin hears a voice call, and he almost curses. He wants nothing more than to return to his quarters and begin packing up. It has now been six months since he has been in his actual home, and when he received that letter from you a week ago informing him that you had taken up residence in his home, he had only been more eager to return. He wants to know what his home looks like with you in it. He wants to know what you look like in the brightness of Summer, away from the grief and cold of Winter. He wants to see you again to the point it is almost alarming. “My Lord!” The voice calls again, and one of the servants skids to a stop before Jimin. It is Namjoon. Jimin recalls his name because Namjoon is one of the few servants you are rather fond of.

“Hello, Namjoon.” Jimin greets warmly, and Namjoon looks surprised and delighted at the sound of his name. “How can I be of service?”

Namjoon is slightly out of breath, and he reaches for the pocket of his trousers, fishing around until he produce a single crumpled piece of paper.

“It is a letter from Winter.” Namjoon says. “She asked me to relay to you that she will not be attending the Equinox Ball and that she shall see you tomorrow at the your domain.”

Jimin’s eyes widen and he quickly snatches the paper from Namjoon’s hand. He does not mean to be quite so aggressive with his movements, but he is shaken at the way you have abruptly cancelled. Without even realising it, he had hyped himself up at the thought of seeing you again after a long three months.

It’s a lengthy apology, neatly written and well-articulated. It basically gives an entire, eloquent list of flimsy excuses as to why you should not attend.

But Jimin sees straight through it. Perhaps in the past, he would have let it be. Let you sit at home and then awkwardly greet you in his cottage the next morning. But now that he knows the way your expression shutters when people mutter rude things under their breath about you, now that he knows the way you lie awake at night, haunted by grief and guilt, he knows that you are running away. After all, the whispers had only gotten worse after your marriage- the Evil Queen of Winter shackling the charming and kind King of Spring is certainly quite the tale to set tongues wagging.

And while Jimin hates the thought of you spending an evening in discomfort when there are about a thousand better ways for you to spend your time, he hates the thought of people thinking of his marriage to you as a tragic event even more. He wants to stroll into the ballroom with your hand in his, to proudly show off that he is not some tragic heroine trapped in a loveless marriage to an evil overlord. He wants people to see you, your kindness and your sweetness. He wants people to realise that Winter can be even warmer than Summer sometimes, in the right circumstances.

“Is she currently in my domain?” Jimin asks softly, but he knows from the floral, woodsy scent of the paper that it was written in his home. Namjoon hesitates before offering an awkward nod.

“I believe so.” He admits. “The messenger who brought the letter was one of the keepers of your orchard.”

Jimin nods, tonguing thoughtfully at the inside of his cheek. A well-cared for horse would allow him to reach his home within a couple of hours. He keeps his own horses at the cottage who would be able to take the two of you back in time for nightfall. He is to give a speech at the Ball and that will be his last official duty until next year. And for whatever reason, he does not want to give the speech if you are not there, amongst the crowd. It’s still possible if he leaves now.

“Ready a horse for me, Namjoon,” Jimin finally says, shoving the letter into the pocket of his trousers. He’ll have to change into gear more appropriate for a long ride.

“But, my liege, the ball-“ Namjoon protests.

“I’ll be there.” Jimin reassures him, though his expression is grim. “And so will my wife.”

Namjoon doesn’t need to be told twice.

Jimin has really, truly missed his home. Nothing quite compares to it. When they had first identified him as heir to the throne of Spring, the Elders had initially planned for him to stay in the castle inhabited by his predecessors. After all, since he did in theory bear their spirit, the castle should technically be to his tastes.

But he guess he differs to his previous incarnations, since he only lasted a few weeks before he moved into the cottage his parents owned close to the castle. It’s not unusual for tastes to change like that with different incarnations of Spring- though he feels that he can recall their previous lifetimes if he thinks very hard about it, they are different people and incarnations. The only traits he shares with those who had gone before is his power over the season of Spring.

Perhaps that is why, despite the fact that previous Springs have deeply loved Summer, he cannot stop thinking about Winter. Especially as the edge of the orchard draws into view.

Oddly, you aren’t in the cottage when he enters. There’s evidence that you’ve been staying there- some of your books are scattered over his work desk and the gardening implements around the back of the cottage are shifted around as if someone has been sorting through them. But it does not take long to locate you deep in the orchard, crouched beneath the orange tree. You don’t seem to have registered his presence yet given that you continue to mutter to yourself as you stab aggressively at the soil with a tiny hand shovel he recognises from the implements he keeps around the back of his cottage.

He’s about to confront you, but the sight of you, crouched down and wearing oversized trousers and an ugly, soil covered shirt he recognises from the very back of his wardrobe, has him completely frozen. It’s hard to explain the emotion- a powerful, roaring wave crashing down on the peaceful shorelines of his heart.

“(Y/N),” your name comes in a exhale of his breath, one that’s not entirely voluntary. It’s his mistake though, because you were absolutely not anticipating his presence, and you leap about a metre in the air in your shock.

Stumbling back a few steps in a sort of awkward crab walk, revealing your handy work. A small hole you had been digging and a handful of withered, lifeless daffodils.

“J-Jimin,” you stutter, and your accidental use of his name when you had previously only referred to him as Spring has his heart racing in his chest for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “T-this isn’t what it looks like!” You cry. “I was just...”

It takes a moment, but Jimin manages to shake himself out of the trance long enough to realise that the withered and lifeless daffodils just so happen to be his favourite flowers from

his front garden. Immediately, whatever mysterious emotion that had overcome him prior is replaced by abject horror.

“My daffodils!” He cries, stricken with grief. And they had been so young, as well! Such lovely, bright blooms, withered and dried up! Abruptly, you scramble to your feet and dust the soil from your hands and knees, scrambling towards him.

“I was just trying to water them!” You cry, hands outstretched in an attempt to calm him in his distress. “I don’t have any flowers in my domain since the ground is not very fertile and I was just trying to tend to them!”

“They’re dead!” Jimin points out. “How much did you water them?”

You pause, shrinking under his gaze, before holding up ten fingers.

“Ten?” Jimin asks, and you nod. “Ten what?”

You mumble something he doesn’t quite catch. He steps closer in an attempt to decipher your sheepish mumblings.

“What?” Jimin asks, and you sigh before fixing him with a steady glare.

“Ten buckets!” You cry. “I asked your gardener and she told me that these are fickle plants that require constant moisture!”

“So you watered them with ten buckets of water? You drowned my daffodils!” He cries. You deflate, just slightly, glancing forlornly at the fallen remains of his beloved babies. He’d so carefully tended to them as well! They were just reaching the point where he could lift the buds and replant them. There’s a nice sunny spot at the back of the orchard that they would have thrived in, and now... and now...

“I’m sorry for your loss.” You finally offer, stepping forward to comfortingly pat at his shoulder. “They lived a good life, under your care,” you continue. “And once you finish off your duties at the Equinox Ball tonight I’m sure you can...” You trail away slowly, and the hand stroking his shoulder slows its pats. And then you gasp in horror when you register that Jimin is here, in his orchard, grieving over some dead daffodils instead of finalising preparations for the Equinox Ball. “Jimin!” You cry. “The Ball! How can you be here? You’re supposed to be preparing for the Ball.”

“Well,” Jimin snaps, perhaps a bit more grumpy than the situation really warranted, but you also killed his lovely daffodils. “I am supposed to be there, but my lovely wife decided she’d much rather kill my daffodils and hide the evidence instead of attend the Ball as is her duty!”

You flush, a shade that he can’t help notice is a rather endearing shade despite everything. Dimly, he recalls that overwhelming feeling he’d experienced when he first saw you earlier, but he pushes it down. There are more pressing matters to attend to- his daffodils can be given a proper burial later.

“Yes, well, as you read in my letter, I thought it would be far better for me to-“ you begin, clearing your throat awkwardly as you often do before giving a formal address. It only irks him further that you’re placating him as if he’s a random parliament member who needs coddling or a foreign emissary you have to charm. He’s your husband and he’s sick of people- you included- pretending otherwise.

“You’re running away.” He offers quietly, and your eyes widen. Perhaps you had been expecting him to dance around the bushes. After all, three months ago during Winter, though you had grown undeniably closer, there had always been the feeling of treading on eggshells around each other. Like neither of you really knew how to react together. But a lot has changed, in three months. Jimin has had three months to overthink and to pretend he doesn’t know the name for the feelings of longing he can’t shake off and to deny that he misses you and now that you’re finally here in front of him, he does not want to waste another second.

That crashing, roaring wave in his heart will not quieten, and finally he gives it a platform to pour out.

“You’re scared. I get that. You don’t know what you’re feeling and everyone and their mother seems to have an opinion on our marriage and maybe you think it will be easier if you stay out of the public eye,” Jimin tells you urgently. He steps forward as if he is approaching a startled deer. “But it won’t be. They won’t ever stop. So why let them dictate what makes you happy?”

You just stare at him, speechless, and he takes your silence as permission to step a little closer. Every movement he makes is slow and steady- you have to option to pull away at any moment. He stretches out a hand, wraps his fingers around yours and then raises your hand slowly towards his heart, letting you rest your palm flat against the thrumming rhythm.

“I missed you.” They aren’t the words he intended to say. He’s not even entirely sure what words he had planned to convince you to come with him. But those words are the ones that burst forth. He can’t hold back anymore. He feels like he’s spent three whole months trying to prevent a volcano from erupting, and he’s exhausted. He can’t hold back anymore, he can’t keep up the facade that he’s ok, when you took his heart with you when you agreed to move out of the Central Palace at the request of the Elders three months ago. “I want you to be at the Ball with me. If we leave now, we can make it. Please- do this with me.” He begs.

He’s met with silence. The longer it stretches out, the more dread slowly filters into his heart. It takes him a long few moments, but when he finally gains the courage to gaze upon your expression, his heart drops into his feet.

Tears pour over your cheeks. You’re normally so put-together, but with your guard down in his absence, dirt smidges your cheeks and the sun gilds your skin. You’re so heart achingly beautiful. It’s like the sensation of stone giving way, the way he feels a crevice form in his heart at the sight.

“Jimin,” you finally say, and your voice is barely above a whisper. “We can’t...”

You trail away, but it’s enough. He feels a bit like you’ve slapped him. He’d thought... he’d thought it had been the both of you struggling in your separation, but it seems it was only him. He’s a fool- how could be have ever thought he was strong enough to thaw the frozen heart of Winter?

“Right.” He says, humiliated by the way his voice cracks. “Well. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Duty calls.”

He turns on his heel so that you can’t see the way tears sting at the back of his eyes.

You don’t stop him as he leaves.

The Queen of Winter is a dignified woman. Tucked far away in her fortress, the common folk speculate that she does not have a heart.

For a long time, you’d thought maybe it was true, but this constant ache in your chest is proving otherwise.

“Are you just going to watch him go?” Yoongi, your personal guard, asks lazily. He is reclined in one of the cosy arm chairs in the centre of Jimin’s cottage, munching away at one of the apples he stole from the tree at the front of the cottage. You spare him a glance over your shoulder, before returning your gaze to the cantering horse that moves further and further away with each passing moment.

“What else can I do?” You finally ask, tearing your gaze from the window and settling into the chair opposite Yoongi. Unlike him, you sit neatly, with your knees pressed together and your ankles tucked delicately to the side. Yoongi shrugs, crunching through another mouthful of apple.

“Well you could have said no one was home when Summer knocked on your door last week like I suggested. But no. You had to invite her in and make her tea and let her get under your skin and now here we are, missing the feast of the year so that you can sulk.” He grumbles, crunching a bit more aggressively. Normally, Yoongi is a placid, lethargic sort of guy, but he’s been grumpy ever since Haeun showed up unannounced last week. Well, actually, he’s been like this ever since you received the order from the Elders to vacate the Central Palace in case you disturbed the prosperity of the oncoming Spring. After all, their plan had worked- having Jimin stay with you in the Central Palace had been enough to curb your Winter, but they didn’t want to offset his powers of Spring.

“Yoongi,” you begin tiredly, ready to feed him the same ridiculous lines about your duty and your out of control powers that you’re sick of saying, but he cute you off.

“No.” He snaps, the most forceful he’s ever been with you in perhaps his entire life. “You listen to me.”

You’re too surprised by his aggression to retort, which gives him the opportunity to launch off in a furious tirade.

“You finally had a good thing going for you. Finally someone who didn’t blame you for your Winters, someone who was kind and made you smile for the first time in literal years, and now you want me to sit here and accept that a cantankerous, overheated she-witch has the power to take that way with a couple of weak and not very witty jibes?” He demands. “What happened to the Queen of Winter? The woman who ate hearts for breakfast and drank the blood of her victims as wine?”

“She never existed.” You frown. “I faint when i accidentally kill a mosquito-“

“But you let those rumours circulate. You never tried to correct them because you never gave a damn about the small fry, so why are you letting some over-baked half-wit get to you?” He demands, pointing an accusing, half-eaten apple in your direction.

You are silent as you recall the encounter the previous week. You had just finished penning a letter to Jimin to inform him you were looking forward to meeting with him when he returned to his cottage, when there had been an unexpected banging on the door.

Haeun and you have never had a good relationship. Instinctively, Summer and Winter are on opposite ends of the spectrum, but she’d also always loathed the way your powers ran wild. After your cold, unforgiving Winters, she always had to burn hotter, and more intensely during the Summer to compensate, and it probably took its toll on her. And to add insult to injury, you had married the love of her life at the request of the Elders. The knowledge that you had taken something so important from her had been why you couldn’t just slam the door in her face even though Yoongi had gestured for you to do so just out of her view.

He’s usually right though, since he’s quite gifted at reading people, and he was right that you should have kicked her out then and there. Haeun had nothing but poison to spill forth from her lips.

Logically, you know the things she was saying were said with the intent to hurt you. Jimin had proved his kindness and warmth again and again during the three months you had lived together and it had even started to reach the point where it felt like he was your real husband. Not just an assigned keeper with the legal right to receive your belongings if you one day died. It felt like he actually cared- the way he sat with you on long, cold nights, the secret smiles he offered over breakfast, the way he left tea outside your bedroom door when he knew you had been up late studying.

Jimin had done the impossible, warming the cold, frozen tundra your heart had lived in, and what you long for in return is to be the person who brings warmth to his Winters. Who holds him in the cold. Who rejoices with him in the bright months of Summer. You’d spent the whole of Spring in a joyful, happy cloud, remembering the way your Winter had been gentle and soft for the first time in your whole life.

And then you’d heard what Haeun had to say.

“I’m just concerned.” She had told you, dress in a dainty Summer dress that allowed the warm Spring sun to warm her shoulders. She always wears loud, cheerful colours and on that day she had worn a bright yellow to match the daffodils you had desperately been trying to keep alive. “I’m only saying this because I know you care about him too, and I would want to know this if I were in your shoes.”

Yoongi had been watching the whole exchange with an expression on his face like he’d swallowed a sour lemon and he had rolled his eyes when she’d said that. And yet, you hadn’t been able to approach her words with the same disdain.

“You know how beloved Spring is. For him to be wedded to you is causing a lot of distress within the kingdom! And the things people are saying about him- that he’s bewitched by your enchantments, that he’s weak-willed and unworthy to lead.” She gazes at you with a glare and the hardest part of all this is that she’s telling the truth. She really came here out of a sense of duty to Jimin because she wants you to stop interfering with his life. “Why couldn’t you have just learned to use your powers instead of turning his life upside down like this?”

And hadn’t that been the final nail in the coffin. Even now, a week later, you are still reeling from her words. It had been with a heavy heart you had decided not to make an appearance at the Ball.

But you hadn’t expected this to happen- for it to hurt just as much to refuse Jimin’s request to go with him. Why does it hurt both way? Why is it that if you have him, you ruin his life, but if you reject him, he looks at you like that? Like you’ve betrayed him? Like you’ve set fire to his orchard before his very eyes?

“Because I love him.” You admit to Yoongi. He chokes for a moment, surprised by your admission, before staring at you with wide eyes.

“You what?” He demands, and you offer him a weak smile.

“I love him, Yoongi.” You say again, and Yoongi’s gaze softens because he’s known you since you were a child in the Central Palace for the first time and he’s never seen such warmth in your eyes. You aren’t the Queen of Winter for nothing. “I love him so much I don’t know what to do and I just feel like no matter what choice I make it hurts.”

You hate the way your voice chokes, and Yoongi lifts from his chair, walking over to you to rest a warm hand over your own.

“So if your choices are being hurt and miserable and being hurt and happy, why not choose the path that has at least a little bit of good in it?” Yoongi asks you gently. You stare at him, surprised, and he offers you a grin. “There’s a dress in your wardrobe with your name on it and if we leave now we should make it in time for Spring’s Official Address.” He tells you, straightening and stretching out with a yawn. “Better go get my riding boots.” He sighs.

For a moment, you are frozen at Yoongi’s words, but then slowly a grin splits your face.

He’s right. Both choices hurt- so why not choose the one where you get to be with Jimin?

You gaze out the window at where the Sun is just beginning to sink into late afternoon.

You have a Ball to get to.

Jimin isn’t sure how he’s made it this far into the night. He feels like he’s just hollowly going through the motions and it’s a wonder that no one has picked up that he feels like he’s walking around with a stomach full of glass shards. If he’d known a broken heart hurt this much, he’d have long ago cast aside his heart to save himself the pain.

“Are you excited?” Haeun questions cheerfully. She wears a long, golden dress that shimmers and catches the lights of the chandelier overhead as she moves. Her hair is carefully braided over her left shoulder, leaving her collar bones and delicate throat exposed. Yet the sight of the daffodil flower crown woven into her hair atop her head just seems to mock him.

“I suppose.” He answers, with an empty smile. Haeun beams in response. She’s in an awfully good mood today and it only seems to worsen his own mood. “I’m ready for a nine month break from my duty.”

She offers him a bright laugh, and the two of them are interrupted by a firm clap against Jimin’s shoulder. He winces and turns to find Taehyung beaming at him.

“Hello, brother!” He says cheerfully. “I haven’t seen you since the start of Spring! How is your lovely wife? I was just thinking I should pop over to visit her and then I learned that she wasn’t in her domain. Imagine my surprise when I head that she’s been staying in the Spring domain for the past three months. I trust the marriage is going well?” He questions, with a suggestive waggle of his strong brows.

Jimin is unable to stop his expression from falling. All night, he’s managed to at least keep up a facade that he’s ok, but those words hit just a little bit too hard. He just and quickly slips the false smile back onto his face, but the King of Autumn has always been quick-witted, and he does not miss the devastation on Jimin’s face.

“Jimin?” He asks slowly. Haeun looks a little confused at the slow, careful tone of Taehyung’s voice and at the use of Jimin’s name. “Is everything alright?”

Jimin offers him another hollow smile but he is saved the effort of lying when his advisor comes rushing over.

“My Lord!” Seokjin cries. “It is time for your address! Please hurry to the stage.” He clicks his tongue a few times, corralling Jimin towards the stage.

He supposes it is now or never.

The tradition for the handover of Spring to Summer is fairly straight forward- at the Ball, Jimin is to deliver an address, celebrating the prosperity of Spring and wishing Summer well for her season. It’s usually one of his favourite duties- to gaze upon the faces of his subjects, to know that his words kickstart a weeklong festival where people will dance in the streets and sing with joy at the arrival of their long awaited Summer. But today, he feels as if he is made of wood as he takes the stage.

“I thank you all for coming,” he begins. A simple spell cast upon the stage allows his voice to be amplified so that everyone can hear him. “As you all know, this particular Spring has been a big one for me. I have spent not three, but six whole months in the Central Palace, overseeing the seasons.” He offers a fake cheeky smile. “Safe to say I’m a little homesick.” That earns him a little chuckle for he is infamous for his simple and modest home. “But it has been my most triumphant Spring yet, because I...”

No one is more surprised than him at the way his words seem to fail him.

“Because I...” he tries again, but the words are choked off and the audience starts to murmur in confusion.

He can’t do it- he can’t fake happiness and merriment. Not when you aren’t even here. Not when you had been the source of his happiness for the last six months.

“Because...”

And then the doors to the ballroom swing open and he gazes upon the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

You wear a floor length gown. As is custom, your dress matches your season, shimmering blue with diamonds cast upon it that catch the light and dance like floating snowflakes. You hair falls around your face, flushed with exertion and your eyes are bright, even from across the room.

An eerie hush falls upon the room. No one has ever seen Winter so dishevelled; and yet she is by no means ugly or unappealing. No, in fact, for years after people will sing songs about your beauty this night- how your eyes shine brighter than the stars in the sky and how your smile holds a joy no one had ever thought you capable of.

Slowly, you step towards him. The crowd parts around you, and yet it is like you are the only person in the room. Even if he had wanted to speak, he would have been incoherent. The roaring feeling in his heart is now a tsunami- he’s swept away. He’s in love beyond what he ever thought was capable. He loves you- he loves you!!

“Jimin,” you say, smiling sweetly when you finally stop in front of him. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

And then you kiss him, bold and happy, in front of the entire ballroom and Jimin feels his heart may explode.

There is, of course, much to discuss after your arrival to the Ball. Haeun’s words- your fears and insecurities- Jimin’s own feelings. There is so much to discuss and yet that night, Jimin is only capable of one thing. After his address finishes, he holds you in his arms as the two of you sway in a gentle waltz. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head and he feels you smile into the crook of his neck.

There is so much to say, and so much to do, but the two of you have your whole lives together to discuss it.

#jimin x reader #park jimin x reader #bts fluff #jimin fluff #park jimin scenarios #writing

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cancelingthenoise · 3 years

Text

Unworthy

Soooo, after a 13 year hiatus, I’m trying to get back into writing and where better to start than fan fiction and with my fave OTP. But buckle up, it’s a heavy one. Hopefully I’ve tagged all the appropriate trigger warnings; apologies if I’ve missed any - please let me know if I have!!

Summary: Addict. Junkie. Worthless. He has been gone for three years and is ready to come home, but his biggest enemy is still the one inside.

Rated: Mature (Addiction, Recovery, Implied Drug Use, Drug References, Mild Sexual Content)

Cross-posted to FFN and AO3

He inserts the coins and dials a number he knows by heart. The only one that is permanently branded into the recesses of his mind. As it rings, he hopes – let it be the right number, let it still be her number, let her pick up …

Hello?

“Kagome.”

Inu … Inuyasha?

“I … want to come home.”

Where are you?

He tells her the city, the intersection, the name on the warehouse nearby. Everything that can pinpoint exactly where he is so she can find him.

I’m on my way. Stay put.

There’s a tone in her voice he can’t identify and it sends pangs straight to his heart, but she’s coming. She’s coming.

And so, he waits.

Two hours later a familiar red sedan pulls up in front of him and its driver approaches. She’s older now, tired, he notices as he stands to greet her. He watches as she looks him over. He’s dirty, he knows, and even his demon-blood cannot mask how battered and bruised he is. He’s shocked but admittedly pleased when she wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes him in an embrace. Her scent is altogether lovely and calming, like coming home.

It takes every fiber of his being not to whine when she pulls away and looks him square in the eyes. Her grey eyes are intense and full of contrasting emotions. All for him. “Let’s go.” She finally speaks, her tone decisive and unyielding.

He has nothing but the clothes on his back, but instead of a pitying glance, she nods. It’s almost cathartic that she’s here and he has no physical baggage to take. She tosses her purse from the passenger seat into the back so he can settle in.

He notices the ring when she places her hands on the steering wheel. Ten-and-two, ever predictable.

“You’re engaged.” He cannot hide the shock, the disdain that he feels.

“Yes.”

Her response is sharp and leaves no invitation for a response, but he can’t help it as the jealousy bubbles up through his core.

“Had enough waiting on the addict to clean up his act?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he feels instant regret. He’s always been a hothead who runs his mouth before thinking, but he can tell these words sting deep. They pain him too.

She flinches and releases a haggard breath.

“That’s not fair. You left. You stopped calling. You stopped picking up. You couldn’t even text. And then your number went out. Now you’ve called me from a payphone. It’s been three years.” Her eyes remain firmly on the road, hands clenching the wheel, but he can see her body tremble and hear the strain in her voice. She’s angry. Furious.

He slumps, “I’m sorry.” His whisper is meek as he understands a mere apology is not nearly enough to make amends for the past. It doesn’t explain why he had to disappear, why he went away for so long. It can’t make her understand his reasons.

She nods almost imperceptibly and seems to consider a game plan. “I’ll take you to Sesshomaru’s.”

“No.” He’s vehement. There’s no chance in hell he will turn to his half-brother. Especially now.

“Sango and Miroku’s then.”

“And?” He balks at the conjunction.

“They’re married now. Have been for a year. You would’ve been his Best Man, but …”

She trails off, but he understands. They couldn’t find him, reach him. The hole he left in their lives appears to be much greater than he imagined.

They drive in silence for nearly an hour. He wants to speak, wants to tell her everything, but he can’t find the words; and based on the furtive glances she keeps sending him, she can’t either.

“I was so scared you were dead.” She finally whimpers.

“Some days I wished I was.” He admits forlornly.

She looks at him for a few moments before staring back at the road, brows furrowed, mouth turned down.

“I’m glad you’re not.”

Those are the last words spoken before silence consumes them again.

After they hit the city limits, she drives to a house in the suburbs. It looks like a dream with its double-attached garage and neatly manicured lawn. A chokecherry tree sits among a bed of flowers in the middle of the green; simple yet attractive and he knows whose home he stands in front of. She leads him from the driveway to the royal blue front door and it opens almost immediately, revealing two faces he has longed to see almost as much as Kagome’s. Their expressions are a combination of disbelief and relief. Miroku does not hesitate to embrace him with a sigh as Sango looks on with tears in her eyes. He reaches a tentative hand out to her which she grasps tightly with a closed smile.

They usher him into the house and guide him to their kitchen. Miroku settles him into a spot at the breakfast bar as Sango pours him a glass of water. They do not speak, though the questions in their eyes are obvious. Miroku nods at him as he and Sango walk back to the door, to Kagome. She hasn’t come in. Her face has been drawn since they stopped speaking during the drive.

He waits inside the kitchen as they speak outside. He could train his ears to listen to their conversation, and briefly considers it, but he chooses not to. His absence has prohibited him from those intimacies. They are different people now, just as he is. They are probably discussing how to get him on his feet again as quickly as possible so they can get back to their lives. Why would they want him to stay? Why would they want him around for longer than necessary?

Miroku and Sango return to him. He hears the telltale roar of an engine and knows Kagome has gone. He feels sadness, but knows why she’s left without a word. After all, who can jump right into caring for your former partner who has all but risen from the grave?

Sango looks him over, assessing him thoroughly. He avoids her eyes, unsure of what emotions she’s wearing and afraid to meet them. Shame fills his bones. Maybe he should have stayed away. Maybe he should have stayed dead in their minds. He is a spot on their pristine lives.

Miroku refills his glass of water and replaces it on the counter before sitting on the stool beside him.

“You’re alive,” he finally breathes.

Inuyasha meets Miroku’s gaze and is warmed to see compassion and joy in his deep blue eyes. The shame that was eating him just moments ago fades ever so slightly.

“You’re home.” Miroku states, “It’s a miracle. Where have you been? What have you been doing?”

The dam is officially broken and all the questions that he knew were coming are finally bare, and despite everything, he feels entirely unprepared to answer. So he starts slow, begins with the day they last saw him. He tells them of his travels, the hitchhiking, the homelessness, but skimps out on the details of things he has done, the sins he has committed. Those are secrets he will take to the grave. He is unwilling to mar the consciences of those he loves.

“Have you…” Sango shakes her head, unable to finish her question, but he fully comprehends what she means to ask.

“No. I’ve been clean since the day I left.”

“Then why?”

“Loose ends.” He murmurs. “I had to settle my debts. They … they would’ve come for her if I didn’t comply.”

“For so long?”

Three years is nothing, he wants to tell them. He’s lucky he only had to serve that long. Naraku is a malevolent bastard and exploits the last breath out of most. Frankly, his death would have been an easier price to pay.

“I had to earn my freedom.” He admits this ashamedly and hopes they don’t press for more.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It wasn’t so simple.”

“So you disappeared.” Sango states brusquely, her tone is harsh and unforgiving. “You broke her heart, you know. You broke all of our hearts when you left.”

That admission freezes him from the inside. He knew his absence would be difficult for them all, but hearing it spoken aloud affects him more than he thought it would. He imagines Kagome sobbing into her pillow. It’s a scene that is all too familiar, he’s caused her many tears – too many.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He repeats his submissive apology from earlier and slumps, his forehead almost touching the counter.

“You’re here now,” Miroku responds comfortingly and places a hand on his shoulder, “You’re here. You’re alive. You’re safe. That’s what matters. We can help you now, if you want it.”

He lifts his head and looks directly at Sango whose cinnamon eyes convey grief and yet hold a glimmer of hope. He turns to Miroku who is awaiting his response.

“Yes.” He declares, confidence daring to materialize, “Please.”

Later that evening he is settling into the spare bedroom they’ve given him. Before him is a suitcase of his belongings that Kagome has dropped off on the front step. He takes a breath and opens it. He is quickly overcome with her sweet scent which is deeply embedded in each item. The clothes are slightly too big for him now. Three years of constantly moving, being on the run, and meager meals have diminished his former stature.

Amongst his clothes is a red leather-bound book. A journal. It smells more intimately of Kagome than everything else. She has wept openly on these pages, he can tell. He opens it and thumbs quickly through the pages. Each entry is a letter addressed to him. As he flips through the journal certain phrases jump out at him amidst the lines of her loopy hand.

I want to hate you.

Where are you?

I wish I had never met you.

Are you alive?

I wish I could hold you.

Please come home.

I love you.

He shudders as he realizes that these pages hold missives from the last three years. These are Kagome’s thoughts, her feelings. This is an intimacy he thought was nearly impossible now. She has to have put this with his things on purpose. She’s thorough like that. Every action is purposeful, thoughtful. He finds the last entry in the journal, it’s dated today.

Inuyasha,

This is a collection of letters that I began writing when I realized you weren’t coming home anytime soon. Eventually I thought you weren’t coming home at all. I used these to talk to you as if you were still by my side. I don’t know what you’ve been through and maybe giving you this journal is selfish of me, but I needed you to see.

I hope they help you understand why I can’t be the one to help you right now. I need time. It’s ironic saying that after you’ve been gone for three years. It feels like there’s been nothing but time between us. I thought you were dead when I received your call today. I thought I was hearing a ghost. I’m so grateful you’re alive, but things are different now. We are not the same people we were before.

I need to figure this out.

Please understand.

Kagome

It isn’t until tears splatter on the page that he realizes he is crying. Of course she needs time. He knew this was a possibility when he made the phone call this afternoon. He’d hoped against hope that she would come for him and take him back fully. But that was wishful thinking. He knew there was a chance she would turn him away. She could have hung up as soon as she heard his voice. But she came for him, made arrangements for him. But she is engaged to another man. She needs to figure out if there is still room in her life for him.

For her, he’d wait a lifetime. Even to just be her friend.

It is another three months before he sees Kagome again. He’s read that journal more times than he cares to admit. All her sleepless nights are immortalized in those grid-lined pages, that he’s now dog-eared and bookmarked. Her worries, fears, even her dreams laid bare. He knows how often she cried when he was in the depths of his addictions, but it has taken this journal to make him truly appreciate how deeply he hurt her, even after he was gone. And to his astonishment, it wasn’t the behaviour that hurt her the most, it was his poor viewpoint of himself.

I wish you could see you how I do.

I should have told you more what you meant to me.

I regret every moment I didn’t say “I love you.”

He knows Sango sees her regularly, he can always scent her when Sango arrives home. It’s not as if they’re keeping their meetings a secret, but he’s respecting her space even though it kills him. It bothers him when he can smell the sadness of her tears and the tinge of fatigue. He wonders what causes her tears these days, why she’s so often tired, why sometimes there’s a trace of illness in her scent that lingers on Sango. From Miroku he learns that she’s busy with her residency at the hospital. Ever the studious achiever. Ever wanting to help others. To heal.

This is the reason he knows she’d never give up on him. It’s why she was the one he called. She’s a walking bleeding heart, always has been. She sees the best in people, even when their best is a mere speck amidst obscurity. When he was at his worst, she stood by him. When everyone else had lost hope and he’d been slipping deeper into his addictions, his darkness, she stayed. She brought him back from the brink of death’s door one too many times. Back then, she truly loved him. And he’s holding onto hope with every fiber of his being that she still does.

He hopes she’s proud of him and the progress he’s making. Since he’s been back, he’s found work thanks to Miroku’s contacts in construction. He’s proven himself to be a hard worker and has met a journeyman to mentor him as an apprentice in iron work. It’s also helped boost his confidence with reintegrating into society. At work, no one cares what his past is, what skeletons he hides in the closet, as long as he gets the job done. At work, they’re all sinners just trying to get by.

He stays away from the parties and the after-work bar stops. He recognizes the patterns in some of his colleagues all too well. One drink leads to two leads to three leads to smack or blow or both which leads to miserable mornings because you’ve spent all night chasing that first-time spark. No matter how hard you try, you can never attain that feeling again and still you chase. It’s the vicious cycle. He’s done with that life. It’s taken too much away from him, cost him too much.

Miroku and Sango have let him know that Kagome will be coming for dinner, so he’s had ample time to prepare. But when she arrives in the doorway and her scent hits him like a freight train, he panics. Has she had enough time? Has she made a decision? Will she want him to stay away? He runs to his room and leans back against the closed door. He’s stared down the barrels of guns with less fear than what he’s experiencing in this moment.

He smells her before he hears her footsteps arriving at his door. Trepidation grips him as he hears her voice call to him for the first time in three months. This is so much harder than that very first phone call that has brought him home.

“Inuyasha?”

She’s there, he can tell her face is pressed to the wood. Her voice is soft, hesitant. Perhaps she is just as nervous as him.

“Can I come in?”

He quakes as he reaches for the handle and turns it painfully slow. He inches the panel open. Finally, finally, he opens it all the way and turns to face her.

Her face is a portrait of concern and tenderness. Her grey eyes are intense as they’ve always been and are already filling with tears. Her arms are wrapped around herself as if she’s blocking a gale.

He steps aside to let her in and shuts the door behind her.

She stares at the floor and he focuses on a spot on the wall above her head for a few moments. He is completely stunned when she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist and clutching as hard as she can. As he wraps his arms around her shoulders, she sobs fiercely and he feels tears prick the back of his own eyes.

He cups the back of her head, gently stroking her hair, and whispers repeatedly, “I’m sorry.”

It feels as if hours have passed when Kagome’s tears finally subside. His body protests when she begins to pull away, but she clasps his hand and pulls him to sit on his bed. She pulls a tissue out of her jeans pocket and wipes her face.

“Sango tells me you’ve been working,” her voice is pinched from crying, but he admires her attempts at normal conversation.

“Yeah, it’s going well.”

“Good,”

She smiles then and he thinks it’s the best thing he’s seen in years. Her eyes are red and swollen, and her cheeks are ruddy, but her smile can still light up a room and he’s glad that it’s his.

“I … really am glad that you’re home.”

“Me too,”

“I’ve missed you a lot,

“Me too,” He feels like a goddamn broken record, but he may combust if he attempts more words.

“And … I’d like it if we could start hanging out again.”

He gapes at her, slack-jawed and eyes wide. While he has been hoping for this, it is still a surprise to hear it straight from her lips. His mind races with all the things he wants to say and his heart is lodged in his throat.

“That is … if you’d want to,”

He realizes that he’s taken too long to respond and she’s beginning to backtrack. In a lot of ways, they are still the same people they were; confident in so many circumstances and yet, with each other, eternally hesitant and nervous.

“Of course I want to,”

The words rush out of his mouth in an effort to reassure her.

“I would love to spend time with you. I just wasn’t sure … if you’d …” he’s stumbling and feels like a fool, but he needs her to know. He needs her to understand just how much he wants to be back in her life.

She smiles again and his world warms once more.

“I guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer.”

It takes him a moment to remember that their friends are downstairs with dinner and they stand together. He realizes as they descend the stairs that she has not let go of his hand at all. Her diamond ring is notably absent from her finger, but he leaves that question for another time.

Dinner is a simple affair and it’s the lightest he’s felt in years.

- - - - -

If there’s anything his life has taught him, it’s that happiness is temporary. Six months of being home, six months of stability, and three months of having Kagome back in his life on a regular basis have made him happy. It’s a feeling he didn’t think was possible, didn’t think he was worthy of. After all, when life has ceaselessly handed him cruel lessons, why would happiness even be an option? So when it all comes crashing down as he’s out running errands with Miroku, it doesn’t surprise him, but it still hurts like a motherfucker.

“It’s you.”

The words are scathing and resentful. He dreadfully lifts his gaze to meet the eyes of the person who seems to offended by his mere existence. She’s a petite woman with short black hair, but the animosity in her eyes belies her diminutive stature.

“How dare you?” Her tone is soft but punitive. “How dare you insert your filthy little hands back into Kagome’s life. She was finally moving on. She was happy. She was going to marry Akitoki, he would have taken care of her. He was good for her. But you couldn’t stay away. She broke off her engagement because of you. You’re taking advantage of her heart. She’s let go of her chance at happiness, and for what? To take care of you? A worthless little nobody who can’t wait for his next fix?”

The woman is viciously relentless. Her diatribe is unforgiving, slicing him to the very bone.

He is completely frozen. He wants to yell back at her, tell her that he’s quite aware of how he is undeserving of Kagome’s compassion and forgiveness. He knows that he’s been the cause of her pain and tears. He knows he’s gotten more second chances than he deserves. He knows her life was easier without him. He knows Kagome is better than him. He knows. Oh, he knows.

He vaguely registers that Miroku has taken a step between them and is reprimanding the woman. Eri, he remembers. She’d been a friend of Kagome’s through school and had been more than vocal of her disapproval of him even then.

Eri quickly turns her malice toward Miroku.

“You’re no friend of Kagome, letting this fuck-up back into her life.”

“That’s enough. I won’t allow you to continue vilifying Inuyasha. And Kagome is fully capable of deciding for herself who she associates with.”

Miroku’s tone is level, but Inuyasha can tell he is running out of patience. Miroku grips his elbow and guides him away from the venomous witch, but not before she can get a final word in.

“You should have stayed dead.”

He flinches then, her phrase echoing endlessly through his mind, settling into his gut and clawing at him from the inside.

Somehow Miroku gets them home, everything is a blur with that bitch’s voice reverberating in his skull. He hears Miroku’s voice, but he cannot focus on the words. All he understands is hatred and disgust. Everything he has worked for is worthless. Is this the way it’s always going to be?

She finds him on the back porch, sitting on the stairs, staring blankly toward the sunset. She sits beside him on the step and sighs. Her voice is weary.

“Miroku told me everything. I’m sorry that happened.”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

“What?” Her shock is more than evident. She clutches his forearm with both hands and he can sense her tears beginning to form, “How can you say that?”

He doesn’t dare look at her, he knows it’ll ruin his resolve. As low as he feels, he feels a ripple of anger brewing in his gut. Eri’s words have been festering in his brain, allowing an old and familiar voice to break through. He’s a half-breed, accepted but unlovable. He’s stupid and useless, completely unworthy of happiness. He’s committed too many wrongs to ever deserve redemption. It’s been a long time, but the feeling inside is one he’ll never forget. He’s craving a high to numb this pain, this goddamn fucking anger.

“If you want that perfect life, you should take it. I don’t want your fucking pity party. I know you look down on me. Poor Inuyasha and his asshole attitude. The only time he’s bearable is when he’s high as a damn kite and that’s only because he doesn’t know up from fucking down. Of course, the downside is that he might stop breathing.” He scoffs harshly, “Or, is that the upside?”

He knows his voice is bitter and that he’s gotten louder. It’s echoing the one Eri used earlier. He’s shaking from the anger, or is it something else? This scene feels all too familiar, almost like déjà vu; but somehow, it’s different now.

“Inuyasha. Stop.”

She’s pleading with him, her grip on his arm has gotten tighter. He knows she’s weeping openly; he can scent her tears and hear the stutter in her breath. It’s all too familiar. After all, this is what he’s good at: making her cry.

“Doesn’t fucking matter I’ve been clean three years. That’s all anyone will see, a fucking deadbeat addict. You’d be better off with that doctor. He can take care of you, pamper you. He’ll be enough. He’ll deserve you. That’s not me. That’ll never be me. All I’ll ever be is a fuck-up.”

“Don’t.”

She whimpers and lets her grip loosen. He’s sure she’s going to walk away, get back in her car and leave. He keeps his stare steady on the sun that has almost completely slipped beyond the horizon. There’s a war waging inside of him – his angels and demons come out to play. Not for the first time, he bitterly wonders if this continued sobriety is worth it. She’s going to leave, just as she should.

When her hand comes up and gently cups his cheek, he is completely undone. She tenderly moves his face, but he keeps his gaze downcast. Her hand is soft and warm to the touch as her thumb swipes away his tears. Of course she’s staying. Her bleeding heart won’t let her leave. He cries for her, her lost opportunities, her damn sympathetic selflessness. But she surprises him again in what she utters; and in her words, he finds hope.

“You have always been enough for me. I have always seen you. The you who loves me and would do anything to protect me. The you who acts tough because you’re scared of rejection. The you who wishes you could change the past. The you who is more determined and smarter than you realize. The you who has worked hard to conquer those shitty demons inside. That’s who I see.”

She sighs and he feels her whole body tremble.

“Every time you used, I was terrified. I was so scared that you wouldn’t wake up one day, that you’d stop breathing, that your heart would fail. That I would lose you. It made me angry, it’s why I pushed you so hard. I wanted you to get sober for me.”

He meets her eyes then, their pretty grey glimmers in what’s left of the sunlight through the sheen of her tears. In them he finds no pity, only benevolence. Everything she has said, he has heard her say before. He’s read it before. But this is why it isn’t a complete déjà vu, it’s different. It’s different because they are different. They have grown and she confirms it with her next statement.

“It was selfish. I wanted you to get sober, but you needed to do it for yourself.”

He reaches up to grasp her wrist, lightly squeezing in lieu of all the words he wants to say.

She lets the corners of her mouth turn upwards ever so slightly.

“And you did. You succeeded. I don’t know what you’ve been through these last few years, and maybe I’ll never know, but what I do know is that you came home. You did what you had to and came back to me, and I am prouder of you than you can ever imagine.”

She presses her lips to his forehead and gathers him in her arms. He allows himself to take comfort in her embrace because comfort is not happiness and is not so easily taken away.

He goes back to her apartment with her that night. Their apartment. It looks the same as the day he left. He is simultaneously comforted and haunted by the familiarity. This place that they made home together. Where they laughed and fought. Where he wasted his nights and she cared for him. This is where he had joy and lost it. This is where he left her.

She putters around the kitchen, putting the kettle on for tea. As she pulls two mugs from the cabinet, he realizes that they’re the matching set they painted for each other on a date some lifetime ago. She sees the recognition in his stare and begins to speak.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed I kept everything the same.” She smiles timidly and her eyes are filled with earnest, “Everyone thought it was unhealthy, but it kept me sane. They tried to convince me to move out of here, and I was adamant that I wouldn’t – couldn’t. Because if you came home and found I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.”

She busies herself again, pulling out a tin of teabags and a sleeve of arrowroot cookies.

“And then as time went on and I started fearing the worst, I needed to hang onto my memories of you, of us. So, everything stayed the same. Even though I was moving forward with school and … eventually, Akitoki,” She glances downward, sheepish. “Home was my constant. It was me. It was you. It was us. It is us.”

He steps toward her. He has so many questions and a spark of hope is igniting in his veins.

“Why?”

The word hangs between them and he tries in vain to push that hope down, down, down. It is such a simple word, and yet holds so much impact.

She lifts her eyes to meet his, grey colliding with amber, understanding pouring through.

“We met when I started my residency. He was a third-year. At first, I didn’t pay him any mind, but he kept persisting. Eventually I figured meeting for coffee wouldn’t hurt.” She pauses, reaching for his hand. “You have to understand that you’d been gone for almost two years. I was lonely. And … and he was safe.”

She scoffs, grips his hand tighter, and leans fully on the counter.

“He was a proper gentleman. Waited a month before he kissed me the first time, even asked permission before he did. It was another month after that before we officially became boyfriend and girlfriend. It was a bit of a surprise when he proposed on our anniversary. Obviously, I said yes – you saw the ring. Except, it felt wrong. It was all wrong. We hadn’t even talked about the future or even moving in together, hadn’t done more than kiss. But I guess that’s part of propriety. And yet, I said yes because it was safe, that stupid word.”

His mind is racing. Safe is not a word he has ever been associated with. What does it even mean? He searches her face for a clue, and anxiously waits for her to continue. This is a conversation they have not deigned to have yet in the three months since they’ve been friends again. The kettle is boiling rapidly now, but he knows that it’ll automatically shut off.

“Then five months later, you called me and this feeling I hadn’t felt in so long came rushing back. You were alive. It was like the clouds were finally parting after a heavy rain. I didn’t know what to expect when I came to pick you up, and this tiny part of me told me not to go, but it was right. I felt right again, but I was scared. So I stayed away. Then I heard from Sango and Miroku that you were working and doing well and I was missing out on that. I broke off the engagement. As much as he was sweet and safe … he wasn’t you.”

Tears are welling in her eyes and he feels his are getting misty as well. He steps and pulls all in one motion, wrapping his arms around her tightly. His heart is pounding out of his chest and that spark of hope is now a flame.

She draws in a haggard breath and mumbles against his chest.

He tilts his head down to look at her, silently pleading for her to repeat what she’s just said. His ears picked up her message, but he needs to know for sure.

She tips her chin upwards and shyly brushes her lips against his and repeats herself a little more loudly, “I love you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Her eyes darken and she presses a kiss to his jaw.

“Because you’re you. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been away.”

He whimpers, “Kagome,”

She kisses him fully then, grasping his face to ensure he can’t pull away, not that he wants to. His heart is exploding. She has always been able to read him, know what he’s thinking. And she has always known what he needs most. This kiss is full of promises, assurances. This is real.

“You are important. You are loved. You are worthy of it all.”

She guides him to her bedroom. Their bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed in disbelief that he is back in this room. He can hardly believe that this woman is standing before him with love in her eyes. This amazing, beautiful, strong, resilient woman who is holding the door to happiness wide open. He only has to cross the threshold. He falters. Happiness is dangerous. Happiness is temporary. But she is here and he trusts her implicitly. With her, happiness is feasible.

With one look into her deep stormy eyes, he makes a choice.

“Kagome.”

Her name. The only word he seems capable of uttering. In her name he promises to try. Promises to treat her well, make up for the pain he has caused her. Promises to try and see himself through her eyes. Promises to be kinder to himself. Promises to help build their life together back up. He knows with her, they will succeed.

She caresses his face and drops her lips to meet his once again, resting her knees on either side of him. He clutches her waist and revels in the familiarity of her body pressed against his. Their motions are slow, meticulous, not dictated by hormones and lust. And they fall into a routine, a dance that hasn’t been done in years and yet they fall back into with practiced ease.

With every kiss she presses hotly into his skin, she whispers continuous affirmation.

You are enough.

You are worthy.

You are mine.

I love you.

He finds words still impossible to formulate and voice, so he allows his actions to speak for him. Each caress, each kiss, each touch is full of reverence and adoration. When he finally sinks into her and they become one, he truly feels like he is home. And all of his feelings of unworthiness and self-loathing begin to ebb, for it is the love of this woman and her unwavering belief in him that he can begin to heal.

As they settle into each other, heavy with the lure of sleep, he whispers in her ear, “I love you.”

She nestles into him closer and kisses his wrist.

For the first time, in a very long time, he feels worthy.

FINAL NOTES:

I wanted to mention some things as a bit of a debrief to this story, if you will. This is a story that is very personal for me and is quite heavy. Hopefully the ending was enough of a pleasant one to offset the weight a bit.

The way I designed this story, Inuyasha and Kagome are separated during the toughest part of his recovery. The decision to stay with or leave a partner with addiction is a difficult one and can be different for everyone, especially because addiction is so highly stigmatized. A lot of the time the person struggling already carries guilt. Addiction so very often stems from trauma, depression, and/or other forms of mental illness and these need to be addressed first.

Regardless of whether you stay or go, it is important to set boundaries for yourself. Addiction is often labeled as a third-party to relationships because it attempts to wear down the people involved and whittle them down to their weakest and worst. If you are supporting someone through addiction and an active part of their recovery, it is vital to remember self-care and recognize when you need to say no and that it is okay to do so. It is NOT your responsibility to "cure" them.

If you are somebody who cares for someone struggling with addiction, I am happy to share resources that I have found helpful if you would like to reach out.

On another note, I do have ideas about where and what Inuyasha was up to during his three-year absence. It would probably contain heavier content than this piece, but also be a bit more fantastical. If the inspiration hits or if there’s interest, I’ll probably try and write it. Anyway, comments and likes are love. Thank you so much for reading my return to fan fiction!

#inuyasha #inuyasha fanfiction #inuyasha fic #omg i'm writing again #inukag #tw: drugs #tw: addiction #angst #angst with a happy ending #angst with a hopeful ending #tw: low self esteem #tw: depressive thoughts #rated m

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Charlie Chan. Who is fascinating, because he was created explictly to be an anti-Yellow Peril character. Unlike most Chinese characters of the time, he's both intelligent, physically capable, and unambiguously heroic. In the novels, he's simultaneously proud of being Chinese AND proud of being an American citizen. He gives orders and instructions to white people, and the narrative treats this as perfectly normal and acceptable. There's a bit in the first book, when an attempt to trap the..(1/2)

(cont'd)There's a bit in the first book where an attempt to trap the protagonist fails, because a message supposedly from Charlie clearly isn't because Charlie's English isn't broken, it's like poetry. Etc. The movies made him more stereotypical, & played by white actors in yellowface, but still, he's a heroic Chinese man, who is as capable and patriotic as any white man. Nowadays, he's thought of as racist caricature. Which he is, but still, it makes one think.

I'm not nearly as acquainted with Charlie Chan as you are (and I definitely suspected he was less racist in the original books because that's nearly always the norm when it comes to pulp characters) but yeah, that "Which he is" is forever going to be the most unfortunate and saddest part of it all when it comes to Charlie Chan. For all the virtues that can be bestowed on Charlie Chan, for everything great that the character had going for him and inspired, the fact that the least offensive image of the character I could find to put here for illustration's sake is from the Hanna-Barbera cartoon kinda exemplifies the big elephant in the room when it comes to Charlie.

Charlie Chan is a great example of two things: One is the way progress is never a fixed quantity and often what was progressive and forward-thinking in it's time can become something outdated and backwards and downright offensive given enough time, and the 2nd is my constant stressing that this is all the more incentive to reclaim the pulps and either highlight or fix aspects of them, instead of dismissing every aspect of them based on the preconception that everything about it's history is unforgivably bigoted and must be handled with the nuance of a sledgehammer.

I stress time and time again the need to highlight and understand the prejudices that went into pulps, because either ignoring them or wielding them as a weapon to attack them does no favors to anyone. The pulps weren't exceptionally bigoted - look at literally any medium in it's time period and you'll find bigotry and prejudice and hatred - and they were exceptional in the number of POC heroes and heroines. Pulps were a medium of experimentation and cheap entertainment that gave way to much, much more varied kinds of protagonists than were permitted in films, serials, novels, comics and radio serials of the day. Imagine if no one was allowed to bring up and discuss superheroes without mentioning the Superman Slap-a-Jap posters or the Captain Marvel story so horrifingly racist it was recounted by an American ambassador after it deeply offended a friend's son and a major influence on the 1950s anti-comic trials. "Pulp fiction had deeply, unforgivingly racist depictions that deserve intense scrutiny and cannot be ignored" and "Pulp fiction was significantly ahead of every other medium at the time in regards to authors and editors striving to publish stories about heroic POCs, this cannot be dismissed and is something that needs to be perpetuated" are not exclusive facts. "A product of it's time" is not an excuse and never was, but it's a fact nevertheless.

Every time someone speaks favorably of Charlie Chan in any capacity, they have to start with a long preface of everything positive that the character had going for him. Yes, he's a deliberate subversion of the Yellow Peril, he's a heroic protagonist, he's plump and good-natured and humorous but far from a joke, he's friendly and pleasant and well-educated and wise, he's a good dad and family man and a terrifically sharp detective who's so good at his job he gets called to solve crimes all over the world, and none of these traits are apparent to people who have to google the character and repeteadly see a white man in awful make-up into every single image of the character, who watch the movies and cringe at the broken English. It's hardly relevant in the face of all the Asian-American critics who acknowledge the character's virtues but rightfully point out that this fortune-cookie spouting caricature, acting subservient to whites and whose virtues are based around his proximity to a white American ideal, doesn't represent them and they shouldn't pretend it does.

Which isn't to say that to like Charlie Chan is "wrong", a lot of East Asians love Charlie and the character's obviously got fans in Asian Americans. It's a complicated subject and I obviously cannot begin to vouch in a subject so heavily based around perceptions I cannot experience. And I deeply detest the idea of speaking for others on their particular experiences on this kind of matter, which is something Americans do a lot everytime they talk about representation in media.

So instead, I'm going to tackle this on a roundabout manner by going on an unrelated tangent to bring up an example of representation that isn't quite representative of what it's supposed to be, has a lot of issues that have been dissected by critics among the people it was supposed to represent, and none of that stopped the character from being popular and beloved and from being claimed anyway. And it's a Brazilian fighting game character, which means it's completely within my ballpark.

Yeah, obviously Blanka doesn't look like anyone who lives in Brazil (whatever resemblance he bears to redheaded jungle protectors of Brazilian folklore is purely accidental). Obviously neither Jimmy nor Blanka are Brazilian names or even exist in the Portuguese lexicon. Obviously there are issues in Street Fighter's approach to representation across the board, sure, and I'd actually say Laura is much worse than Blanka in that regard (again, my opinion, obviously not universal), but the fact remains that Blanka is and has always been pretty controversial. Obviously there's Brazilians who took offense to Blanka and they weren't wrong to do so, and I obviously do not speak for everyone here, that goes without saying.

Obviously the idea that Brazil's major representative in a global cast of characters, the first big name Brazilian character in videogames, is going to be a freakish jungle monster who roars and bites faces has problems, as is the fact that all the others get to be regular people representing fighting styles from their countries while Blanka doesn't. None of the Brazilian SF characters represent Capoeira, which is kinda shitty to be honest. And there's a whole stereotype of Brazil as a backwards land of beasts and savages that Blanka's creation played into. There's no shortage of ground to criticize Blanka's representation and Ono actually apologized in an interview once, but then he learned one teensy little thing:

Street Fighter is very popular on Brazil. Would you like to leave a message to the fans from there?

"Ono: Yes, I'm aware. At the time of Street Fighter II a lot of the arcade machines produced went there, so I knew we had lots of fans there. A message to Brazilians, well, I'd like to apologize. I know Blanka's a weird character and I don't want any Brazilian to feel uncomfortable with that.

When Blanka was conceived, we knew there were forests in Brazil, and so we thought he could look like that. I was actually kinda nervous knowing I'd meet Brazilian journalists. Still, this is the first Street Fighter in ten years, so we'd like all fans to play, including Brazilians, which are many.

Thanks. Well, but you should know that Brazilians love Blanka

"Ono: Ah, good! I was scared of getting beat up if I ever went to São Paulo! (laughs)"

(That's from a 2012 tv special called The Greatest Brazilian of All Time where over a million viewers voted to elect whoever they wanted, and Blanka was going to win. He was polling ahead of Aryton Senna and PELÉ, fucking Pelé, yes this happened. He wasn't even disqualified for being a cartoon character, it was an open poll, he was disqualified due to canon stating he had been born in Thailand, which I think may have been retconned since then. Again, A MILLION BRAZILLIANS voted for this contest, and Blanka was going to win.)

Blanka is great and sweet and lovable, he made the best out of the incredible shitty hands fate dealt him and became a cool and strong green man who shoots lightning and flies, a self-taught warrior who rides whales and planes to fighting tournaments, and he loves his mom and friends and kicks ass and after he's done he dances in joy and gives the kids of his village piggyback rides, and Brazil loves him. He doesn't represent any existing person or fighting style, he's rooted in a negative stereotype and incorrect assumptions, he's not even really Brazilian, and he's our boy and nobody can take him away from us.

No criticism of Blanka, no matter how in-depth or even right it is, is ever going to affect that, because regardless of what was wrong or misguided and offensive about him, we claimed him and loved him so throughly that Capcom kept playing up Brazilian representation in every subsequent game post Alpha, and because of Blanka's impact and reception in such a big game, Brazilian characters have become a staple of fighting games, and that's how we got much more diverse representatives in those games. Fighting games have more Brazilian representation than LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE on media not produced here. It started as BAD representation, with way less thought put into it than Charlie Chan, and it still mattered to a lot of Brazilians who reclaimed it and made it better than it was ever intended to be, and as a response to it, it gradually became better.

Progress is not a fixed quantity, it's an uphill battle, and it's not unwinnable. Everything's gotta start somewhere.

The Good Asian is a ongoing comic that I think does the best job I've seen yet of handling an Asian American detective protagonist, which is not really a high bar in the first place, and more to the point, The Good Asian illustrates the 2nd part: the reclaiming. The Good Asian deals a lot with the realities that a 1930s Asian-American detective would run into, the strained circumstances and relationships between said character and the world around him, because it's born from an author who took a look at Charlie Chan and Mr Moto and the like and recognized the potential in those stories that could not be fulfilled in it's time period by the people writing said stories.

The Good Asian pays little reverence to Charlie Chan, but it acknowledges that it cannot exist without Charlie Chan, and it reclaims the Charlie Chan premise at the hands of someone more adequately equipped to tell a gripping story that goes places none of Charlie's contemporaries would ever go. Regardless of how good or bad of representation Charlie Chan was, Charlie Chan mattered and was beloved and inspired a better example for others to improve on or rebel against.

I desperately wish that I could google Charlie Chan without having to look at a guy in yellowface, and the ONLY way that's going to happen is if the character ever gets meaningfully brought back and reclaimed for good by people who can meaningfully tackle the character and present him as he should have always been presented.

And then, I imagine it would be a lot easier to show people on how swell Charlie really is. A true, positive role model and hero, who no longer has to look like a gross cartoon to be able to exist at all. Who can finally be what he was always meant to be, and always was deep down.

#replies tag #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #charlie chan #detective fiction #the good asian #street fighter #blanka

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pumpkinpaix · 3 years

Note

13 for wwx, lwj, lqr, and madame yu

13. Unpopular opinion about XXX character?

👀 all right let’s go.

Wei Wuxian: wei wuxian has done unspeakably cruel things to innocent people, things that are honestly pretty unforgivable. wei wuxian is absolutely a villain in his first life--a villain who breaks my heart, who is completely understandable, but a villain nonetheless. from a raw like, harm-caused perspective? wei wuxian is orders of magnitude ahead of jin guangyao. his personal body count is higher than literally anyone else possibly like, in all of the history of the world.

this does not mean I don’t like him, nor does it mean i think he doesn’t deserve happiness. i love him very very much. but even he says it about himself: he was not a good person. in a very real sort of application, i think he reminds us that even terrible people are people and that compassion should not be given selectively, if that makes sense. that compassion matters and that people can change, even if you never forgive them. and you never have to for that to still be true.

Lan Wangji: lan wangji is enormously self-motivated. i think he finds being a good person difficult, in that i don’t think he likes people, so he finds it hard to care about them. I think he clings very hard to rules not just because like, type-a personality, but because that’s his primary moral compass. I don’t think kindness comes naturally to him, but i think he very much wants to be a good person. i think he has great concern for fairness, but that’s not the same as “goodness”, if that makes sense. so the concept of him always being where the chaos is--i don’t think he does that because he cares for the poor and disenfranchised. I think he does it because he thinks it is unfair that they should give more or less help based on arbitrary markers like class or status. this is sort of flippant, but like, i think he doesn’t do it because he cares about the disenfranchised so much as he doesn’t care for the wealthy. i think his natural inclination is to be petty and selfish and angry, but that he knows this about himself and tries, in his own way, to not be like that--and he does that by using an external system to help him make judgments since they don’t come easily to him. but like, he only tries so much, you know? he’s not interested in playing nice and he doesn’t care who knows it. people perceive it as both a sort of intense honor or an intense arrogance, but I think it’s somewhere in the middle there. this is in contrast to lan xichen, who i think is naturally very inclined towards goodness, in a way that’s often debilitating. anyways, once again, this is not “i think lwj is a bad person” nor is it “i don’t like lwj”. as xichen kin, I have to tell you that i love lan wangji so fucking much. i love his selfishness, and i love his fucked up brain and i love his anger and his attempt to be good anyways, even though it’s hard. that’s really important to me. I think he is bad at empathy, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care deeply, viscerally, intensely.

Lan Qiren: lan qiren fucked up the jades, but he really was trying his hardest and he loves them very much. he is angry because he loves. i think he harbors a very real and justified resentment for his brother, and that probably some of it spilled out onto lwj and lxc in ways that were not fair, but like. can you blame him? can you really? forced to take on the responsibilities of a sect he never prepared for, forced to raise two children he did not sire or ask for, all while his brother spends his days alone, locked up in his house, forgoing everything in life for a woman that, in lqr’s eyes, is immoral and cruel. his brother abandoned him for her. that’s a lot to handle--so like, his hatred for wei wuxian and his anger with lan wangji--that’s not born out of simple dislike and old-fashioned prejudice. that’s born from anger: at his brother, at wei wuxian, at lan wangji, at himself for failing to save his nephew from this, even when he had tried so hard. did he express that in the best way? probably not, but. I get it. i do not think lwj resents him, nor do i think wwx resents him because they also understand this.

Yu Ziyuan: a lot of people tend to interpret her attitudes towards her children as rooted in her jealousy regarding jfm and cssr, but I disagree. I also think people interpret her cutting words towards jc especially to be like--her trying to exercise control over her kids in her own power play against her husband, but that’s not at all what I see. I think she really loves her children, so much, but that she is afraid for them--that jfm’s antipathy towards her is going to be the cause of their failures. that her failures as a woman and as a mother are going to be the reason her children cannot succeed. and, because of her personality, this manifests as her lashing out at them in that particular way. is it kind? no. does it traumatize them? yes. but like, I think very distinctly the way wwx and jc talk about yzy after her death is very indicative of the respect they hold for her, despite that. is that relationship going to be complicated? yeah. but like. idk. this is a really personal thing for me for Reasons, and I understand why some people really hate her, but I’m not willing to change this interpretation for me personally.

i also have an entire hc as to why she is so angry with cssr, and it’s Not because of jfm’s lingering affections--in a roundabout way, it’s about cssr’s reaction to madam lan, but THAT’S A WHOLE OTHER STORY

WOW OKAY cool here we are then.

salt asks (no longer taking these, thank you for playing!!)

#okay that's enough. i have to go to sleep i. maybe fucked up. but! hope this was uhhh #interesting #mine #mymeta #??#ask meme #wei wuxian #lan wangji #lan qiren #yu ziyuan #mdzs #Anonymous #asks and replies

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revirushifaa · 3 years

Note

OK HFHEFEFBUEHFEFUEFEBFEB THAT MAMMON ANGSTY DRABBLE AHHHHHH--- ok ok, I calmed down lol. Can there be a continuation? Like MC reborns as an angel but in the meantime Mammon faces his brothers scorn and rejection?? For more angst!!

Anon.... you enjoy putting poor Mammon through so much I see. Regardless, yes, I shall give you a second part of this. Though I won't have the brothers hate on Mam forever!

There you go!

---------------------------

Reborn As An Angel

The following days after Mammon caused MC to die because of his outburst over thinking they betrayed him with that other demon unpurpose had been pure hell for the greedy demon, he was faced with his brothers' scorn and cold rejection toward him, none of the six brothers held a long conversation with him, it was just curt phrases and harsh looks on him. Mammon was currently going through severe depression, he couldn't believe himself at all, his sweet human, the one who showed him what real love was, was dead. Gone. All was his fault, his fault alone.

"Morning...?" Mammon said timidly as he walked into the dining room, and only was greeted with cold silence as the other brother's ate, like they hadn't heard himjust walking in and talking to them. He sighed, walking over to his seat.

"I am eating in my study." Lucifer immediately got up and took his plate, walking quickly away from the others.

Mammon didn't say anything, but that hurt him, his older brother going out because he came down to eat, like how he was very used to. "Levi, little brother-"

"No. I got my own things to do, than to being with a murderer." Leviathan got up from his seat and walked out too, in another direction from Lucifer to his aquarium.

The word 'murderer' jabbed into Mammon's heart, like a million of daggers stabbing him continously, he was hurting, and his brothers couldn't see that he knew his mistake perfectly, but none of them were willing to forgive him.

"S-Satan-"

Satan didn't even speak to him a word, just moved out in silence, like if Mammon was just an invisible being that was non-existent.

The second-born sighed, turning to Asmodeus.

As soon as he was about to open his mouth the lust demon held out his hand. "Busy with my nails." there was a fierce coldness in his voice, so unnatrual of him, given how sweet-spoken he was most of the time.

"Beel? Beel, hear me out please, don't leave me, like the others, all I need to say is-"

"There is nothing that can excuse murder, Mammon. And I don't even know if I even consider you my brother anymore. How could you hurt such a sweet human who only wanted your attention and you pushed them away, causing them to choose another demon, only for you to have such a temper tantrum that did nothing but costed their life, I am not even sure how can they forgive their murderer. I'm not up to being near you. Not now. And never." Beelzebub snapped at his older brother, and took his meal with him, going to his room.

Mammon sighed, and put his hands on his eyes, letting out those tears once again. It was official, all of his brothers hated him, not that he blamed them, he loathed himself deeply, and had done a number of cuts to his skin.

"Yes, hate me, little brothers and big brother, I don't deserve any forgiveness... MC was the only one giving me that attention that I wanted to keep hidden and not admit it... it was all my fault.... completely.... MC, I'm so sorry...." he collaposed onto the ground from the living room, sobbing heavily, mumbling MC'S name and whimpering apologies, broken apologies that he didn't have someone to apologies anymore, his sweet human was no longer with him, and will never be with him, no matter how much he cried their name or apologized to them... nothing could bring them back to him.

"I AM SO SORRY.....!!"

The second-born had a big breakdown in the dining room, choking on his sobs and hiccups.

No one to hold him or comfort him, there was literally no one in there, he was all by himself, he had to self-comfort himself once he had finished breaking down, something that he didn't know if he would ever do, his more than shattered heart ached him to where it couldn't ache him more, he was slowly beginning to feel numb to everything, given how he was crying aser? he held MC's lifeless body, the other brothers came and began hurling a sea of hurtful words and they hurt him and kicked him one by one, he wasn't allowed at MC's funeral at the Human World, he stood locked in his room as Lucifer severly roughed him up in there and forbid him to come out for days, until this one day.

The next weeks were the same, nothing changed, Mammon was now the outcast of the family, while the other brothers walked in the front together, he walked slowly at the back, a distance separating him from them, he took to eating in his room, the events that they had together, he wasn't in them, he only heard and imagine how much fun they were having, he was a very lonely demon, none of them were willing to forgive him or call him a brother anymore.

"Lucifer? Lucifer, I'm going out, I need to walk, won't come back late." He said a bit unsure at his older brother, as the oldest only shrugged.

"Whatever, do what you please. I do not care at all." Lucifer answered with coldness in his tone, he didn't even look into his direction, only continued doing those papers that he always signed.

Mammon tried to talk to his older brother finally gathering a bit of courage to do so. "Lucifer, please, I didn't mean all that, I was just mad-"

"Your anger costed the life of a human that did not deserve what they got. Are you telling me that your acts should not have consequences, Mammon? That we just should forget this and act as if it wasn't a grave matter? Is that what you are trying to tell me?" Now pinning his younger brother with his icey glare, Lucifer stood up, with his arms over his chest, folded.

Mammon shivered and whined internally, for his brother's unforgiving gaze was sending shivers down his spine. "N-no! I-I'm not saying that I'm innocent! I regret what I did and I don't seek for your pity or mercy, I-I just-"

"You just what, Mammon? Wanted to be there as the show off that you are, not even thinking before you act. Now you see the consequences of your acts, you caused this and won this treatment, you, yourself only. You are the disgrace of this family, and I don't think you can can be called a brother anymore."

The same words that Beel told him before. "You can't be called a brother anymore." Mammon sniffled, tears again pouring out his eyes. "Lucifer please, you gotta believe me, it was the blind rage that consumed me, if I wasn't in control of all my senses I would've stopped at once! Hurting MC to death was certainly not what I wanted... p-please brother.... forgive me...." in tears he begged of his older brother.

Lucifer growled at his younger brother's weak emotional form. " Stop crying! You deserve this and this something that you will get for centuries, do not expect my forgiveness in a long, LONG time. Now stop that, you look like a fool! Of course, you have always been a fool. all you have in that head is just a wall of diminute grain of rice. Reckleness that you never learned how to control. ...Do me a favor and disappear for now, I cannot stand seeing your face."

"L-Lucifer-" Soobing deeply, Mammon still tried.

"GO." Lucifer slapped his brother in the face, injuring his cheek, and pushed him away from his sight, throwing him out of the house, the door was slammed shut.

Mammon held his stinging cheek and stood there for several moments, seeing how he was kicked out from his own house, he shook his head and began running away from there, there was no security or love anymore. Even if there was love anyway, but now all was terrible, horrible, he never felt so hated in his life.

After several moments of just running without a real direction or distination, Mammon sat on a bench from there, he had tripped a lot and now had furthered the pain the he felt in his cheek, but nothing could compare the pain that he felt in his heart, knowing he had been left alone, and that he had no family no more. He put his hands on his eyes and wept for only lord knows how much.

Until he heard a beep coming from his pocket and pulled out his D.D.D. thinking maybe one of his other brothers had forgiven him, though once he saw the text and the name, his heart stopped cold for a split second.

MC.

MC had texted him.

His human....

Was this not some rancid and cruel joke from one of his brothers?

"T-this better not be a joke from the others, or I will not take it..."

But then...

"Mammon..."

Mammon's eyes snapped opened and he whirled iimediately to the sound of the familiar voice. "M-M-MC..." he choked on his spit and sniffled. "I-Is this really you...?"

Their hands cupped his cheek and immediately that red mark vanished. They were an angel now, and they had the healing ability.

"Of course, Mammon, it is I, MC, who promised you that would come back to you."

Mammon cried and sobbed in his arms as he held them so tightly, as fearing they would vanish if he let them go, he didn't want to let them go. "O-oh... oh M-Mc, I'm so sorry... I'm really so sorry.... I hurt you to death and... and.."

"Shhh. I have forgotten your sin against me, Mammon, Avatar of Greed, there's no need to keep dwelling in your guilt. All has been forgiven." They spoke with such tenderness, that only broke the repentant demon in their arms more. He really didn't believe that he deserved them once again with him, he was the reason for their death, why would them come again and forgive him when all he was was a good-for-nothing loser that didn't think before acting. Yet, here they were, so forgiving to him and holding him as if nothing had happened before.

"But MC, I killed you... how can you come back to me when I have done such terrible thing." Mammon sobbed a lot more in their arms.

"Because, I have chosen to forget about my previous life, and come back to love you as you deserve, your constant crying in the nights showed how much you regretted doing what you did, you have earned this second chance yourself, my dearest demon." They pet his disheveled white hair which was messy from all the falls he'd had when running away from HoL.

"Oh, MC....!" Mammon felt happy again in weeks, feeling the joy from a long time ago without tragedy happened. For sure he won't let himself kill MC in ablind rage again, he would accept his second chance, show them that he can change and live for the better. "I love you, my angel."

"As I love you. Now let's go back hime and show the others I'm back. " Angel MC suggested they did that, seeing how they had been acting toward Mammon during the past few weeks. Mammon sniffled and looked down.

"They hate me, MC. They really do, they can't see me in a painting.."

"I'll change that, now come with me."

Back home the brothers were about to have lunch, when Mammon came back and took a deep breathe. "All of you."

But they didn't even pay attention to him and continued doing what they were doing.

MC then walked in and cleared their throat, to get their attention.

"You."

Lucifer blinked and looked up, his eyes widening at what he saw. "MC? But how...?"

"MC?! MC is that you, really you?!" Levi gasped, how was this even possible?

"MC!" Satan was just as flabbergasted as his other brothers. MC, who died by Mammon's hand was back.

"Oh, dear, you're back to me!" Asmo chimed in, because he had been very woeful over the loss of that sweet human, that he could tell was an angel now.

"MC..." Beel looked on, munching on some snack as usual he was.

"Yes, I am back. And I'm not happy with how you all have treated Mammon, can't you see that he's your brother?" MC said, crossing their arms over their chest.

"He killed you!" Satan snarled, protesting. "He's your murderer and yet, you forgive him?" he said increadulous.

"I can't believe, that you can forgive him after all that!" Levi argued back, not understanding that idea as well.

"You seriously forgave your murderer just like that?" Lucifer didn't understand what he was hearing at all. In other words he was baffled with MC being defensive of Mammon.

"Flower, can't you see that murderers cannot be forgiven?" Asmo also joined in the confusion train.

"Munch. munch, munch, that's been just too pure to even regard dying by a demon's cold hand!" Beel exclaimed, he didn't understand why they could forgive their murderer.

"I chose to forgive him by my own will, and I'm back, that's what's more important than you treating your brother like crap, if you want to become closer, you cannot treat MAMMON THAT WAY. hE'S VERY SORRY AND IT'S ENOUGH FOR ME TO KNOW THAT HE REALLY DID REGRET FULL TIME WHAT HE DID, i AM NOT ABOUT TO HOLD A GRUDEGE TO HIM." They said all those words and made emphasis to them.

The other brothers looked at one another and then at Mammon, who still was sniffling and tearing up. Slowly, they began feeling empathy, that they lacked.

"Mammon..." first was Lucifer . "I know I have been quite harsh, but I was mad for what you did, but I can really see too, that you regretted all that, MC wouldn't have come here if you hadn't. Welcome to the family, again." He said that most to Mammon's shocok, but quickly subsided to joy.

"Yes, bro. I'm sorry for treating you how I did. Brothers?" Levi not being good with apologies, had it hard but he managed to come up with a sincere apology.

"No more ignoring from my part, even if what you did was just the awful of things you could've done, but MC forgives you, so do I." Satan stopped showing his mormal angry face, he meant what he said about forgiving his brother.

"Brother dear, I can forget like cute MC has forgotten, no need for me to keep pushing you away, welcome back, to us." Asmo returned to speaking to his sweet-spoken tone, no longer angry with Mammon.

"Yes, Mammon, you're my big brother again." Beel said that in a truly honest tone of voice, swallowing what he had in his mouth.

"Welcome back, Mammon!"

Mammon was surprised by a glomp that all younger brothers gave him, and much to his utter shock, Lucifer put his arms around him too, everyone was hugging in a group hug.

"Yes, welcome back, to the family." That was Lucifer's confirmation.

"Guys, I promise I won't ruin my ties with you again, thanks for accepting me back on." Mammon hugged everyone and smiled, feeling welcomed in his family once again.

MC smiled softly at the brothers getting along again and took them a secret picture while they all were hugging, this moment was just a moment to remember.

#obey me imagines #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mc #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 1)

(Gif credit to @kikuthestrange)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: As usual, mentions and descriptions of blood, death, torture, injury and people being burnt alive. Mentions or allusions to rape. If there’s anything else I didn’t mention, please let me know. Fair warning that the Reader Character may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but please give her a chance.

A/N: Um, idk. Hope you like this, and again, really sorry if this is OOC. That is one hell of an insecurity I have when I start writing for new characters, but I really hope I’m not messing Ivar or any of the others up.

You are focused on the blending of some herbs to help the pain of some of the warriors, when a round metal shield is dropped at your feet. You raise your eyes from the snake engraved on the old metal to the Saxon, giving away nothing except a small twitch of your mouth.

But you know what that symbol is. It is a mark of the Attics.

“Most of the Greeks are dead,” He states, certainly, viciously. Your eyes fall closed, and you heave a sigh. “And I will personally see that the survivors are hunted down.”

You knew this was going to happen. The Varangians cornered Stithulf into the confine of these walls and yet last night he sent a hunting party, the best of the best within his Arab mercenaries.

You knew he wasn’t going to try and kill Ivar the Boneless or his brothers. No, he was going to take revenge on the people he deemed failed him, the people he deemed owed him a victory.

And it makes the whole ground cave under your feet, the realization that it is done. That the last of the Attics lie bloodied on the unforgiving earth. That their faith in you, their love for you, was their downfall.

Just like Narses’.

“I always knew you Christians were just as bloody and cruel as the worst of us,” You say instead, looking down at the shield again and picking it up with trembling hands, “You slaughtered hundreds of innocents.”

“If you had fought for us…” He starts, but you interrupt him with a glare. Some things don’t change even if you get far from home: all it takes to stop an army, to make a man like Stithulf hesitate, is a heathen witch.

If only their God hadn’t taught him to fear yours, the world would be so different.

“We’d all rather be dead than slaves to a Christian.” You hiss out, curling your fingers over the cold and bloodied metal. And you mean more than this battle, this war not your own that regardless you lost; no, you mean Byzantium, and the home you left behind.

“You could have avoided all of this, Greek.” He insists, the scar that runs from his neck to his uneven sideburn stretching around the smile he offers.

For a moment you imagine letting your hand run a knife deeply through that scar, open it again and see it pour red and victorious blood. Trace with a knife over every scar, so that he only remembers the torment you brought him.

No, that’s wrong. Trying to hide the grimace at your own thoughts, you shake off the shame and stand up. Holding on tightly to the shield, you feel you carry the weight of thousands of Greeks on your hand.

And because you were taught speaking things helped make them real, you promise, “Our Gods live on, and the worship of them is not something blades and blood can smother. Quieten, yes, but never silence.”

“You will die for your pagan ways, you know this, don’t you?” He asks, stopping you for a moment at the…honesty in his voice.

“I do not fear death,” You answer, and when you walk past an open window that looks over the foreign and cold horizon you add, quiet enough that only the Gods may hear you, “I welcome it. Let Hades summon me home.”

“I have reached an agreement with the Vikings,” Stithulf calls out, voice loud and echoing in the halls. You grip the shield tighter. “There will be…negotiations tomorrow.”

Your mouth smiles and your tongue runs with dangerous words before you can stop yourself, “You will sit and talk with the same men you scoured the world trying to kill?”

“I know when I am defeated, Greek. Something you lack.”

You say nothing else, the defeat finally setting over your shoulders and all you can do to keep appearances is to keep walking and pretend the tears are not clogging your view as you walk past unfamiliar halls, on unfamiliar grounds, with the weight of unfamiliar and familiar ghosts over your head.

Spending the rest of the day, almost till the sun sets, taking care of some wounds and fevers, you can almost pretend to yourself that the life you give here, the damage you heal here; can start to make up for all the death you and your mistakes have caused.

You raise your head from your work on the stitching when strange rhythmic sounds reach your ears.

Metal on wood. Dragging sounds. Metal on wood again. Something dragged again.

The door to the barren and almost empty home you are using as a makeshift infirmary opens, and the silhouette of Ivar the Boneless stands on the doorway.

Your heart pounds in your ears, and the warrior with his injured skin under your fingers hisses a breath when your needle pierces deeper than intended into his skin. You mumble an apology in Greek, but keep your eyes on the King.

“You don’t need healing.” You quip quietly in his language, rising to your feet and motioning for the Greek you were helping to remain in his seat.

To be honest, you don’t know why you stand up, why you straighten your back and raise your chin. You can pretend to be as tall as you wish, as strong as you wish, but everyone in this room knows if the Varangian wants you dead you will be so.

“I wanted to talk to you.” The Viking offers, forced nonchalance as he approaches. His legs don’t seem to work normally, and the contraptions around them are like you never saw before. The healer in you notes they look…painful.

He gets close enough you can see his handsome face clearly in the candlelight, but far enough you don’t feel threatened. The King remains standing, straight and proud, by one of the wooden pillars.

His pale eyes, you note in the now clear view the candles provide you, switch to the warrior sitting a few feet behind and then return to you. You resist the urge to play with your fingers.

“Why?” You ask, retrieving with trembling hands one of the linens you will use as bandages for the wound on the Greek warrior’s back.

“I’m…curious.”

“So am I,” You reply, rolling the needle you use for the stitches between your thumb and forefinger as you study the man. “It is not every day that I find myself meeting with a Viking King.”

“So you know who I am.” He states, and you cannot know if he is disappointed, proud, or a mix of the two.

“Of course I do,” You answer without hesitation, “And I also know it is not me who you are supposed to be meeting.”

“I wanted to talk with you, witch.” He insists again, reminding you of a spoiled child, but also showing you that, either for the foreignness or something entirely him, the Varangian is uncertain on how to talk to you.

It almost makes a smile curve at your lips, and your impulsive heart wants you to send the warrior off and talk with this strange man, this…Ivar the Boneless.

“I…am busy,” You answer instead, returning to your stitching. If your hand trembles a little and you cause a little more pain than you intended as you finish up the last of the stitches, no one can blame you. “I must tend to the wounded, Varangian.”

“A smart woman would know better than to deny me.”

“I never claimed to be smart.”

“Are you always this insufferable, woman?” He snaps, anger rises in his voice, making the warrior you are standing behind tense under your fingers as they wrap a bandage over his back and ribs to keep the wound from infection.

But you, past the fear, feel a small smile start to curve at your lips when you find the pale eyes of the Varangian King.

“I try.” You reply with a shrug, but a growl is the only answer you get.

You watch with wide eyes as the Viking unsheathes a small knife from somewhere in his chest and, instead of throwing it like you would expect, he flips it so that he grabs onto the blade instead of the handle.

His fist clenches around it, eliciting a sharp breath from the King and blood that drips between his fingers.

“There,” He grunts, opening his hand and letting the knife clatter unceremoniously to the wooden floor. He returns his piercing pale eyes to you and his mouth almost bares in a snarl, his nose furrows in cold anger, as he speaks, “Now you have to tend to me.”

So the rumors were true, he is actually crazy. Although you doubt a man that can topple Aelle, that can conquer York, is crazy.

No, he is clever. If maybe too angry and arrogant, he is still cunning. That thought alone reminds you to keep your guard up.

A part of your mind begs you to be sensible about this, not to do anything stupid, but you finish wrapping the wound on the warriors back with skilled fingers, and tap his shoulder so that he stands. Ivar the Boneless keeps his eyes on you, defiantly and terrifyingly, as he watches you move. You turn your attention to the Greek and nod as goodbye, “Go, I will be fine.”

The man looks between the Varangian and you, before putting his right fist to his heart, his left arm bent behind him in a goodbye and a sign of respect to you.

“Anassa.” He mutters in farewell, and you watch him go wondering how many days will it take for him to also die because of your mistakes.

And as the door closes behind the Greek, you notice truly how engulfing the darkness and the defenselessness are. The city moves on around you, but all that reaches the small cabin you are in is the faint sounds of a stray horse or farm animal. The Saxons wouldn’t want the heathen witch to be near their soldiers, after all, even in a city that was never theirs with barely any civilians on it.

All that means you are all alone and defenseless, with a Viking known for his cruel and vicious ways. Gritting your teeth and fighting to keep your heartbeat from drumming away in your ears, you turn back to the Varangian and motion for a chair near you.

He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t, because no one in this cursed land listens to a damn word you say.

His hand still drips red to the wooden floor, and you pointedly look at it where it rests on his side and back to his face. The King only cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed.

“You speak many tongues,” The Varangian states, not even a question, “Our language, the Saxons’, but I don’t recognize the other one.”

“Greek,” You reply, “I am not from here.”

“I noticed.”

With a shrug, you state, “Probably why you haven’t killed me yet, isn’t it?”

But the Viking doesn’t answer. Instead, he limps towards you, but where there should be -to a sane woman, maybe- a threat, a danger, you only find your heart beating with the same fast pace it did when you were about to cross a dangerous and wild stream by Eleusis’ forests. A hint of fear, a hint of curiosity, and much more than a hint of freedom.

The rage of the stream deafened you, uncertainty beat quickly on your chest…but your bare feet still continued running towards the water.

You keep your eyes on his.

“You are…outspoken, witch. Are all Greeks like you?”

“You should lower your eyes when men are speaking.” He advises with more than a little anger in his tone.

You hear faintly of Sieghild’s mocking scoff, and you stand up from your chair and stalk to Narses in a few strides, keeping your eyes on him. A sick part of you is trying to test him, to dare him into laying hands on you to shut you up.

The lies would come easier if he did.

“I cower before no man, my love.” The endearment drips with poison, and the twitch in his expression tells you he is aware of it.

There’s rustling of armor, and out of the corner of your eye you catch sight of Lysander straightening to his full height, the mantle of the soon-to-be Anax of Sparta set well over his shoulders as he walks calmly towards you.

For a moment of distrust and panic, you think he will take the side that wants to silence you, but your cousin stands next to you, although slightly behind, offering you his support. His hand is comforting on your shoulder.

“You may do things differently in Attica, but in Laconia our women are not slaves,” Lysander promises, voice dripping authority and more than a slight threat, “Descendant of Theseus, aren’t you?” He breathes out a chuckle, “You will have to venture into the Underworld like your ancestor to make a woman of Spartan blood cave.”

You breathe out a laugh, “No.”

“So you are not afraid of me.”

You look into his pale eyes and wonder for a moment. What is there to fear? It is true his fame precedes him, even if you choose to ignore his name, his truth. Rumors of madness, ruthlessness, unpredictability, rage, cruelty; they all are kept safely in your mind, to torment you faintly with exactly the kind of beast you try to dance with.

But you remember the time that mad man in the flimsy boat offered to take you to cross the Aegean, and how the threat of pain and death and cold all hung over you like shadows; and yet the curiosity of what lay in the realm of what if made you still get on that feeble boat. You have a feeling it is the same kind of stubborn and reckless curiosity that makes you offer the King a small smile.

“I learned long ago not to fear any man, Varangian.” You answer, motioning with your hand to his injured one, hoping for response this time.

The Viking’s eyes are defying as they challenge yours, but you refuse to lower your gaze. He sits by you on one of the chairs, movements graceful and confident as he discards the crutch he uses to walk by the table.

After a breath, he offers you his injured hand.

You don’t hesitate, even if a part of you tells you that you should, and take a seat at his side, working instinctively as you start wetting a clean cloth in some water infused with honeysuckle and goldenseal.

Taking his hand and opening the rough fingers to your sight and touch, you clean off the blood and hope silently that you are not the one responsible for Ivar the Boneless getting an infection for a stupid wound on his hand.

“Why are you and your people here, if you are from the Mediterranean?” He asks suddenly, but it doesn’t startle you like it should.

With a deep breath and keeping your eyes on your work, you offer, “The obvious answer would be attacking your city, my King.”

“And retreating.” He points out lowly, not biting into your taunt.

Lifting your eyes to his, you search his pale gaze for a few moments. You offer him sincerity in exchange for his calm, “The Christians were going to surrender, we knew this the moment your army arrived. We had no interest in this war of yours.”

“Then why fight in it?”

“Obvious answer, my King?” You ask around a smirk, and the man’s eyes darken as he leans closer. A finger underneath your chin threatens you as much as a sharp blade could, and you swallow past a dry throat.

“Careful.” He cautions, and his lips curve around a smile as dangerous and poisonous as it is enthralling and tempting.

“Our commander agreed we aided the Saxons in exchange for their army’s help in our homeland. With my-…with the commander dead the Greeks were called to retreat.”

“But not you,” He points out, still uncomfortably close. “You didn’t retreat.”

You wish you had an answer to his unspoken question. But you don’t. You could have run with Galla and the others, you could have forged your own path with Sieghild away from battle, the Gods know you have done so before.

You could have, but still you fell back to the Saxon city as if survival was to be achieved only by acceptance of defeat.

“A lady ought to have her secrets, I’m afraid.” You answer instead, lowering your eyes back to your work. Although you can sense the young Viking wants to demand more, because of course he does, he remains silent.

______

Hi, thank you for reading! I really hope you are liking this so far, and that it isn’t boring lol

Again, thank you so much, and I’d love to hear from you!

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings imagine #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist #νοσταλγία

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ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa · 4 years

Text

Footprints in the Sand

Part 1: Snakes Cannot Fly

Summary/Author's Note: II started this back in February of 2020. I’m reformatting and bringing it back because this fic is my baby and still going strong. (Well I did it. I was consumed by enough feelings, heartache, and idea bouncing (off the amazing @zeldasayer ) that I said fuck it and did it. This is the first fic I have posted since 2014 according to AO3. As promised here is the start of my shamefully self-indulgent Oberyn x Ellaria x Lannister!Reader. Let me know what you think but do be gentle.)

Pairing: Oberyn x Ellaria x Lannister!Reader Warnings: Mild public sex acts. Aka: ya girl Ellaria is handsy AF. Word Count: 2k

Oberyn Martell hated everyone whose last name was Lannister. Well, almost everyone.

The Dornish prince missed his sands. He missed its warmth on his bare feet as he walked along the beaches behind the palace. He missed the way it slipped through his fingers and fell back to the ground with unity and poise. He missed the way the sand cradled the body of his lovers as he kissed them to the sound of crashing waves and echoing seagulls. Sand was warm, forgiving, changing shape to fit its needs--stone was not. Namely, the stones of King's Landing.

Kings Landing was just as cold and unforgiving as the rocks it was built upon. It smelled of horse shit and rotting food, for nothing was grown, it was all brought in on horseback in barrels--stale before it ever reached the lips of the city's people. That was no way to live, Oberyn thought. He mourned for what they did not know, the things that they would never see or experience. In the eyes of the prince, a boring, conventional life, well, that was no life at all.

He watched the table at the head of the feast, full of the people he hated. He memorized their names, had his men keep a close eye on them and made sure he knew them all just by looking at the back of their heads--which was hard, considering most of them were the same shade of blonde. He seemed to notice a pattern, the lighter the hair, the more vile the Lannister. Perhaps that's why she seemed different.

He was staring, he knew that, but he couldn't stop. He lifted his goblet and took a rather large sip of wine. He took a piece of fruit from the plate in front of him to make it look like he was busy eating, but his eyes never left her. Her soft curls fell down her back, ending at her waist. She was quietly eating. To the untrained eye, she looked meek and unimportant but no, that was a lie. He watched as your eyes carefully looked between the rest of the people at the table, taking note of their gossip. No, you were neither meek nor unimportant, he could see through your facade.

A loud clunk sounded against the table below his face and it caused him to jolt upright. He looked down as an empty wooden bowl had been placed in front of him and up to the woman who put it there. "What is this?" He gestured to it, looking into the beautiful face of Ellaria Sand.

"A bowl," she said, lifting her skirts slightly so she could take her seat next to Oberyn at the table.

"For?" He cocked a dark eyebrow at her.

"The drool coming off your chin," she nodded towards you at the Lannister table and then put her hand against the Prince's face. She gently rubbed the pad of her thumb over his lower lip as if wiping away metaphorical spittle. Her smirk gave her words an added sense of humor and he jerked his head to the side, out of her hand.

"You mock me," he said flatly as she leaned into him and snaked her hand through the crook of his arm.

"Come now, Oberyn. Would I do such a thing?" She took his cup of wine and began to drink it for herself.

"Yes." He said simply. "Daily."

Ellaria laughed, a sound that was rich and warm like a calliope playing in a village square. It made his chest tight and a small smile broke his stoic act. He inhaled deeply as she put her head on his shoulder. The smell of spice, of cinnamon and oranges filled his nostrils as he nosed her hair. She smelled like home, courtesy of the Dornish soaps she had been sure to pack.

"What do you like about her?" Ellaria asked as she slipped her hand down Oberyn's chest, playing her fingers on the edge of his open tunic.

Oberyn took a deep breath and thought for a moment. "She is exquisite. In both beauty and mind. Notice how she watches the lips of the people she cannot hear. She knows people will dismiss her, be it for position or because she is a woman, so she uses it. Lying in wait until whatever she learns can be made an advantage."

"And what do you know about patience and lying in wait?" Ellaria said as she continued to move her hand down his body.

"Just because I do not practice such behavior doesn't mean I do not know of its existence." He chuckled deeply and glanced at the woman on his arm.

"Of course, my prince," she nodded with a smile of her own, saying she was well aware of his behaviors. She raised her hand and put it firmly on his chin, making him look back at you. "What else do you like about her?"

"She is beautiful." He said as she released his jaw and moved her hand to his thigh.

"Mmm, what else?"

"Her hair falls in waves, like the sea. I want to run my fingers through it." He raised his hand and wiggled his fingers in slow motion through the air.

"It sure is long enough to grab," Ellaria commented. "What else, my love?"

"Her skin looks soft. I wish it to be warmed by our suns back home, kissed by the seas of Dorne. Such skin does not belong in a place like this."

"That's why it looks so sad." Ellaria said simply, moving her hand to the inside of his thigh, messaging his flesh gently through his clothes.

Oberyn grunted at the touch and adjusted himself in his chair. "She has kind eyes."

"Uncommon for a Lannister."

"Very," Oberyn agreed. "And no longer dancing around the obvious, her breasts are large enough to fill my hands, and supple enough to make me want to feel them between my teeth."

"Ahh, there it is." Ellaria hummed in approval, moving her hand up to cup his crotch. The act drew another sound from the back of his throat.

"Ellaria," he started but she shushed him.

"Tell me, my Prince," she said as she squeezed gently, feeling the outline of his cock start to harden. "Why is it that you always want what you cannot have?"

"And who says I cannot have her?" He looked at his love in question. But his tone could not fool her. His words were laced with demand. Oberyn was a decisive man, and when he decided he wanted something, he was rarely told no.

"The lion sewn onto her red dress. That's who." Ellaria softened her grip but continued to rub the front of his breeches, more of a calming stroke than before.

"I do not take orders from dresses." Oberyn said stubbornly.

He looked at Ellaria but she was no longer looking at him. Her eyes were upon you, her breath quickened slightly as you brushed your hair away from your neck and closed your eyes to savor the wine in your hand. She watched your throat constrict as you swallowed and Ellaria's lips parted with longing. She wanted you, too. The thought brought a wide smile to Oberyn's lips, and further hardened his cock.

He reached down and grabbed Ellaria's wrist, removing it from himself and looked into her deep, dark eyes.

"Do you want that lioness, my love?" He asked in a hushed tone.

"I wouldn't turn her from our bed," Ellaria gave him a stern look. "But, Oberyn--"

"Then it's done." He nodded and brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles as if the action sealed the agreement.

Ellaria scoffed and pulled her hand back only to cross her arms over her chest and look back across the courtyard at you. "Arrogant, stupid man," she shook her head and he stopped her.

"Are you jealous?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Me? No," she shook her head again. "You know me better than that." He smiled at her words but stayed quiet. "You're my lover," she turned to look at him once again. "Not my prisoner."

She stood up, draining her goblet before picking up his as well with the intent on finding something to refill them. She paused, looking at you one more time before leaning down to whisper in his ear, "But I fear a conquest such as that will bring nothing but heartache. How does the tale go? Fly too close to the sun, Icarus, and you're bound to get burned."

"Good thing snakes can't fly," he mumbled, popping another grape into his mouth as he watched you with dark, hooded eyes.

Ellaria rolled her eyes and left the Prince to his thoughts. She knew he had already started planning long before now.

[Next Chapter]

#oberyn x reader #oberyn martell #oberyn x ellaria #game of thrones #oberyn x ellaria x reader #Ellaria sand #pedro pascal #oberyn martell x reader #footprints in the sand #pedro character fic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #indira varma

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snapeysister · 3 years

Text

Vulnera Sanentur

New one-shot consisting of 5 different time episodes about Severus Snape’s signature healing spell. My headcanon is that the spell had been passed down to him by mother Eileen and not having been used before by any other wizard except those from the Prince family. // This and other one-shots can be found on my newly opened AO3 account https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hayalee8 <3

_______________

"Watcha sayin', mummy?"

His voice sounded feeble, dropping with exhaustion. Just a short while ago, his shrieks of pain and terror had been filling the room; now, however, a soothing dizziness took over, his mother's quiet singing voice lulling him into sleep.

"Be silent, darling, it's almost over. Just a wee bit and I'll be done. Don't move yet."

Gentle fingers continued tracing along his naked back, and he obediently held still, and yet wanted an answer to his question.

"But watcha sayin'?.."

His mother sang a few last tunes, voice trailing off, the words turning almost into a whisper. Her movements stopped and she rose from his bed which she had been sitting upon for the last minutes.

"Something good, something very good, Sevvie. It's a song which makes your back feel alright again. It's not hurting anymore, is it?"

"Nah, it isn't, mummy."

"I'm happy, darling. Now let's make sure you're going to sleep well, shall we?"

He wanted to protest, as he always did, he never wanted to sleep, he hated being left alone and the nightmares only increased the fear; but his lids did not obey him anymore.

"I see you won't need a calming draught this time", he heard his mother chuckle quietly, "good night then."

He felt being tucked in and a light kiss on his forehead, yet was too tired to even smile back as he usually did, as his mind traveled off into the land of dreams.

***

"Please, please come! She's going to die, you have to heal her!

"I can't."

"Please, she will die!! You know how to do it, you always know!"

"I said I can't, Severus."

"But why!? Just come and sing that song, you've just been doing it on my arm when father hit me yesterday, why can't you now?!"

"Just let it go."

"No!! I won't! If you don't want to, I'll do it myself! Tell me the spell!"

"It won't work."

"Because I don't know how to, but you do, mum! Help me save her!!"

"Be quiet, Severus."

"I won't! That's evil! She doesn't deserve to die!"

"I said be quiet!"

"You are just as evil as him!"

"Shut up, will you!? Is it my fault that your retarded father had to kill this sodding cat?! The spell doesn't work on animals! Besides, he cut her throat; she must have bled to death already."

"I don't believe you!!"

"Leave me alone, now!!"

***

Severus riffled through the drawers in desperate urgency. Nothing. The bookshelf didn't have anything to offer either. The floor was littered with papers and pencils and books and whatever else he had thrown around in his frantic search. He hadn't still mastered the spell well enough to be able to follow the exact sequence of melody and words, but his notes could help him out, they most definitely would, he had no doubt in his abilities, he just needed to find those notes. The ones he had scribbled down after having listened carefully to his mother performing it on his body, following yet another broken bottle having been thrown in his direction, slicing up his skin. He didn't want to ask his mother as she would inquire in turn what he would need it for, or even worse, for whom... Severus had no intention whatsoever to elaborate on who he had been sharing his magic with the past weeks. Never were they to know who he was meeting with during those lazy afternoons filled with absolutely nothing but him sitting behind the bushes, staring at the road behind them and waiting for the tiny figure with the long, wavy red hair to approach the playground and whistle three times. Then he could leave his hiding place and allow himself to smile and be him, actually enjoying his existence, for the next few hours, until the darkness fell and they both had to leave, each one to what they were able to call home.

Severus threw himself on the bed. The notebook was nowhere to be found. And yet he had promised it to her. That he would help her get rid of the ugly red scar on her leg, the result of the recent tryouts of their magical abilities. How he hated himself for that stupid idea of his. What was he thinking, attempting to cut that bloody orange with her sitting right next to it? To be honest, neither of them had deemed it possible to actually make something happen just by staring at it and doing imaginary cutting movements with the fruit knife. When she had tried it, nothing at all happened, whereas him... Of course it was Lily who had kept her nerves and swallowed the pain and the tears and promised she wouldn't tell anyone how the knife ended up slashing her leg instead of the orange. And that she didn't believe he did it on purpose, like when the branch had fallen on Petunia back then, before she got to know who he really was. Severus, devastated as he was about his lack of damage control, and astonished by her bravery, gave his most sincere and heartfelt promise to find a way to make it disappear. So Lily could attend her first day at Hogwarts without this disgraceful injury, the screaming proof of him having failed her in both his abilities and their rightful application.

Their first day was due tomorrow. Lily was waiting at the playground for him to arrive and fulfill his promise before the sun would set and she had to go home and prepare for her big day. And here he was, in his bloody room, all his efforts in vain, the notebook gone and so the healing spell.

Severus sighed deeply. Never before had he dared taking anything of his mother's, neither ingredients which she kept in a box in the storage room, nor vials or lotions she used to store in an empty cupboard in the attic. But drastic times called for drastic measures. He had to make up for the spell somehow, and if he remembered correctly, dittany was another way of healing scars. Luckily for him, his mother was at work. Severus quickly climbed the ladder to the attic. He had no time to lose. Thankfully enough his mother knew how to keep things in order. Every vial and bottle were meticulously labeled. He grabbed the bottle with "Dittany" written on it and stormed down the ladder and out of the house. He would take care of the chaos in his room later and if his father arrived before him to see it and punish him for this, so be it. Perhaps he'd get another chance then to listen to his mother singing the spell and would write it into another notebook. Right now, Lily was what mattered most.

***

"He must have it written somewhere!"

"We've searched through all of his stuff so far, there is nothing here!"

"Who told you he really knows how to do it?! Perhaps it's just a rumour!"

"A rumour? Are you daft?! I saw him perform it with my own eyes, on Evans! They were practicing with their brooms and she flew into the Whomping Willow by accident and had her face and arms cut badly. Snape rushed to her and began moving his wand up and down the cuts and do some singing, so by the time the patrol arrived the cuts had disappeared and she was walking on her feet with him leading her up to the castle."

"You are the daft one, Prongs; isn't it clear then that he must know it by heart??"

"It still has to be written somewhere. He could've hardly made it up on his own, could he?"

"Yeah, rather not; it's Dark magic the git is into, not healing spells. He must have found it in the library and written it down."

"What for then?"

"To impress Evans? He fancies her no less than you, Prongs, and that's the sort of thing she'd appreciate, mind you, so he can cover up for all his Dark stuff."

"Oh shut up and search, Padfood, the class will be over soon and we've got to get out of here before everyone comes back!"

"What if we don't find anything?"

"We cannot let anyone know it was Moony who scratched the boy. If there won't be another option, we'll drag him personally to the hospital wing to make the cut disappear."

***

This was not the enemy he had invented it for. This was not the spell he would have expected to make its way into the halls of Hogwarts, of all places. And even though it was by far not the first time he had to resort to Vulnera Sanentur to heal cursed injuries of students or colleagues or Death Eaters, he would have never thought it to be possible that he had to use it to undo the damage caused by his very own curse, casted by Lily's son, of all people.

Of course he believed Potter. He could have never known what force the curse carried. If Potter knew, he certainly wouldn't have applied it. As much as Severus felt repulsed by the boy, he knew that Potter was as far from Dark magic as the Dark Lord from valuing mercifulness, or love. He contemplated if a simple detention had been enough an appropriate punishment to bestow upon Potter. If he should have made him to return the book, which Potter undoubtedly had laid his hands upon, regardless of the lies the boy had told him. His apparent leniency for the infliction of such a powerful curse by a student on another was obvious, and it worried Severus. Sectumsempra had by far not been the only dangerous spell he had written down in his book. On the other hand, he reasoned, as easily impressible as Potter was, the messy result he had created would probably serve as a deterrent, powerful enough to keep him from attempting another tryout with any of Severus's spells. At least not without the knowledge of their counter-curses, first and foremost Vulnera Sanentur, which Potter had not the slightest possibility of mastering.

Vulnera Sanentur. Such tremendous power in only two words, reversing unforgivable, unfathomable harm, healing what would've never been expected to heal. A song of life, the melody of which he had inherited from his mother to be able to put a stopper in pain and destruction and death. This time it had saved the soul of his godson and his former enemy's son alike, the one from being killed, the other from becoming a murderer.

Where would he meet it again, waiting for him to be evoked to secure the survival of another miserable being? How would that fateful crossroads look like, where would the paths it offered lead to? There was one thing he knew with dreadful certainty - it would not be destined to save the Headmaster's life. And the more he thought about it, the more he felt his other conclusion to be affirmed - neither would it save his.

Severus sighed, feeling a wave of exhaustion overpowering his senses. Before he closed his eyes to gain a few hours of sleep which were left for him until the break of dawn, a peculiar thought crossed his mind, perhaps for the first time in his life: If his mother had mastered the healing spell for a human body and taught it to him, wouldn't it have been assumable she had knowledge of a spell to relieve the pain of a human mind as well? And if she had, would there have been a reason not pass it down to him? If only...

His mind drifted off, and so did the thought.

#severus snape #vulnera sanentur #one-shot #finally writing #fanfiction #young snape #marauders #eileen prince

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first-and-last-neocount · 3 years

Text

Whumptober Day 5

Aaaand here we are, second offering in the Escape!AU, though this is... third I think?... if we’re going by internal chronology of what I’ve got so far. I’m not even going to try to track that as we go, though, because of the whole still-adding-more-as-I-go-along thing. I’ll figure that shit out when the AO3 post gets made, lol.

Have some EVEN MORE FEELINGS realization, friends! And also some sad, because y’know, Whumptober.

With the rest of Damien’s family being pagan, I also had this headcanon that his relationship with them was pretty well trashed after he joined the Church, and that the Matriarch of Ganji had kind of... honorarily adopted him, and that they were still super close, and that’s why she backed him so firmly against the Patriarch’s bullshit. Having that headcanon, though, made me wonder - what must she have thought, when she heard about certain developmens?

Day 5 - Theme Chosen: Betrayal

Damien eyed the pile of letters with some trepidation. He had only meant to grab a few belongings from his rented room in Jaggonath before abandoning it permanently – the world needed to believe that he and Gerald had perished at Mount Shaitan, so he couldn't exactly tell the landlord that he wasn't coming back, but he'd wanted to pick up a few of the items he'd brought with him across the Dividers before he and Gerald left the city for good. He hadn't expected a pile of letters to be laying on the front hall rug, having clearly accumulated during the journey to Shaitan and back.

Gerald was currently at Alesha Huyding's house, convincing the woman to let them take the rest of Senzei's journals on the Iezu for their own project. They were supposed to meet at Karril's temple in less than an hour; Damien definitely didn't have time to read these all. He scooped the pile off the floor and started flipping through them quickly, discarding the majority of them at a glance. Most of them were notes from his fellow clergy members at the Jaggonath Cathedral, wondering where he'd disappeared to; there were a few unpaid bills from local merchants, and one heavy linen envelope with a golden seal that he knew must be his official notice of excommunication. The sight of it made his chest ache, but it was nothing compared to the shock that ran through him at the last letter.

The envelope from the very bottom of the stack was also fine quality, though it lacked the ostentatious gold seal, instead being tied shut with a red ribbon. Even at a glance, though, Damien recognized the delicate hand that had traced out the address of the Jaggonath Cathedral – it seemed the letter had gone there first, and been redirected to his temporary apartment when the messenger learned that Damien was no longer employed by the Church.

The letter was from the Matriarch of the Cathedral in Ganji-on-the-Cliffs.

Guilt pooled in his chest like icy water, and Damien cursed softly. Stuffing the two Church envelopes in his jacket pocket, he left the rest of the letters on the kitchen table and went to gather what he'd come for in the first place. There would be time enough later to deal with the two he'd kept; neither of them, he suspected, were going to be an easy read.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He ended up putting off looking at the letters for a few days. Between gathering everything they would need to get them to another city, and tying up any loose ends they'd left behind, he actually managed to more or less forget about the envelopes tucked away in his pocket. Gerald had decided that their best bet was to head back northeast, retracing their steps yet again to get some distance from Jaggonath now that they had what they needed from the city; Damien wasn't any more keen on running into any familiar faces than the adept was, and agreed that it was probably the safest plan. Ensuring that they remained anonymous was enough to keep his mind occupied on the road, and it wasn't until they stopped at a dae three nights later that he remembered.

They'd both had their fill of sleeping on the unforgiving ground as winter crept closer again, and when the dae had come into view, they had agreed with only a glance that they could afford the minor risk of dealing with the residents if it meant getting to sleep in proper beds for a night. Damien negotiated for their rooms while Gerald saw that the horses were stabled comfortably, and they met up in the common room of the dae, at a small table in the corner farthest from the light of the fire. As they sat down, though, Damien made to tuck the room key into his pocket – and his fingers brushed the envelopes still tucked into his jacket.

Either his face had shown his dismay or Gerald had felt it through their link, because the adept turned to look at him immediately, grey eyes narrowed in concern.

“What's wrong?”

“It's nothing urgent, just...” Damien pulled the letters out, feeling dread settle into his gut like a stone. “There were some letters that had been slipped under my apartment door, when I went back to get my things. Most of them weren't important, but I kept these two. I meant to look at them later that day, but – I forgot.”

Gerald's gaze fell on the golden seal of the Cathedral on the top one, and Damien heard his sudden, sharp breath. The former Knight's mouth twisted in a bitter half-smile.

“Yeah, I think we both know what that one is. This one, though...”

He pulled the other envelope out and set it on top, his heart in his throat. Gerald frowned at it, then glanced up at him.

“Who is this one from?”

“The Matriarch. In Ganji,” Damien whispered. “I wrote to her when we were sailing back from the Eastern Continent, telling her everything that had happened. The Master of Lema, what we'd discovered about the rakh, the Undying Prince... you.”

The adept went very still. He was rather like a hunting hawk in that way, a distant part of Damien's mind observed; when they laid eyes on their prey, such birds would freeze, in a manner that could look almost like a prey response itself unless one knew what to look for. In reality, the bird was preparing for the swift, sure, devastating movement of an attack – but the only warning you would get was that unnatural stillness.

“This is her response.” The soft words weren't a question. Damien sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders back in a fruitless attempt to shed some of the tension.

“Yes. And probably more, given that I'm fairly sure the Patriarch wrote to her as well – she likely knows by now that I've been thrown out of the Order, even if she hasn't yet heard about our... tragic demises.” He looked up and forced himself to meet Gerald's gaze steadily, feeling the prickling anticipation through the bond, the chill creeping over his skin. When he spoke, he kept his voice very low, not wanting to speak too loudly even though Gerald had put up a Warding when they sat down that would keep anyone from eavesdropping on them.

“I know you're hungry. Take what you need. This is going to be miserable for me either way.”

Gerald's eyes flashed, but the adept only inclined his head slightly, a silent gratitude. Damien swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat, then reached with shaking hands to untie the ribbon and unfold the letter.

My dear son,

I hope you will forgive my informality. I know that, as the Holy Mother, I ought to have worded this more properly – but at the moment, I care nothing for propriety, so long as I can reach you.

Your letters have given me enough nightmares for a lifetime. This demon that conspires to corrupt our world, Calesta, is all that the Church most dreads; not a passive evil, but an all too active one, darkening the minds of men and swaying them to its nefarious cause. I was horror-struck to learn of the men and women that willingly served it, and what it plans for our world, but those concerns too have paled in comparison to the chill that fell over me when I read what you had written of our fallen Prophet.

Damien. If ever you felt, as I did, that our bond was that of true family – that you were my son in more than the titles that the Church proscribes, that I cared for you as I would have for a child of my flesh – then I beg of you, in the name of that bond... turn aside. I do not need it written out to know that you hope to save Gerald Tarrant, to redeem him from his dark deeds and guide him back into the light of God. I cannot stress enough how much I fear for you if you pursue such a path. There are some choices that a man cannot make without altering who he is forever, and some roads are too dark to retrace one's steps. You cannot save him. God's greatest gift is forgiveness, but a man such as that will not accept it, for to do so he would have to admit that his deeds require forgiveness – to admit that he has become a monster, and repent of what he has done. A man like Gerald Tarrant can never do that.

If you try to save him, I am certain that he will poison you. Slowly, no doubt, and subtly, for to have survived all that he has the Hunter must be a devious creature indeed – but inexorably, and perhaps, irrevocably. I know you, Damien, and your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness; your incredible determination. It has carried you through so much adversity, and it held you to our faith and cause when your family would have dragged you away... but I fear that it will also keep you from recognizing when you are outmatched, and hold you to your resolve to alter his nature, even as his corruption takes hold. If you are focused only on his redemption, you may not see what is happening until it is too late.

Please come home, Damien. I know it goes against everything we preach, but this once, I reach out to you and speak not as the Holy Mother, but simply as a mother. Come home. Let another fight this war; let the Hunter carry this burden alone, if you truly believe he wishes to make amends. We are all of us sworn to give our lives for the Church, but I beg of you, not like this.

Come home.

With all my love and prayers,

Carla

No title. No Holy Mother. Not her regnal name, Aelia II. Just her given name, as a mother might sign a desperate letter to her son.

Damien didn't know when he'd started to cry, but his eyes burned by the time he reached the end; his cheeks were wet, and his chest ached from staying quiet, even as his whole body shook with silent sobs. He dropped the letter on the table and pressed his hands over his face, past caring if his distress was obvious. No one else in the room was going to notice anything with the Obscuring still in place, and it wasn't as if Gerald needed the visual cues to know that he was upset – with the way he felt, in that moment, the grief and guilt had to be flooding out of him like blood from an arterial wound, staining the fae around him black and crimson.

He'd known, since the night he braved Hell itself to bring the Hunter back, that he was turning his back on everything he'd ever cared for. Not merely his faith, intangible as it was, but also his home, his friends, and his family.

Perhaps his parents and brother would not have disowned him for the choices he had made on this quest – but it was years too late for that to matter, after the way they had fallen out when Damien chose to join the Church. The faith of the One God had forced Damien to distance himself from their aggressively pagan lifestyle, and they had seen his choice as a betrayal, a self-righteous attack on their way of life instead of the deeply personal calling Damien had felt it to be. The only thing that had gotten him through that loss and upheaval had been the support of a woman who, at the time, was just another priestess at the Ganji Cathedral. Mother Carla had been his bedrock of support, his sponsor in the seminary and a gentle voice of reassurance whenever Damien felt himself faltering; by the time Damien was Knighted, she had ascended to the Holy Mother's seat as Matriarch Aelia II, and their bond had been unshakable. It had been Carla who recommended Damien for the experimental program teaching young Workers in Jaggonath, who had seen him off with a warm smile and the assertion that she knew he would do well, and that he would return to Ganji-on-the-Cliffs having shaped a whole generation of new minds.

And Damien had betrayed her.

It wasn't what he meant to do, but what did intent matter when measured against the cold facts of the outcome? He had betrayed the faith they held in common by choosing to forgive the Hunter's centuries of crimes; he had betrayed the Church they both served by thwarting Andrys's attempt at vengeance and helping Gerald elude the Crusade; he had betrayed the personal trust she had placed in him by deserting his duty and turning his back on the very principles that he himself had once preached to the Church's young followers. She had sent him east to further the vision of the Church, and instead he had struck it one of the most staggering blows it had suffered in centuries. She had reached out to him in compassion and love, ready to absolve him of every responsibility if he only turned back... but even if the letter had reached him in time, Damien knew in his heart that it still wouldn't have altered his course.

That, surely, was the bitterest betrayal of all – the knowledge that seared through him and left him shaking and cold and sick. That letter hadn't said anything that he hadn't already, on some level, known; he had held all those arguments with himself a thousand times, those long lonely nights on the road to Mount Shaitan. He had recognized the risk that his own stubbornness was blinding him, recognized that his judgement and morals were compromised, recognized that he was nearing the point of no return. Even with all of that, though, when the moment of choice had come – he hadn't even hesitated. He'd seen the murderous rage in Andrys Tarrant's eyes, known that it was the reckoning for all of Gerald's sins, and he'd still stepped in front of the bolt.

He might not have surfaced from that yawning abyss of despair for a long time, if not for the gentle sensation that ran along the link between himself and Gerald. Unlike the assertive, even imperious force that Damien was used to from the Hunter's power, this was softer, almost inquisitive; a coaxing tug, instead of a firm push. He was still too badly shaken to muster any kind of coherent response within his mind, and a moment later, he felt an equally gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Damien.”

With an effort, the former Knight swallowed back the sounds of pain he wouldn't allow himself to make and lifted his head, blinking through tears at his companion. Gerald had shifted his chair and was sitting close by his side now, one hand raised for that steadying grip on his shoulder, and the look on the adept's face took what little breath Damien had regained away; genuine concern, traces of sorrow and guilt – unmistakable compassion, raw and unpractised and honest. A more human expression than the Hunter's face had worn in centuries, one that no one else would even have believed him capable of.

Damien realized, quite suddenly, that his heart was beating so forcefully that it might have been trying to break free of his ribcage.

He heard himself speak, without consciously deciding to do so.

“I wouldn't change it. Even if I knew, if I could go back and do it again, I wouldn't choose any differently.”

Gerald's grip tightened on his shoulder, and for a moment he just held Damien's gaze, silent. Damien could see the thoughts racing behind his quicksilver eyes, and even with the link, he couldn't read them all – but suddenly he knew, with a certainty so firm that it had to be resonating through the link, that someday he would be able to. They'd been operating on the unspoken understanding that Damien would be helping Gerald fulfill his new goal of establishing proper communication with the Mother of the Iezu, and that their work would keep them together for some time yet, but in that moment Damien knew that it was more than that. He hadn't just chosen betrayal for its own sake, in that moment in the Hunter's Keep; he'd chosen Gerald, and that choice was always going to be there, just like the link that hummed between their souls. They were walking the same path now, and wherever it lead, they would be treading it side by side.

Finally, Gerald spoke, his voice soft but ever so steady; the unwavering voice of a man who had stared Death in the face, and made it bow to him.

“I don't know that I can ever find a way to repay you for that... but I swear, on my life, that I will never make you regret it.”

Damien reached up and took the hand that had gripped his shoulder in his own, lacing their fingers together, the Hunter's once-chill hand now almost warm against his own.

“That's good enough for me.”

#whumptober2021 #no.5 #Betrayal #coldfire trilogy #fic #evil is what you make of it #gerald tarrant #damien vryce #the neocount writes

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sonderrow-moved · 3 years

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ROY’S BIO IS FINALLY UP ! It is available on his about page, mobile about or under the cut !

♚ “AND LATER MY MACABRE JOY SOURS AND I’M WEEPING FOR MYSELF, UNABLE TO FIND SOLACE IN ANY OF THIS, CRYING OUT, SOBBING, “I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED,” CURSING THE EARTH AND EVERYTHING I HAVE BEEN TAUGHT: PRINCIPLES, DISTINCTIONS, CHOICES, MORALS, COMPROMISES, KNOWLEDGE, UNITY, PRAYER - ALL OF IT WAS WRONG, WITHOUT ANY FINAL PURPOSE.”

This man has lived too long. A classic concept written, imagined by artists. To comfort them about their mortality, explore the ins and outs of an alien narrative full of ifs. How would this even work ? Even the people with the best memories, to a genius level even, eventually forgets, for the brain can only retain so much. This feeling people gets as they grow older, the biased nostalgia of glorified items they saw through their pure, untainted, still developing eyes and the resentment towards new trends as they cannot see anything without any scum anymore. The yearning not for those movements, but for this soft sensation, of looking, admiring something and think, for a moment, that it’s idealistic form was real.

This sweet, unadulterated notion became only a distant, forgotten memory as time hardened the one known today as Roy. For years. Decades. Centuries. Millenniums.

A man who was born during another civilization, another time, long forgotten with only myths remaining of it. Not even a relic to be talked about, as everything had disintegrated, returned to earth for another life cycle.

♚ “THE PAST ISN’T REAL. IT’S JUST A DREAM,” I SAY. “DON’T MENTION THE PAST.”

Roy was born under another name, one he still remembers, but has long buried away, as it is not his name anymore. No one remembers it. It is not him anymore, as much as he might like to. It is only an appellation to let go of. As humankind developed its technology to a peak, so did their power, as they yielded control over nature people nowadays couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as clear as one making a motion to have the waves, wind and earth respond to it. It was a much more fundamental, rawer sense to it. Where the energy of the world could be used to build even new life.

Always the diligent person who only lived to serve, executing tasks exactly as he was asked to, Roy had been appointed to be the Right Hand of the High Priestess. A young female who had only recently bloomed into womanhood. So perfect in existence, like a bright, pale, white being given to their kind in exchange of their discovery over worldly power. She had embraced her role as a symbol since birth, and he was to accompany her every step of the way as she rose to an official position. To inspire and love. Untouched by anything, for her importance was too great as people shook the world order in their insatiable human curiosity. Nowadays, Roy could have been defined as a bodyguard, yet, in this time, there was no fear of another person’s mishap. Only was he to protect her from accidental injuries, get more menial tasks off her shoulder and, most of all, as they understood this aspect deeply, have her emotional and social needs satisfied.

The way she was so beautiful, the way she would only crack a laugh at his shenanigans, the way he knew how to soothe her and she, in her infinite kindness, learned to soothe him back when a crack of worry grew between his impeccable … how could he not fall in love ?

He loved the way she would recite poetry while he slowly got used to her wanting him to caress her head, and she loved the way he would sing her verses in his smooth, sultry voice. The way she would eye him while someone else was talking on stage with a soft smile while he was guarding the entrance and he’d let a smile crack.

It wasn’t a consummated love like you would see in the current, modern days. There were, of course, pairings who held deep affection towards one another and brought in the next generation, but she had a role where she would never have the chance to do so, for her symbolism was not to replicate, only to be a happenstance, a gift which mustn’t be tainted by an attempt to be artificially redone. She accepted her role with no issue, and so did Roy. And the two of them were perfectly happy with this.

This was a time before the continents even started to noticeably separate on Earth, or even before the initial ground became more and more flooded by the waters. A time where Roy’s kind felt so unified, at peace… until this built up, free of conflict power shattered in on itself.

Raw abominations started roaming, not in the form of creatures, not exactly. So ephemeral, yet spreading chaos and distortion at every corner, fueled by the abuse and infighting of those who had gathered too much and only yearned for more. Years and generations of peace had made civilization take harmony for granted, and the couple was powerless as they saw it unfold. As the world balance collapsed, Roy was approached by a group of pacifists, trusted people for outside the conflicts, everyone knew anyone, respect one another, grew with one another. And as sickly dear ones, growing tainted by the plague pleaded with him, for his position had him perfect for what needed to be done for the greater good: kill the priestess, so the good in her would spread across the land, calm the spirits through their weeps, and save them.

Someone like Roy, of unfathomable loyalty, had a decision to make. And despite the tugs at his heart, it was an easy one. For he believed that, if the Priestess was present, the choice would be simple. That she would understand, because, in her infinite goodness, she could forgive them, forgive him, in the end. And as his trust towards her was strong, it is during a bright morning, away from the war, in the beautiful temple they inhabited, up in the mountains, away from civilization, that he entrusted her with what the people wished of them… and like the great woman she always had been, she kept a serene, albeit slightly sorrowful expression as she accepted. If there was a chance the power built inside her since birth could save more than one person, she would die.

But when his blade pierced her heart, tainting her white, ceremonial clothing in the middle of the garden, she only clanged onto him, eyes wide with desperate sorrow, an expression she, and he, never ever witnessed in anyone before. Fear and betrayal spread across her dark eyes as they grew more and more obscure.

I don’t want to die. My love, I don’t want to die…

―were her last words before, as she wept and choked, the High Priestess expired in her guardian’s blood soaked arms, him wearing too stunned an expression for her to ever hear an answer for him.

Just like beliefs and idolization are made-up by man for comfort and, ultimately, are fake, so was the glorification that one death, from someone incredibly beautiful from the inside out, would be a solution to mankind creating their own demise.

And so, it was at his feet that Roy saw the last of humans slowly die out, first from their endless conflict, so harsh they forgot where it even started, and then to the unforgiving nature, taking back the life they had abused off her.

Only, as he himself felt like he was expiring, with all lifeforce living him in the deserted, now ruined temple he had taken cared of with his beloved.

♚ “THIS IS TRUE: THE WORLD IS BETTER OFF WITH SOME PEOPLE GONE. OUR LIVES ARE NOT ALL INTERCONNECTED. THAT THEORY IS CROCK. SOME PEOPLE TRULY DO NOT NEED TO BE HERE.”

And with the end of this first Humankind was the land so dry of its lifeforce that the cycle of resurrection immortality and resurrection ended. It was quite simple at the time, and helped with the utopia free of grief and unnecessary sadness for their knowledge-seeking kind. If happenstance had you gone, your aether would go back to the earth, only to rise again in the next year, century, no one knew, but they would rise again, the same people, to meet the ones they knew in another life again, with hazy memories, but just enough to recognize your loved ones, and find them again. The more time passed, the less did people come back from this dormant phase, millions and millions now sleeping under the crust of the Earth, never to awaken again. Only the one who had gathered more power could come back more quickly, not the servants, no matter how strong they were, like Roy, who was only, despite all his strengths, a support to a higher one.

Only, as their kind ended, in her last breath, was he given the last link to the cycle, to be connected to his brethren, when he wasn’t supposed to be the one to live again to better the world.

She gave it to him, as her last gift. As the forgiveness she could never give him while she clung to dear life so desperately.

For the greatest gift to give to someone where inevitable death surround them is to still live……… isn’t it ?

I have seen too little, did too little to be of any solace in chaos. You, my love, have seen, experienced. I cannot think of a finer person to carry out our legacy, for I trust that only the best will come out of you.

♚ “PEOPLE CAN GET ACCUSTOMED TO ANYTHING, RIGHT? HABIT DOES THINGS TO PEOPLE.”

Life went back to its natural course. Ancient structure became ruins as vegetation took over, and, strong as it ever was, mankind rose again from the ashes. At the dawn of a new civilization, an orphan would be found at a nearby river, taken in by farmers and eventually would be a child raised by the whole humble village… a child who hadn’t forgotten a thing, and worked towards the dawn of a new age where he could protect what was dear to him.

And so, the one these days called Roy, grew up like he did before, to train and refine his ways. Only, this time, he didn’t only focus on his personal growth, but on others’ too. Estranged from other children like he had always been, with adulthood reaching his mind too quickly, only devoted to his craft. Despite snarl from the youth, his reputation grew amongst the adults and elders, and the communities beyond. As soon as his body was barely out of its formative years, did the boy set home in the mountains. Out of the leftover ruins his past life would let him have. A strong foundation to not lose sight of his objective.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. Alongside harsh but fair mental and physical training, all from what he had been taught and remembered, Roy kept exploring martial disciplines he even hadn’t touched in the past, wanting to reestablish what had been lost, and, before he knew it, he was known nearly as a Sage Deity across the land. A man coming from another world, who set up his temple atop the mountains made of smooth boulders eroded with time, near a clear water source, in the middle of a blossoming garden full of colors and hybrid one never knew how such an abundance of different species naturally grew alongside one another in this location, like it was enchanted.

Often, the village elders sought Roy’s advice, which he hoped have given sparingly, in neutrality, since he couldn’t guide mankind every step of the way, only show them a flourishing path. Travelers would come from afar to seek both his teaching and words, with glorified stories growing slightly intimidating to the young man. Despite this, he did his best to carry on his duty, taking care of the new temple grounds he assembled himself, wearing flowing clothes he sew himself; all loyal to the form and aesthetic of the woman he cherished, adorning the same attire she did and flowing, long hair. He wasn’t hoping for them to meet again, only honor her memory. He had grieved and grieved, wept and wept before she gave him the gift of eternity. His salvation was throwing himself into his training, contemplating his sorrow, and so on and on again until he only felt peace.

Roy’s stories of a lady in white with the darkest of eyes became legends, tales of kindness, bravery and adventure. And, amongst his own legacy growing, did Roy decide, after much deliberation, to take in disciples. One, then two. People under his tutelage, who would, in return, vow to spread and defend what the temple fought for, alongside taking equal parts in temple duties. And as the young people he accepted under his wing grew, Roy would soon be surrounded by four bright students he deeply loved. Unable to truly have a father’s touch, he, at least, believed he was a good guardian, hoping that, with time, his students would become masters, and that humanity could flourish.

It was then that, surrounded by his disciples, minus one, actually, that Roy had just finished drinking light tea and eating some sweets. He sighed as a cloud formed in front of his thin lips, the cold air announcing the winter to come. Even as his eldest disciple spoke, Roy didn’t reply. He stayed still, unmoving, silent, for there was nothing to say about what he felt was to come.

He didn’t even groan when he felt the ornate blades of his disciples pass through him, all three at the same time, for they were bound to be guilty together. While the screeching pain enveloped his senses, he wondered if this was what she felt, when he betrayed her.

That night, the Sage’s remains were cut to pieces, scattered far and wide, while his head was burned in the courtyard bonfire, all in an attempt to stop the link he had with his brethren, to cease the “gift” he had been given and for the cycle carried by the billions sleeping to come to an end.

But, unlike what men thought, Roy’s cycle was only part of nature, and he was to rise once more.

♚ “MY NIGHTLY BLOOD LUST OVERFLOWED INTO MY DAYS AND I HAD TO LEAVE THE CITY. MY MASK OF SANITY WAS A VICTIM OF IMPENDING SLIPPAGE.”

It was always the same. Again and again. He would be reborn, train, work, bond, and die at the hands of the very ones he had linked himself. The only reliable companion Roy ever had was nature outside of mankind, harsh but fair, just like him. With a behavior he could coexist with peacefully. It started eating him from the inside out. This time around, Roy had come back from the dead a few decades after his murder, found stark naked in a rice field even farther East, still in a young adult form, regenerated. Mankind hadn’t been doomed yet, and so, he vowed to save it by himself.

Roy would travel far and wide as mankind spread its territory and the continents started separating, being the only one of his kind which could still read the flow of life, its remaining corruption, and how to neutralize them. He would never stay in one spot for too long, only focusing on what he had to do. Because if he didn’t do it, who would ? If he didn’t do anything, he would only be left seeing the same amount of suffering and death, all by himself.

He couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t lose hope.

But Roy’s respect for life took the better of him. As he helped others with his abilities, presenting himself as somewhat of a medium as others also showed special traits, he hadn’t seen how darker human’s hearts had become. So much more quickly than the society he had known in the past. People turned envious of his abilities, and, soon enough, he needed to fight and run for his own life, at the risk of being torn apart yet again.

This fight and flight narrative happened again. And again. Until Roy’s duty had no time to be done; if he wasn’t around, there was no way anything could be done. He had to survive. And as the world grew around him, his mind and memories became muddied, and the depravity surrounding his person slowly creeped into his mind, as any remainder of his initial purpose was muddled with a constant years of bloodshed. An age of decades where he was to be burned and tortured, captured again and again before he’d lay waste to entire villages for his own safety. So no witness was to remain, and less people were to go after him. His training was used in a way he had never done before. For a cause he couldn’t decide to stop. He learned how to kill as efficiently as possible, how to decimate communities, destroy morale through underhanded means. Jumping from one allegiance to another as he either killed or fled before they’d go after him. For the first time, Roy could see how much his raw abilities could be of use in carnage, with no ceremony, no cause behind them. Only death. The very somber death he swore to stop.

He didn’t even stop to wonder at the technology men came up with, using the growing devices as meant for an end, anger and rage creeping into his very soul, indulging in vices he was being offered by humans which morals he always despised. There was no relief in this life, no moment of quiet, only screams and chaos, and only sins could provide a moment of respite. Roy, actually, never remembered how he died, but he did, at some point, in some time, after all sane people had left the territory, and only savagery had roamed the land he had loved so dearly.

During this time, he had forgotten her name, even her face.

♚ “THE CONVERSATION FOLLOWS ITS OWN ROLLING ACCORD - NO REAL STRUCTURE OR TOPIC OR INTERNAL LOGIC OR FEELING; EXCEPT, OF COURSE, FOR ITS OWN HIDDEN, CONSPIRATORIAL ONE. JUST WORDS, AND LIKE IN A MOVIE, BUT ONE THAT HAS BEEN TRANSCRIBED IMPROPERLY, MOST OF IT OVERLAPS.”

At some point, Roy had no recognition if he had been in the same world, the same plane of existence amongst the cycles when he awoke once again. This time in a white, desperately empty desert. With no one at his side. He was still, somehow, a fully grown person, with the fresh memories of violence he had laid, and the scent of blood into all his pores, and the grotesque weapons he had used with no ceremony.

Yet, in this newly regenerated body, in this empty space by himself, his mind centered itself. His discipline kicked in between the silence and hunt for sustenance. He had spent so long a time by himself, alone, in the most chaotic of scenarios. With no one who remembered him, no one who remembered his loved ones, no one who remembered who everyone he even knew were.

After spending time and time, he couldn’t count how long, to rebalance his person, reshape his senses and skills yet again, Roy readied himself to reach civilization once more… yet when he started his journey again, he stopped, the sudden weight of his contact with humankind anchoring him to the ground, unable now to stand. His body was trembling, and everything he had packed fell to the ground. He knew what would happen if he gave up. What he would need to go through and experience. Again and again. He tried. He tried so hard. But no matter how good he could be, it seemed so… hopeless. However, even if it was an impossible endeavor, he couldn’t stop, or else he would have nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to, maybe, one day, see everyone again. How many times had it been ? His memory couldn’t bear so much, what important things could he not recall ? He could start counting, but there was no way to say if entire lifetimes were not thrown into the abyss, and if forgotten crucial knowledge would end up with yet another failure…

This is when, hunched onto himself in this deserted, white horizon, Roy held his head in his hand. He groaned of pain as his mind was strained to its limits, drooling as he agonized, and images faded far, far away as he life flow was being torn apart from him by his own hands. He could hear the screams of his brethren, their legacy being desecrated. Useless. Useless. He didn’t need to remember their names. He didn’t need to remember their faces. Everything deemed useless to the core of his mission was shred out of his very soul, making the pain, the worries fade away, for he only needed to focus on what needed to be done.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. For those virtues to lead mankind to a greater part. And maybe, just maybe, recover part of everything he had lost.

For it was the one thing she had not accounted for, for she saw this man as someone so perfect through her affection for him.

That, ultimately, he did all of this so he could see them, see her again if he ever succeeded, and mankind could doom itself if it wasn’t the only way he knew to move onwards. That he did what was needed of him, without taking it so much to heart, that, in the deep of his heart, laid a hidden, selfish reason for all of this. Yet, it may not be this one anymore, he couldn’t tell.

And as Roy literally lost his mind, all by himself, with not a soul around to witness his sorrow, he laid there, vegetable from the trauma, feeling but unable to move, in a haze of horror and pain, before, finally, dehydration took him, and he was back in the cycle again.

Only, this time, there would be no memories. Only physical ones. No loneliness, only fake memories pieced by the world to balance his existence. Only a man, his training, his virtues, and an impossible task that is his only defense against despair and insanity.

♚ “THERE IS NO TIME FOR THE INNOCENT.”

#.ooc #im so happy i can tell my boi's story ;;#hope you guys like it !#he's the one who's lived the longest so... long bio sorry O)-(#tl;dr it's just depression

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residentlesbrarian · 3 years

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The Second Book I Read In the Dark: Another YA superhero novel for me to squeal over forever...YES, Please! Gimme Gimme!

Dreadnought by April Daniels

So Day 1 in the dark continues onward and I have already finished 1 of my 3 library books with still so much day left so what else to do but soldier forward and continue without pause. Well there was a short pause for delicious chicken soup cooked on a blessedly gas powered range (never gonna live in a house with an electric range; I swear this thing has saved our butts in so many power outages), but I digress; I was ready! This time I was taking a break from the whimsical and witchy and diving head first into all things super with an extra heroic twist.

I had heard so many good things about this book for so long but again it had fallen to the wayside of other distractions (a rainbow montage of movie and TV show gays runs back and forth through my head like the migrating fandom flamingoes). What finally made me make the decision to buckle down and do the thing was a video review done by one of my favorite YouTubers, Dominic Noble (Video Linked below). I love his series Lost in Adaptation, because as an avid reader I too find myself appalled by what Hollywood often does to my favorite books. Hearing him talk about Dreadnought was just the push my flighty brain needed to say, “Fine! Alright! We haven’t utterly obsessed over a teenage superhero book in like 6 months since we near bludgeoned our girlfriend with Not Your Sidekick! Fine! Let’s do it!” So...yeah if this intro is anything to go by this should be a fun one! Let’s dive right in shall we!

Unicorn Rating:

Blurb: She just wanted to paint her toenails in peace but then a superhero had to go and die and give Danny the one thing she never thought she’d have...her proper body. Now if only everyone else felt that way too. Life just got awesome and really really complicated all at once! Oh yeah and she can fly now. Bonus!

Disclaimer: I will try my best to not spoil anything from the book, but my book loving rambles may give more away than a traditional review. Here we go! Ramble time!

Review:

Holy crap! After the last book this was exactly what I needed! This book was just...so good! The plot...the characters...the world...everything about it just pulls you in and doesn’t let you go. Now I may have felt that way because I didn’t have anything trying to pull me away from this book but I don’t think I would have been easily pulled away if there had been distractions. And so many facets of this story were things I didn’t expect because I had never seen them portrayed before. Like the fact Danny having to deal with the rampant day to day sexism of being a woman now that her appearance matches who she really is. I’ve never seen that in a book before and I absolutely loved it! I was so dedicated to Danny’s story from page 1 it’s ridiculous, and look at that, a perfect segue into the phenomenal characters of this book...look what I did there switching it up going out of order on ya...gotta keep ya on your toes.

Our protagonist Danny is such a phenomenal example of a genuine kind caring person who is also deeply scarred and angry. It was so amazing to read a character that was flawed and struggling and doesn’t see how much a hero she really is and the small moments when others take that double take and go, “You’re the real deal, huh?” But those moments just confuse the living hell outta Danny cause she’s just Danny, she got super powers as a fluke. She is also hilarious and courageous and smart but knows she isn’t perfect and has weaknesses. She may be the strongest person on earth physically now but she acknowledges that that isn’t everything someone needs. Danny is such a good bean, but she has issues and that isn’t glossed over which is so rare. Now the next thing I want to touch on is a very tough subject but is very prevalent in the book so I wouldn’t be a very prudent reviewer if I didn’t bring it up. Danny is, without question, an abused child. This isn’t even really a spoiler, it alludes pretty heavily to it in the blurb, but what I’m gonna touch on next does dip into that territory so I’m gonna break it into a new LONG paragraph so just scroll on by if you don’t want to read this bit.

So at one point in the book Danny mentions a health screening at school that revealed she had hearing damage in her right ear that has now been healed by the mantle of Dreadnought. At the time of the screening she didn’t realize why until her dad had another Mount Vesuvius day and she assumed her usual position of curling in on herself and turning her head to the left so he would yell into only her right ear. Now how loud and how often do you have to yell into someone’s ear to cause permanent hearing damage? I don’t know and honestly I don’t want to know. Why am I highlighting an overall tiny moment...because for me this moment jumped out and gut punched me. Brought literal tears to my eyes. Tears of pain. Tears of rage. Tears of hate. I’m a weepy bitch when I get emotional. I’ve read a lot of books that try and portray abuse and how Daniels wrote Danny’s abuse from her father took my breath away because it felt so real. There weren’t really any good days, there were bad days, there were really bad days, but most days were just anxiously waiting for the next bad day, because Danny knew there would always be a next bad day. Something that did surprise me was my feelings about Danny’s mother. I knew going in I would hate her father, before even meeting him I hated him, but her mother, that was a hate that lay dormant until it exploded onto the scene and froze me to my core. I’m not gonna get into my own demons here but there is one thing I cannot abide by and that is people turning a blind eye while someone abuses another. Danny’s mother is the textbook definition of someone who “goes along to get along”, she will do just about anything to keep the peace, but at what cost? Instead of protecting her child from someone who literally screamed so long and so loud at her child that it damaged her hearing she just sat back and let them. That’s not the worst though, no, after Danny’s transition her mom seems to be understanding of the fact she is happy being a girl and is buying her things she needs like bras and undeniably feminine shoes, only to reveal it was all to keep Danny docile so she wouldn’t cause more fights with her dad. That to me is unforgivable. Not worse than the abuse of the father, but still undeniably selfish. She never cared about Danny or listened to her and what she was really saying. She just didn’t want there to be anymore fighting. Well I’m sorry, but sometimes, as a mother, you should fight to protect your goddamn child when someone is hurting them. The last thing I’ll say before going back to the more spoiler free and fun part of the review is that the fact Danny can never make herself say she is being abused hits so close to home for me. As a reader looking in from outside, there was a scene with a member of the Legion that I felt like, as an abuse survivor myself, I was standing there begging Danny to accept her invitation. To get out of that house. To get away from her father. To see what he was doing for what it was. But I knew she wouldn’t, she wasn’t ready, and it broke my heart to watch her fly away.

Anyway moving on from all that heavy stuff lets talk about other things like some freaking superheroes and one particular vigilante. We have the Legion members: Doc Impossible, Valkyrja, Magma, Graywytch, Chlorophyll, and Carapice. Now How do I want to talk about these characters...in what order...hmmm...how about from best to worst. Okay? Okay. Great!

I freaking love Doc Impossible! She is a character that from the moment I met her she gave me ‘kookie grandma’ character vibes and I get DOWN with kookie grandma characters. Now I know she isn’t a grandma character nor is she particularly crazy in the way she acts; it's just a vibe I get from her that I love. Now one thing I do want to say without spoiling anything is how Doc is one of the few characters that never tries to take away Danny’s agency in everything that happens around her in all this superhero craziness. Danny can always be her own person and most importantly a kid around Doc, and I feel Danny really needed that. I will stop myself now because I could go on for hours about Doc and how much I LOVE HER!

Next up we get a two for one, Valkyrja and Magma. We don’t see much of them but what we do get is pretty good. They are adult superheroes who have their own priorities surrounding what is going on with Danny, but aren’t mean or cruel and seem to genuinely care about Danny. Valkyrja is funny and surprisingly down to earth even though she is basically a scandinavian goddess of sorts. Also the hilarity of her being Danny’s long time celebrity crush never gets old. Oh Danny, you useless little lesbian. Magma is a precious big hot boy that seems like he’d give good hugs. Yeah, that's about all I got to say about him that won’t spoil anything.

Now we have another two for one with Chlorophyll and Carapice. These two I'm between dislike and indifferent on. They weren’t outright mean to Danny but they treated her more like a means to an end or down right refused to acknowledge she was the new Dreadnought whether they liked it or not, but we didn’t really get to see them enough to really learn more about their motivations.

Finally to round out the Legion we have Graywytch. Excuse me while I get this out. *Exaggerated throat clear.* First of all, Imma slap that stupid robe of ya stupid head. Then Imma stab you with your stupid fancy atheme you like to wave around all the time. And don’t even start on your “Typical male, always resorting to violence” shtick, cause guess what, I’m a ciswoman and I still wanna stomp a mudhole in your ass. And for that...Imma slap your dumb bird too. *Deep breath in. Looooooong exhale.* Sorry about that. Mama had to express some rage. I have never had a hate-sink character that made me feel the fiery flames of rage quite like Graywytch...obviously. Her treatment of Danny had me gripping the book tightly and growling about slapping birds and “shanking bitches” more than I should probably admit. She is one of those characters that I love how much I hate her. She served the exact purpose she was meant to and it was never cast in a light that she may be right in her treatment of Danny, we are always aware that her mindset is ridiculous. Like the fact outside of her parents Graywytch is the only character to blatantly deadname and misgender Danny. To go off on a small tangent here I may relate too much here because I have a younger brother who is trans (don’t worry he is fine with me discussing it in reviews and such) and I went to a graduation party when my best friend graduated medical school and he was out to the family but not extended friends yet. After only referring to him by the proper pronouns for so long at home hearing the wrong ones caused legitimate eye blinking record scratch cognitive dissonance for me. I had the same feeling anytime Graywytch opened her stupid mouth and blatantly misgendered Danny. Because the way this is written Danny is Danny, she is exactly who she is meant to be. Suck it Graywytch!

Okay, I know you probably want to hear about the plot I know, but we have one more character we have to talk about and that is Calamity, the rootin’-ist tootin’-ist vigilante that ever did come through these here parts. Sorry, I have to talk like this now, it’s part of the persona, you have to commit to the persona. But real talk, I absolutely love Calamity as a look into “graycapes” and the real dive into the world of superheroes beyond the big heroes. We get to see how someone who doesn’t have the backing of the Legion goes about helping people, the little people, those that maybe the Legion way up in their tower can’t see from so high up in the clouds. And y’all know me, I love a morally gray vigilante with a heart of gold. She had me at “You wanna go capin’?”

Now obviously I couldn’t get enough of the characters but the plot was pretty darn good too. It was so intricately woven in with Danny and her inheriting the mantle from the previous Dreadnought that she had no choice but to be an integral part of it. Now I obviously don’t have as much to say about the plot as I did the characters but know if you come for the plot you won’t be disappointed. It kept me guessing and threw me for an absolute curve ball at the end that I did not see coming! You won’t be disappointed.

So final thoughts...there isn’t much more I can say without going on an hours long squeal fest about how much I freaking loved this book and the characters and the intricacies of how Danny’s powers work and how she was written and how she interacts with different characters and just everything that would mean massive untakebackable spoilers! So I will end on this note; Danny is a character that it would have been easy to lean into the superhero aspect and let the reader forget that she was trans, but April Daniels didn’t want that. Danny was gifted the easiest transition in the history of the world. What takes most people years of HRT and surgeries and therapy Danny did in the passing of a mantle, but it never took away the fact she is and always will be trans. It was a unique reading experience that I have only been blessed with once before but that’s a story for a different review on a different day.

Queer Wrap-up: I would give my left kidney (that’s my good one btw) to give this book five unicorns, but alas I cannot, a one off conversation in an elevator hinting that a certain improbable doctor may have a one sided thing for a particular sadly straight scandinanvian god being is just not enough to count as additional rep. As much as I love this book, and I love it A LOT! We only have Danny as our queer rep and she is fantastic rep and our protagonist so a 4 unicorn rating was a no brainer on this one. Danny is the kind of trans rep I want to see more of in the world of books, YA and otherwise. Being a trans lesbian is a huge part of her character but she gets to do so much more than that in the breath of the story and that’s what I look for in great representation, so Danny easily earned these 4 unicorns on her own merit just being her amazing self.

Links:

Goodreads

Dominc Noble’s Review

Alright so...this one got long. Ah hell, I ain't gonna apologize for it! This is a damn good book and I wanted to get my fangirl squeal on y’all.

Oh no, I think I’ve been thinking about Calamity too much I slipped into the persona without meaning to! This book was just far too much fun to read to the point I started reading it out loud with a full cast of voices (hint: the Calamity parts were my favorite) because it flowed so well and was genuinely so funny at parts and heart wrenchingly sad in others and so action packed the next moment. I finished this book in less than a day and if I had been more present and not under a pile of blankets and wearing a headlamp I might have thought to keep a timer to tell you the exact number of hours it took me, but alas know it didn’t take me many.

So the adventures reading in the dark continue on to the next review after this one but as always if you want to read this but don’t want to spend the money without knowing for sure you are going to like it, go to your local library. You’d be surprised what they have on their shelves just waiting to be discovered. Trust me, I’m a lesbrarian.

#Dreadnought #april daniels #nemesis book 1 #resident lesbrarian #4 unicorns #mtf transgender lesbian #ya novel #ya science fiction #go to you local library #but wear a mask #and wash your hands #and stay 6 feet apart #be safe guys gals and nonbinary pals

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