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infinite-xerath · 3 years

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Runeterra Retcons 1: Thresh

This is something that I did today. I plan to make this an on-going series (might even take it to YouTube someday if I get the nerve to share my voice), but for now have it as a tumblr post.))

The world of Runeterra is one of the most interesting and complex fantasy settings in modern gaming; a fictional realm bustling with fantastical beings, characters, and a wide variety of plot points offering near endless potential for story-telling. The story of League of Legends is not, in fact, a singular narrative, but rather a collection of different stories spread out across a variety of fictional countries, continents, and even dimensions.

Runeterra as we know it today wasn’t always like this, however; in 2015 Riot Games opted to effectively reboot the lore of their world to be rid of the more restrictive plot elements like Summoners and the Institute of War to allow themselves more wriggle room to tell the stories they wanted to tell. While the decision to effectively make League of Legends non-canon to its own story was initially controversial, the writers of Riot Games have effectively proven themselves extraordinarily capable of using this newfound freedom to its full potential… For the most part.

With a retconned world came the need to retcon characters; Riot has made a substantial effort in the last few years to reimagine and redefine the backstories of the iconic Champions to make them fit into the new narrative, albeit with mixed results. Let’s face it: no writer is perfect and hindsight is 20/20, so a number of characters throughout the years have been left with less-than-stellar backstories compared to most of the roster.

Welcome to Runeterra Retcons, a series in which I’ll be analyzing some of the more controversial champion bios in the game to pick apart the good, the bad, and the horribly missed opportunities. With all that out of the way, let’s begin, shall we?

Episode 1: Thresh

Thresh is at once both an interesting and a bland character. He’s arguably one of the more iconic characters in the game, to the point where he’s practically become the unofficial mascot for the Shadow Isles. In-spite of this, I’ve long felt that Thresh is one of the most awkward fits into the region; before we can discuss the problems with his current lore, however, we first need to address Thresh’s backstory pre-retcon and see if we can analyze the core of his character.

Insert original lore here

So, we can see the concept behind Thresh’s character pretty easily: he’s a jailor who loves tormenting his charges, so much so that he continues to do so even after death. If you were to describe Thresh in a single word, it would probably be “sadistic.” Unfortunately, the original lore doesn’t give a lot beyond that; not where he’s from, not when he died, not even where his prison was located. The bio itself literally says that no one knows the details, and while that does add a faint air of mystery to the character, it doesn’t do much to tie him into the faction he’s supposed to represent: The Shadow Isles.

With that out of the way, let’s now take a look at Thresh’s new bio and see how Riot decided to change him after the retcon.

Insert new lore here

Alright, so, there’s a lot to unpack here. Perhaps the most notable change is that Thresh went from tormenting people to… Tormenting “living relics.” The relics are offered no further explanation in the lore or given any prior context. There’s just… A mirror with a soul in it. There’s a sentient book hidden down in the vaults. For some reason, the monks of the Isles even decided to stash a living person down there because he infused his body with raw magic. Why? Who was this person? What did he do to end up in chains? If this was a dangerous mage, wouldn’t it be better to build a proper prison for him rather than stuff him in a vault full of powerful, dangerous artifacts?

There are so many mysteries here, but perhaps biggest one is this: why was Thresh changed from a warden of people to a warden of relics? Why did they feel the need to turn him from a jailor who enjoyed tormenting his inmates to a curator that was slowly corrupted by the very magics meant to help him do his job? Well, I believe that’s meant to tie into the change made to the Shadow Isles themselves, or rather, the Blessed Isles.

While we never had much info on what the Isles were like before becoming an undead haven, a lot of the lore suggests that they were effectively a paradise, hence the name “Blessed Isles.” This was a place without war, without starvation, without corruption. Naturally, there would be no criminals in paradise, and so this of course means that to make Thresh a warden of things that are inhuman… At least, this is the thought process one might have until they introduce the mysterious regenerating mage, but I guess he’s meant to be one bad egg amidst the crowd, assuming he even came from the Isles at all. Again, it’s never really elaborated on.

So, while the change does make a degree of sense, it kind of feels… Flat. I mean, a guy who enjoys tormenting prisoners in their cells to hear their screams sounds a lot more terrifying than a guy who just stops his sentences halfway through to spite a book. Also, the fact that his lantern just becomes a seemingly endless vessel for souls because of the Ruination is a little silly; like, I know the Black Mist does all sorts of nonsensical things to matter, but the fact that an ordinary lantern gets turned into a relic arguably far more dangerous than anything Thresh was ever guarding seems kind of backwards, at least in my opinion.

So, how can we change this? How would I, personally, retcon Thresh if given the chance? Well, there are a lot of base elements that I would keep, but also some key components I’d like to alter. I’ve written up a short bio of my own for you all to enjoy, so without further ado…

In an age all but forgotten to history, there existed a realm known as the Blessed Isles. Hidden away from the world by a veil of magical mist, the Isles were a place of peace and prosperity; a land free of war, corruption, plague and misery. This paradise was ruled by an order of sacred monks devoted to learning and enlightenment. It was within this paradise that Thresh was born and raised by a pair of humble farmers, growing up surrounded by nature’s bounty.

Though expected that he might follow in his fathers’ footsteps, Thresh showed an aptitude for learning from an early age. In-particular, Thresh seemed fascinated with matters of philosophy; the nature of the soul, morality, and other complex subjects were frequent on the boy’s mind. This attitude quickly earned Thresh the attention of the brotherhood, who invited him to join their order as soon as he was of age. Thresh agreed without hesitation, leaving the farm behind to study at the Isles’ monastery.

For many years, Thresh studied under the tutelage of the order, distinguishing himself from his peers for his ability to grasp complex philosophical issues. Though acknowledged by his teachers, Thresh was met with looks of envy and scorn from his fellow students; rather than let himself be disheartened, however, Thresh instead took an interest in the root of their envy in scorn. Upon approaching his elders with such questions, Thresh found himself being led to a secret chamber deep beneath the monastery, guarded by powerful wards and runes. It was here that Thresh learned the truth of the Blessed Isles.

Thresh watched as one of his fellow pupils stood surrounded by figured in ominous robes, chanting an ominous spell in unison. Thresh’s teacher explained to him that this was ritual had been used by the order for ages to ensure that the Isles flourished. Evil was present in all humans, and so the only way to ensure it did not corrupt their paradise was to extract it from the soul, and seal it away. As the ritual drew to a close, Thresh saw the essence of all the other student’s hatred, envy, malice and warped desire ripped from his body, and placed into a special lantern made to contain it.

Thresh was intrigued. He approached the lantern without hesitation as the other boy was escorted from the chamber, and to his surprise, he heard voice whispering to him from within. The monks explained that though the evils of humanity could be removed, they could not be truly discarded. They needed to be contained, and more than that, they needed a warden to watch over them. Thresh volunteered in a heartbeat, and the monks smiled, pleased by their pupils’ devotion.

What they did not know, however, was that the whispers in Thresh’s mind had already begun taken root. From that day forward, Thresh vigilantly stood guard over the lantern, watching each successive cleansing as it took place. Each time, the wicked essence in the lantern grew stronger, as did the whispers in Thresh’s mind. He began to dream of enacting twisted torments upon the monks, the other disciples, and even his own parents. Slowly but surely, the brotherhood noticed a change in Thresh’s behavior. Fearing that he himself would be subjected to their cleansing rite, Thresh stole the lantern and fled the monastery.

The monks chased Thresh for days, but their search was brought to an abrupt end when strange ships arrived on the Blessed Isles: something Thresh thought impossible. From the safety of the cliffs, Thresh watched in delight as a soldiers led by a foreign king massacred his fellow monks. Their screams were music to the warden’s ears, and as the chaos spread, Thresh found himself reveling in the suffering of all who fell to the foreigners’ blades. Even at the cost of his own life, Thresh dared to move about the battlefield, searching for survivors left in the king’s wake only that he may snuff out the remnants of their lives himself.

Finally, as the screams of his victims began to subside, Thresh turned his attention to the heart of the Isles. From there, he saw a cloud of pure darkness rushing to meet him, and opened his arms wide to embrace it. In that moment, all the wickedness trapped within Thresh’s lantern was freed, bound to his soul through the power of the Ruination. Thresh emerged a being of pure maliciousness, and his lantern, now empty, would serve as the perfect vessel to enact his twisted fantasies.

Thresh now roams Runeterra as an avatar of sadism, bringing pain and misery to all unfortunate enough to cross his path. He stalks his victims and torments them by slowly stripping them of their sanity, before finally prying their souls from their bodies with his wicked sickle. If you hear the sound of chains in the dead of night, run… Though it may already be far too late.

So, what did you think? Now, it’s at this point I feel I need to clarify something: I’m not trying to bash on Riot’s creative team, nor am I saying that I can definitely make a better version of someone else’s character. Hell, I’m not even really saying that my version of the story is flawless; it would probably need to go through several more rewrites before I’d ever consider publishing it as canon, not that I have the power to do so, of course.

Rather, I wanted to take a closer look at Thresh’s character and how well his current lore represents him. I said earlier that Thresh is at once and interesting and a bland character. I consider him a little bland because you can sum him up in a single word: “sadistic.” He has no goals and no motivation other than to cause pain and suffering. Even the other undead of the Shadow Isles typically have some kind of agenda, even if it’s only to spread the Black Mist’s influence. Thresh doesn’t care about that; he just wants to see you writhe in agony, both before and after death. I’d argue he has more in common in with League’s demons than the other specters of the Isles, but it’s BECAUSE Thresh is undead that he has so much potential for an interesting backstory.

The main points I wanted to emphasize in my rewrite are: expanding on the magics that corrupted Thresh into being so sadistic, giving his lantern some greater significance in the story, and replacing the vault full of otherwise pointless macguffins with something a little more sinister that gives the Blessed Isles a hint of dichotomy. Riot loves adding a little morally grey to all their characters and factions, after-all.

Anyways, what do you all think? Could Thresh’s lore be improved, or do you all like his story the way in currently is? Lemme know down below, and I’ll see you all next time!

#Outofpower #League of Legends #Runeterra Retcons

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arpwrites · 4 years

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[Tarot!BTS] Their Philosophy in Life

In order to get a deeper understanding of who the boys really are, I’ll be drawing a few cards to find out their attitude towards life and how they think it is/ should be lived.

Read my disclaimers for fullest understanding of this reading’s implications!

Kim Seokjin

Jin thinks you are completely responsible for your own life. You have complete power and control over the things that happen to you, you can choose to let events affect you or not. The strong eat the weak and if you don’t want to be eaten, then you have to become strong. It’s not a rosy outlook, there is a starkness to it. He sees in black and white, and believes in self-reliance.

Min Yoongi

Yoongi’s life is all about material wealth and prosperity, and his determination to achieve it. He wants to make sure he and the people around him are looked after and have stability. He wants to be a safe provider for his family and his community, and slowly broaden his generosity to the world as his influence and wealth grows. He has a laser focus towards this goal of his but he will not do it at any cost. The ends don’t justify the means for him. He will achieve it through hard work and earn it rightfully rather than through cunning or deceit.

Jung Hoseok

Hobi thinks no matter how close you are to someone, you go through life alone. Only you can know all of yourself and in his mind, that creates a barrier that cannot be overcome. He can never truly, fully be known by anyone else. He knows this is reality but it doesn’t stop him from hungering for someone who can Know him.

There is also a sense of powerlessness, or perhaps surrender. With life, Hoseok thinks you need to go with the flow and take what comes as it hits you. There will always be people who have power over you and sometimes, the best thing to do is give up and let them do as they will so they don’t break you.

Kim Namjoon

Joon’s philosophy is to make the best with what you’ve got and regain mastery over life with creativity and willpower. When life gives you lemons, become a baker and build a business with lemon cheesecake. He doesn’t allow himself to be backed into a mental corner. No matter what it is, even if the obstacle before him seems fated and impossible, he uses his mind to strategize and take concrete, practical steps towards getting control over it.

Park Jimin

Jimin thinks life is full of betrayal and heartbreak and you do what you can to push forward anyway. There’s always going to be people who gossip about you, backstab, say goodbye to. There’s always going to be problems and you’ll keep repeating mistakes. You just have to cut through the sludge and get back up every single time.

Kim Taehyung

Tae’s philosophy for how life should be lived is exactly as he lives it now - with authenticity and childlike wonder. He thinks its most important to always be one’s truest self no matter now strange or unusual because that’s where true beauty lies. Life should be approached with the innocence of a child, with a purity that doesn’t hide it’s true self. He thinks life is glorious and inspiring and a rapturous experience to behold.

Jeon Jungkook

Kook rejects the concept of life being about finding a romantic partner, a grand love isn’t the end goal. He thinks life focuses on the self. It’s about self discovery and self-expression, separate from another human being. He isn’t against romantic relationships or love, he just doesn’t think that’s the purpose of life. Love is everywhere in many shapes and forms and Jungkook exalts in discovering all the hues.

A/N

Jin drew The Magician yet again, it’s a card that appears very frequently for him along with Death and this reinforces the strong Capricorn energy we’ve been getting from Tarot!Jin in almost every reading ever. It corresponds to his Capricorn Venus which is at a critical degree in his Vedic chart.

Yoongi’s cards, the Rx. Queen of Pentacles and The Chariot, fit perfectly with what his vedic stars say about him. He is literally built for wealth and generosity, and his penchant for focused hard work always comes through in every reading ← I’ll link to the series when it’s up again - sorry, my blog’s under construction.

Hoseok’s reading has such a gaping hollowness to it. He drew The Magician and The Hermit. Both cards have significantly solitary figures that are standing under the moonlight. I think this fits very well with the Tarot!Hoseok story we’ve seen so far. This reading reinforces the theme of Hobi struggling with relationships, his lack of control over his work, and the fragmented, hidden parts of himself.

Joon drew the King of Pentacles and when I asked for clarification, 8 of Swords, 6 of Swords, Rx. The High Priestess popped out and Rx. Ace of Swords was at the bottom of the deck. My deck identifies him as the King of Swords and there’s massive sword energy in every reading I’ve done for him - he’s a very rational, logical man and power is something he pays attention to.

Yikes, Jimin drew the Rx. 10 of Swords with The Chariot at the bottom of the deck. It doesn’t surprise me considering his past readings.

The deck took exactly 0.0001 seconds to talk about Tae. He drew The Star which is the same card my deck uses to signify him. Taehyung practices what he preaches and there is no dissonance between who he is and who he wants to be.

Kook’s readings have mentioned before that romantic relationships don’t take up space in his life. It’s not that he doesn’t want one or is aromantic or asexual, it’s just not his focus right now. He’d much rather spend time with himself and his friends and family than spend it seeking out a romantic connection when he doesn’t need it.

Overall, I feel about a 95% percent accuracy with what I’ve said for this reading. I felt quite connected to the cards which was surprising to me because it’s been a while since I did a reading on the boys. Guess it’s like riding a bike.

If you enjoyed reading this and feel like you know the boys a little better now, please support me by interacting with this post through likes, replies, or reblogs 🥺👉🏽👈🏽 It tells the algorithm that my work is valuable, so it’s a meaningful way to let me know you’d like to see more of the same work from me 🐨🌷

As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts about this post. Let me know if my reading aligns with your perception of the boys or if it completely surprised you. Does your life philosophy match any of the boys’? Do you agree with their viewpoints? What can we hypothesize about their character from this? Let’s have a discussion 🐸☕️

Bonus: Relevant Discussions

#arpwrites #bts tarot reading #bts tarot #jin tarot #yoongi tarot #hoseok tarot #namjoon tarot #jimin tarot #taehyung tarot #jungkook tarot #d pil #EVERYONE THANK ME RIGHT NOW for not subjecting your eyes to the horror that is unfiltered stone namjoon #can u even tell its namjoon................ I hOPE U CAN #lie to me if u can't see it #i spent too long on it 🥺

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kobefan · 3 years

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#kobe bryant #kobe lakers #kobe #rip kobe

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anglaland · 4 years

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we unhappy two

Fandom: Hetalia Relationship: FrUK Rating: Mature (warning: depiction of strangulation) Word Count: 6,677 Summary:

Following a lull in the Hundred Year's War, England is eager for a new beginning for both himself and France. However, the peace is abruptly broken by an insult between kings, and the two of them march to an inevitable confrontation—in Agincourt. FrUK, historical Hetalia. Notes: This story was written for the @hetabang event on Tumblr. I had the pleasure of working with mysticgummybear for the art, and they were amazing! They transformed my story into a storybook, and I love it. I encourage you to check out the compilation of work that Hetabang will put out, because they made it look great! I've interspersed their art in this story.

If you would like to read on FFN (text only) or AO3, please see the most recent post on my Tumblr.

April 1413

Sitting farther down the table, England watches as his nobles fawn grossly over Henry's coronation gifts. His king, to his credit, is only superficially engaged in the proceedings, his mind focused on the coming burdens of duty.

England is not pleased. He knows the nobles are not either, and that fact alone almost makes him consider siding with Henry. Almost. His chest is still scarred with the disputes that plagued his last king's reign, and now the wayward prince, who had abandoned his duty, returns? It's a mockery. But of course, his nobles only care about their own wealth and prosperity, England be damned.

Henry is intent on not repeating his father's mistakes. Hah. England shovels another bite of food into his mouth. He might as well eat to his heart's content while the good food lasts. It'd only be a matter of time before his people started fighting again.

Unbidden, his thoughts turn to France. With all the civil war that had been going on, he hadn't had the time to write as often as he had liked. The two of them had been in a tentative peace, and England had silently enjoyed it. He had been meaning to respond to France's last two letters, and with the claims to the English throne finally settled, perhaps he could even visit soon…

On cue, the couriers call out a gift from the Dauphin of France, and England starts, nearly spilling soup over his neighbor. He hurriedly dabs at it, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible with his sudden interest in the proceedings.

The gifted chest is presented, and the courier opens it to reveal a single ball.

A hush falls over the dining room. England's stomach sinks to the bottom of his feet, his appetite vanishing in an instant. Standing, Henry walks slowly to the gift.

"There's no accompanying message from the Dauphin?" he asks. A flare of hope sparks in England. Surely, if France had heard of his coronation, then he had also heard of the newly tentative peace in England's lands. This was just a jest, an olive branch between two kingdoms, surely.

The courier shakes his head. The silence is deafening. Someone, somewhere, coughs, and the sound seems to echo for ages before settling.

"This was sent only for me," Henry muses. "For the boy I once was." The court holds a bated breath.

He bounces the ball. "I will accept this gift."

The tension is released, slowly, but England can feel the simmering anger in his people. The ball is an insult to his king and kingdom. The upset brings a tingle to his skin. What was France thinking?

England is lying with his eyes closed, his mind with his people as they worked. While his nobles, arrogant with their French blood, deigned the servants as below them, England sought refuge amongst those who were truly his.

The door creaks open in bursts, as if the intruder is hesitant to disrupt England's peace. England does not move, only opening his eyes in resignation.

He does not need to turn his head to know who has entered. Lean, with dark hair and dark eyes, his king could have lived in this chamber were it not for the heavy, fine fabric that clothes him.

"Henry," England says. The other man steps into the room, not fully closing the door behind him. Henry walks to stand wordlessly in front of him. A long silence stretches between them.

"You…" Henry says. "Who are you? I remember you from when I was a child. I find you again, at the same age. Do you have a father?" He jokes.

"Doesn't every human?" England responds. The conversation is losing his interest quickly. This man was barely grown into adulthood. What did he know of sacrifice, of the duties of kingship? Of attaining peace?

"..."

England cannot tell his king to leave a room that he reigns over. He wonders what pathetic excuse he can give to escape this conversation.

"You are not like us," Henry says, softly.

England starts. This human...how had he…?

"Are you fae?" Henry continues, remarkably calm.

"No," England replies, slowly.

"Then…"

"I am your loyalty—your land, the people, and the collective belief of England."

Henry's eyes widen. England allows himself to look into Henry, into one of his own. His people are him. Their thoughts are his.

A breath escapes him. His king...does not understand. Yet, he is strangely earnest in his desire for peace, to end the petty disputes and civil war that plagued his father's reign. It is such a startling departure from the immaturity England had boxed him into, that he is momentarily silent.

Henry looks down earnestly at this being, this immortal who he knows not, but who he implicitly trusts, as every human who calls themselves English trusts. He drops to his knees, as if it is England who had been crowned. "Will you guide me?"

Perhaps, because his people hope, because they long for a return to order of older times, England does not say no. He is foolish to trust this man's words. Kneeling in front of another… it is madness. England himself had watched from the shadows, bitter and standing, as Henry had been crowned. The young king knows nothing of decorum, of what rule is, having been separated for so long from court. His royals will always disappoint him, forever seeking other land, more worthy personifications to command loyalty from. The English are merely nuisances, a people and a land no one wants.

Yet, he is nothing if not the folly of his people.

"I will be at your side," he says. It is not a promise.

August 1415

When England wakes, he realizes he is not actually awake. The scene around him is clouded, as dreams often are, yet England's mind and senses are sharp.

He is acutely aware that a nation is with him, here, in this dreamscape.

He had known, of course, that when Henry and his army of twelve thousand had landed in France, that this was a possibility. As a nation, England had not sensed France in his physical vicinity, but that did not mean he could escape the other in his dreams, not when he slept on the other's land, breathed the other's air, and drank the other's water.

The meeting was long awaited. The declaration of war from his king had been announced shortly after his coronation, and none of England's following letters had been answered. He had not begged, of course, but simply asked for some explanation to the madness that France's Dauphin had started.

France is older, perhaps seventeen years of age. He is dressed in the proper clothes of a nobleman, a fashion England's own court seeks to mimic. England feels acutely out of place in his sleep tunics. He was not so adept at manipulating the false reality of dreams yet.

France is simply looking at him. The awkwardness of the silence is astounding. What had happened to the easy laughter of conversations past? "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" England blurts out.

"Pleasure, I assume," France drawls. England feels a jitter go through him.

"No," he stutters. "Didn't you get my king's proclamation of war?"

"Hmm?" says France. "My king receives many letters of adoration every day. He cannot possibly read them all."

A prickly feeling grows underneath England's skin. He cannot understand France. Yes, they were locked once more in war...but the last time they had met, it had been in a time of peace (perhaps ceasefire was a better term). France had laughed, running his fingers through England's unruly hair as he had once done when the other was younger. And now, he stood here, as if they were strangers?

"Do you not care that your people will die?" England demands. First the insults to his king, now this disrespect...had Henry been right?

"From boredom, possibly," France says.

England flushes, glaring at the other. "You…! Do not say I had not warned you, I—" Suddenly, he is speaking to empty air. France has left him. He was left with more questions than answers.

England muffles aggravated yells with his hands.

The siege of Harfleur had been brutal.

Despite their victory, the English march with the enthusiasm of snails. Gone were the aspirations of securing the throne. With disease dogging their feet, Henry had been left with no choice but to route England's men to Calais in an attempt to withdraw.

England can feel France behind his men, vague and in the far off distance. The knowledge discomforts him in a way he cannot place. France had not appeared in any of his dreams since the campaign had started, not even to gloat that England was now running from the battle he started. Even when they had previously been at war, France had taken every opportunity to dig salt into the wounds he caused.

(It's not that England had been searching France out, of course, but more so that France was like an annoying peacock — always wandering into your business to needlessly show off. So then why, why—)

Spurring his horse forward, he forcibly turns his thoughts to his king. His poor, foolish king, so well meaning to avoid war, yet standing upon the same bloodshed of his forefathers. England listens in on his king's thoughts, hearing the tumble of was it worth it, were the lives lost worth it, I defended my country's honor but at what cost?

"Was it worth it?," he echoes, pulling up next to his king.

Henry starts at the sound of his voice, and he turns to face England, his face is full of heartbreak. He is so young, England thinks bitterly.

"The siege proved to the French nobility that England is stronger than they assumed," his king says. "We underestimated how long it would be, but with God's mercy, we prevailed, and will prevail at a later time as well. The men we lost knew what was at stake."

England simply looks at him. "Was it worth it?"

Henry cannot meet his eyes, not when he knows who England is, and what the red scratches on his nation's chest mean. What the lives lost represent — England and Henry alike. Once more men died in England's name and in the king's command, with France graciously providing the change in scenery.

"...I don't know," he whispers.

Turning his gaze away, England looks across France's fields. The sense of familiarity pricks at him. "The thrill of victory fades quickly," he says. "What lingers long after is always ugly."

England opens his eyes to their shared dreamscape. France is laying in the field above him, watching the birds above him fly off kilter. England walks up to him.

"Why?" He demands. "Why did you insult my king with that coronation gift? Why did you invite us to war?!"

France feigns deafness. England resists the urge to kick the other. The movement is all too reminiscent of a time after Rome, when he demanded attention from the older nation. France had always only laughed, the weak attacks barely scratching his skin, before pulling England into an embrace to watch the clouds pass above them and listen to the chirping of birds in his woods.

How much the world had changed since then. Here the two of them are, locked in a war spanning decades. And England had hoped, that perhaps, with the recent lack of battles between them, that perhaps...there was a chance for peace...

He squashes down the feelings. There is no time for nostalgia in this new world, not when his men die in his name. "I don't know why I bothered," he scowls. "You probably enjoy feeling the pain of your people. Find it romantic, in your own sick way."

France's head twists uncannily to look at him. "Yet you're the one who sent the first proclamation of war. Is your own love life so lacking?"

The dreamscape dissolves, and England stares into the darkness of his tent instead. He does not return to sleep.

October 1415

The strange farmlands and cottages pass England in a blur as he runs across the countryside, crossing the distance as only a nation could. The thrum inside of him that draws him to the nation of this land, to France, guides him even as the heavy rain catches in his eyes.

He doesn't collide into France as much as the other abruptly appears and sidesteps him, forcing England to cushion his sudden stop against the harsh bark of a tree. His bones crack under the sudden deceleration and England suppresses his wince, reticent to show any sign of weakness.

It is a weak attempt at a show of strength. His muscles are bogged in a weariness that sleep will not fix, and his throat scratchy and reflective of the illness stealing his army away. Nonetheless, he turns on straining ankles to face France.

The other is infuriatingly calm, a picture of civility even amidst the pouring rain. He is not wearing the heavy, pristine armor of his army, a stark contrast to the English army's scraps of metal. Rather, he stands in baggy tunics, a dagger at his side, as if England had roused him from sleep.

"So," France spits out, as if England's existence is an insult to God. "Here we find the dog, running away with his tail behind his legs."

Predictably, anger brings a red flush to England's cheeks that even the rain cannot dampen. He is halfway through drawing his sword when France rolls his eyes theatrically. "Do not bother with this now."

"You insult me and expect me to accept it?" England asks, incredulous. His voice cracks on the last word. France lifts one eyebrow, smug, and England scowls. Even at a distance, he cannot deny the difference in physical maturity between them both.

(It is unfair. France is hardly more than a few centuries older than England, at most, yet it is England that struggles to grow, England that struggles to obtain his people's loyalty and devotion. France captivates both nations and humans alike, and England...England captivates no one.)

"It is you who called me here," France says haughtily. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking down on England.

"I-," England sputters. "I did no such thing."

"Why are you here then?" France asks. "Running in the rain to pay penance to God?"

"Why are you here, then?" England snaps back. "Taking a shower after your Dauphin's had his way with you?"

"You insufferable–" Gone is the composure France effortlessly maintains. "You call me across my land, pull me into your godless dreams, and you are nothing but as savage as you have always been. Still the feral child from when Rome abandoned you, following an equally childish leader."

"You join me!" England squawks.

France rolls his eyes, and somehow, the movement is as condescending as it is elegant. "You beg me to. I cannot sleep without feeling you drag our minds together."

An uncomfortable feeling twists within England's chest. The rain drenching the two of them paradoxically seems to make him grow hot. He wants to reach up to grab France, to force the other to look in eyes and see that England is no longer a child, no, he's a nation in his own right, with people who fight for him, who want him, who will make him strong—

"I am in your land," he begins, his throat feeling as though it has closed up. "I would do the same to any nation-Spain, Portugal, even my brothers."

France looks at him through lidded eyes, and the sneer curling at his lips entices England to rip it off or kiss—

"I'm sure you love the attention, England. You were always so desperate for it, weren't you?"

A snarl escapes England and he shoves at France, the other merely stepping into it. There is a distant thundering in his ears. The few inches separating the two are the width of a chasm. His hand tremble with a desire to- to what? I want to kill him, England thinks, furiously, shoving his other thoughts away. I want to throttle him, I want to see the life fade out of his eyes.

"Why are you here?" England asks instead, and hopes the downpour hides how his body shakes (in anger, he insists).

For a long moment, France does nothing but look at him. "You should not have come," he says finally.

"What kind advice," England replies sarcastically. "I shall surely remember that next time I am on the cusp of victory."

"Cusp?" France says, incredulous. "You will lose tomorrow, you and your weak, defeated army. God has blessed us, and discarded you in the same breath. You are foolish to continue along this path."

"Then go back to your blessed people and win." In this moment, England wants nothing more to return to his king, his own people, far away from any sight or thought of France. Back to his own land, to rebuild after a civil war, to the predictability of warring with his brothers and the peace of not confronting uncertainty.

He pushes past France, and nearly jumps through his own skin as the other grabs his arm. He turns half way, wary, wondering of what to suspect. France looks as though he wants to say something (you wish it was don't go, a voice in him says maliciously).

After a heavy breath, France lets England's arm fall. They both stay frozen in that moment, the world silent.

England leaves.

The run back is dreary, and England is dripping wet and shivering by the time he returns to camp. England finds Henry alone, eyes trained on the nothingness of the darkness ahead. He approaches his king unceremoniously, and stops in front him.

Henry looks up at him, a relief in his eyes. The sight warms England, the feeling of attention loyalty strengthening him. "Where have you been?" the other asks.

England moves to sit down next to Henry, still soaked from the rain that persistently falls. He mutters under his breath and his clothes are dry in the next second. Henry, always uncomfortable with England's lingering pagan ways, pretends not to see. "It doesn't matter," England says, reluctant to think about France in any capacity.

His king looks as though he wishes to push the matter, but falls silent. The impending battle weighs heavily on both their minds. A man of barely a few decades and an immortal centuries old, both single minded in their devotion.

"All I had desired was to see this kingdom united under this English crown," Henry says suddenly. England spares him a glance. "After all the fighting under my father, I only wanted…" He doesn't finish the sentence. It doesn't matter. England is Henry, as much as he is every one of his soldiers in this camp—he is the words they speak, the thoughts they think, and the home they long for.

His king wants peace. "And yet, here you lead me in war," England says. "The blood of my men on your hands."

England feels the flinch from his words in Henry's mind, and almost regrets his words. His irritation at France is still affecting him, he thinks. Nevertheless, the words are true.

"I am your king." Henry breathes out. The declaration isn't one of demanded obedience, but of responsibility. He unclasps his hands, staring at them, as though they will provide him the answers to kingship he so desperately seeks. When Henry lifts his head to look at his nation, there is nothing but the burden of monarchy pressing his shoulders down. England's breath catches in surprise. "I fight for you, and the future of our people."

"Tomorrow," he continues. "Tomorrow…I pray that God will have us victorious. Any life lost will not be in vain, but to a peace that shall last the rest of our lives."

England, too, has a responsibility to his people. He will kill France for his people's prosperity.

25 October 1415

A breath, held. His arms strain at the effort of holding the string taut. And then, the command for release, and the sky blacks out in a shroud of arrows.

The effort would have been tiring for someone of his stature, barely grown into the body of a teenager. But England is no human. Yet, Henry had delegated him away from the fighting. 'To keep him safe.' England is bitter, but not surprised. His kings, at best, find him mildly useful at gauging the public opinion, and a bother day to day.

The archers flank the English men at arms, burying the French with each loosened arrow. The heavy rain from the night before has turned the troughed soil of the path into a waiting coffin of mud. The French soldiers, weighed down in their heavier armor, trample over one another. The weight of their fallen bodies upon each other drowns them in sludge. An undignified death, for a people so obsessed with vanity. The cavalry charges are useless. His king had taken a calculated risk, and won.

But even as England draws his next arrow, his mind is with the slaughter in the field below.

The grin on his face is merciless. His eyes are distant as he watches his soldiers engage the French. They cut down his enemies with ease, pushing forward in lighter armor, uncaring of the destruction they cause. But England doesn't linger on their deaths, beyond indulging in glee at the pain France must be feeling.

(It wasn't always this way. Once...once their pain had been shared. A long time ago…

It would not do to reminisce in the midst of a battle.)

He hears shouting, and he observes in his mind's eyes as one of his humans turns to the source of commotion. Two of his men are fighting a soldier who is resisting the inescapable pull of the dirt below. They are both cut down. The french soldier presses forward, inexplicably resisting the fatal pull of the mud.

And England knows.

He drops his longbow, shrugging off his remaining arrows to a man next to him. The commanding officer says nothing as he runs off to join the battle below. The men all know that he is favored by Henry and the nobles, for whatever reason—so they say nothing save silent grumbles, also drawn to their nation by a loyalty they cannot put into words.

England avoids the mud in the middle of the pass for as long as he can, running alongside the trees of Agincourt until he reaches the edges of the fighting. He sees his king in the thick of it, a beacon of glory, rallying his men to push forward. Pride blossoms in England's chest, but he has no time for that now. Hidden, he scans the battlefield, stretching his senses until—

There.

Lips pulled tightly back over teeth, he shouts, and runs to join in the melee. His people turn at his presence, drawn to defend him, but he pays them no mind, eyes trained single handedly on his target. He hears Henry shout behind him—

If we are mark'd to die, we are enough

To do our country loss

France is engaged in a fruitless battle against one of England' soldiers. Fruitless for the human, for if he had been in battle with another mortal he would have won. The strength inherent to the nation of France cuts him down.

France pushes the corpse of England's man off him, assessing the state of the losing battle. He is donned in the same thick armor as his men. It is obvious that it has been crafted specifically for this revived war against England. Once pristine, it is now darkened with mud. He makes a move, as if to draw back to his Dauphin, to advise him of another strategy, when England slams into him. They tumble without finesse into the mud.

Struggling to get the upper hand against France's greater strength, England clambers on top the other. France's attempts to grapple with him are futile, the heavy weight of his armor his last clothes.

and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

England rips the visor off France's head, throwing it off into the distance. Brilliantly golden hair is immediately sullied by dirt, and England relishes in the panic in France's eyes. Those eyes, trained only on him...be it love or hate, England accepts it all, so long as it is his.

England grabs one of France's arms and snaps it, and the resulting howl brings a smile to his lips. France is spitting French curses at him, failing to push England off. Instead, England properly traps France under him, straddling him so that even as his legs sink into the sludge, they pin France underneath him further.

"Here lies the once great France," England muses casually. He grabs the other's hair, forcing France to look upwards. "Hardly a fight, and defeated so easily."

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive

"You are a coward," France spits out dirt, as beautiful as ever. "Let us fight fair, and we'll see who the victor is."

England's laugh is mirthless. "Fair? You, who goaded me out here, with an insult to my king? No, France," he shakes his head. "The time for fair has passed."

France looks lazily up at him, as if his people aren't being massacred around him, as if he isn't laying flat on his back. To any other man, any other nation, it would have been a look of defiance. But England knows France better. There is fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for his people as they die. Underneath that armor, his skin will begin to criss cross in red, blood spilling as French die in his fields.

"You are not a man yet," France says, patronizing. "Perhaps you do not fully understand—"

"Understand?" England repeats in disbelief. Here he is, on top of France. France who is splayed out beneath him, like a woman, dressed heavy, while he sits on top in hardly any armor, almost naked. A wedding night, England thinks, unbidden. When was the last time they had embraced each other, at all? And here they were, as intimate as one could be in a battlefield.

England feels as if he is watching himself as his hands let go of France's arms to push the other's hair back from his face.

France's eyes widen. "What are you-" His words are cut off. Amidst the roar of the battle around them, there is an abrupt silence as England presses a kiss against his lips.

"I understand," England says. "Do you?"

France stares back up at him, seemingly shocked. In the distance, he hears Henry shout again.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home,

Will stand o' tiptoe when the day is named

England startles back into himself. When he looks down at France, he stares right through him, a feeling of horror rising within him. The noise of the battlefield is too loud. England wants to get up and leave, or perhaps bring France with him, or rather, leave him in the mud here all together.

"Angleterre," France says, and England cannot hear the rest of his words. He stares uncomprehendingly down at France. What had he done? He had come to defeat France, his enemy, for nearly the last century. And he had...he had...no!

Unbiddenly, his hands close around France's neck. The other stares at him, perplexed.

England tightens his grip, and pushes down. France yelps, before his head is shoved into the mud. His body bucks up at England, panic-struck, a dying man's last effort. Throughout it all, England holds France down, unrelenting, feeling the man's efforts grow sluggish, and then lax against his hands.

When he is sure France has stopped breathing, he pulls the other's head back up. His hand covers his neck, yet England can see the purple underneath. France's face is pale, his eyes closed, and England's own drop to his lips, where he had kissed him.

He drops France as if the other had caught fire, standing up. The world spins around him. He can feel his people jubilant in assured victory. Backing away, he can't bear to look back at France, yet another corpse drowned in the mud behind him. He runs, back to his people, back to what is English.

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be rememberèd—

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers

England is flush with victory when he finds Henry being celebrated amongst his men. Their losses had been few, and England pauses to send a brief prayer to God, naming all those who had fallen in his name.

One exuberant company is picking their way around the dead, lifting off newly smithed weapons without caring for the corpse they are looting. Others are corralling the french prisoners together, in the distance. England does not know where the Dauphin is, nor what is the next step to take, but in this moment, he is content to indulge in celebration with his people.

The cheering spurs the adrenaline that shakes England. He catches a feral smile in the reflection of discarded swords on the ground. He steps in mud, on and around bodies of humans with their mouths forever choking on mud. The image furthers his excitement as he pushes past the battlefield to climb up to his people.

"My king," he says breathlessly, laughing, manic. "My liege," and he gracefully drops to one knee, kneeling in front of this human—his human, victorious and so, so, devoted to him. England cannot remember the last time he willingly bowed in front of a mortal. He hears the ghost of a laugh centuries ago promising him he would.

The soldiers around him step back, an unconscious deference to their personification. Henry is also smiling, but his elation feels dimmed, and the corners of his mouth are strained at the edges. "England," he murmurs, stepping close.

England is too prideful to be told to rise, and so he does so unprompted, sparking muttering around them. Henry raises his hand, silencing the gallery. "Walk with me," he says, ignoring another round of protests.

"Is the personification of France amongst the prisoners?" Henry asks, once they will not be overheard. They walk amongst the trees that surround the narrow pass. England stretches his senses, running them over the nothingness over the French captives, then shakes his head.

Henry sighs deeply. "So he is still a problem to deal with, then," he concludes.

"No," England says. Henry looks at him questioningly. "I killed him."

"What?" Henry jerks to a stop. "He's...dead?" England shakes his head, again. "Then…he will revive as your kind does." Henry mulls this over, remembering snatches of what England had told him in the past. "Where is he now?"

England falls silent. He had…

He had kissed France and then…

"I don't know," England lies. He shuts the memory out and walls it off. The battle ended when he drowned the other in his own land. "I was attacked too soon after. By the time I came back, he was gone."

"For him to be powerful enough to revive so quickly…" Henry murmurs. His mind wanders off in thought, hand stroking his beard. England is too focused on ignoring what happened to follow where his king's thoughts go.

"...the prisoners," Henry is saying, and England has to jerk himself back to the present. He motions Henry to repeat himself. Henry sighs. "I am reluctant to say this, but I worry. I worry for you, England. The prisoners we've captured––there are thousands of them. You killed their nation, and yet he lives. For them to overwhelm us...it could cost us this victory God has blessed us with."

"Yes," England says, slowly, opening his mind to Henry's. "And?" And as Henry begins to talk, England understands, and his face splits in a wide grin. The anger he feels for himself France, the lingering loathing from their battle claws at him, and he has the perfect chance to indulge it.

"Kill them," he agrees. "Your concern is valid."

Henry is taken aback. "It…" he hesitates.

England does not have the same weakness, or mercy. "It would be foolish not to. They deserve nothing less than punishment for their attempt to defy us, and our mandate," he says with a snarl. Sparing Henry a glance, he consciously straightens, commanding respect. Sometimes, humans were too kind for their own good. "Henry," he tries to say, gently. He doesn't quite master it.

(France was right—he is, as ever, the unrefined, wild child from the past millennia.)

"You fought a good battle," he continues. "And won. To keep the French as our prisoners would only threaten our peace."

The young, victorious king shows his age. England can sense as he comes to terms with his decision. Henry turns to look back to where his people stand and celebrate.

"Yes," he says firmly. He looks back at England with a smile, and England can see the charm and sincerity that has captured his people. "This war...has come to an end now. The French will not dare to disrespect us again."

England hides his own smile. Disrespect? It is him who will spit on chivalry when he kills France's own men. He hopes France pays attention.

Calais is part of England, yet it is not. England traces over the sole of his foot, where this new land resides, feeling the lingering novelty in his acquisition. The people living here do not respond to him, but in time, after generations, they will.

England blinks his eyes open to the hazy dreamspace that nations occupy. When had he fallen asleep? Calais around them is warped, the colors blurring together. He stands to his feet quickly, senses sharpening. Calais is part of him now, so why—?

He spins on his heel and catches the thrown knife in the palm of his hand. Hissing, he yanks it out, letting it clatter at his feet.

France stands across from him, eyes wild. The armor he wore the last time England saw him is in shattered pieces around his body. England avoids looking below France's eyes.

"Calais is mine," England says automatically. Blood drips from his hand ominously, dissolving into the nothingness of the dreamspace. Nothing here is real, he reminds himself.

(Except for the words they say, of course).

There is a cackle of laughter in the air. "Yours?" France repeats, in a madman's voice. "Oh yes, you'd love for this whole land, this world to be yours. Wouldn't you, England?"

England doesn't reply. He wonders if this is how France had felt every time he had cornered England, the surefire knowledge of having the upper hand despite being in unfamiliar territory.

France totters unbalanced on his feet, then lunges forward. Alarmed, England fumbles for the knife at his feet but is unsuccessful. France catches him in a tackle and forces him to the ground.

"You can't kill me here," England wheezes, the air knocked out of him. "You can't do anything. You've lost."

"You killed them!" France shrieks, the volume shocking England silent. He pins England to the ground in a mockery of their last embrace, but his hand remain at remain at England’s shoulders, shaking them roughly. “You foul, horrible creature––”

Regaining his bearings, England shoves France off him. "And what of it," he spits, wiping the dirt of his face. "As if you would have had the same kindness for my people."

France shakes his head, standing up. His face is a reflection in disgust. "So eager to prove yourself, aren't you."

The words strike at England's heart. He can't place why. "I'm not a child anymore," he says instead. He stalks forward and grips France's chin, forcing it downwards to meet his eyes. "You underestimated me," he grins. "You won't again."

France laughs in his face. "Underestimated you?" he hisses. "Your rag-tag army manages to survive, and you consider yourself a competitor." He shakes his head, his hair falling forward in between them.

England hasn't moved, but the ground seems to shift underneath him. "I've won, France," he says. "I sought victory, and God rewarded me. This is only the beginning."

"Victory," France hums thoughtfully. He wretches England's hand off his face and grabs the other as it comes up to strike them. Instead of pinning England once more, he simply curves the other down so that England is forced to look upwards. Leaning close, their faces are a breath away, and England's attempts to free himself stop.

"On the contrary," he purrs. "I think you sought me." England's eyes widen, and his mouth twists to refute it. "Won't you kiss me again, mon petit lapin?"

England yells, and throws France off him. "You're wrong," he stutters. "I only wanted to defeat you–kill you–"

"And yet, you kissed me." England can't bear to look at France, his blue eyes hardened in hate (but don't they hate each other?), hair tangled and messy, as if the other had been pulling at it. "Do you think of me?"

"No!" England shouts, scrabbling away, trying to stand up. "Shut up—you've lost, shut up—"

France remains unmoved, a deriding sneer on his face. "Should I leave you? You, all grown up now. Certainly not a child. Perhaps you like to touch yourself to memories of me?"

England shatters the dreamspace and lurches up off the floor. He throws the door open, blindly stumbling through rooms until he's outside and then he's running, away from his room, from Henry, from France—

Shock cold water stops his pace and he almost falls face forward into it. He blinks up into the night sky, and with a start, realizes he's run all the way to the coast. In the distance, he can feel the insistent pull of his land.

Falling to his knees, England stares wide-eyed across the Channel. The sky was clear, the water calm. It wasn't true. France...he….he's a liar, England thinks viciously. Looks are all he has. He wishes I wanted him, the whore.

The ocean only laps at him, silently. He doesn't move until the sun begins to rise.

November 1415

Long live the King!

When Henry staggers into his room, a hollow look on his face, England is not alarmed. His people are happy, his land is at peace. There is an infectious joy in the air, and England feels giddy because his people are. Nevertheless, he gives his king his due respect, and sits up at his entrance.

"Henry," he begins, but the other collapses onto the bed next to him. England steadies him, brow furrowed, before understanding.

"England," Henry pleads. "I ask nothing of you, but to be true to me. Will you promise me that?"

The non-sequitur doesn't surprise England, he who sees all of his people, their deepest secrets and their superficial thoughts. So, the insult had never existed. There had been no ball from France––only an attempt by his nobles to claim France's throne for theirs. A bark of laughter escapes England. His people dead, a war waged on a lie?

Yet, it had been a victorious war. For France to fall—it had been worth it, it was worth it. For England to desire France's defeat, his people desire it as well. They did not die in vain. It is his future to return to France, to assert his dominance over the other. And if France died, then, well. That was only for the better, wasn't it?

"Always," England says. His king is true to him, and he will always be true to himself.

+++

Author's note

This fic is a mix between the actual historical Battle of Agincourt, Shakespeare’s play ‘Henry V’, and the netflix adaptation ‘The King’. The fake ‘insult’ by the French is fictional (the campaign was started when Henry’s claim to the French throne was rejected), but the following siege and miraculous victory are true. Major kudos to my artist, Percy! I hope you enjoyed our work.

Artist's note

I wanted to edit and draw this so it felt like a medieval story book, integrating the wonders of Mary’s amazing writing and my art. I hope you have enjoyed the integration of the two of them. Furthermore, I wanted to have some elements of Medieval story books, which is why most of this is done traditionally, while integrating some aspects of stylization. I suppose I should introduce myself, I’m Percy - a 15 year old artist who used to be heavily in the Hetalia fandom on an instagram account @aph.deutsch.wurst (which is retired now), now I post occasionally post Hetalia fanart on my art account - @mysticgummybear, though now I have moved on to being heavily multifandom. I hope that this provides some new content for the Hetalia fandom, especially towards the historical part, being the part I enjoyed the most, and at times felt lacking, Have a good day!

#hetalia #aph england #aph france #fruk #hetabang #historical hetalia #fruk fanfic

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, GREY! You’ve been accepted for the role of EDMUND with a faceclaim change to Daniel Sharman. Admin Rosey: “You are born unwanted, unloved and you have never worked out, not once, why you were kept; why your mother carried you, grew you, bore you just to immediately hand you off to a father for whom you were little more than a curse.“ Never before have I witnessed something so potently Edmund from the first. You bring a vitality and earnestness to him that makes him so incredibly endearing, even though there’s always that hint of the monster that lies beneath. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Grey

Age | 32

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | Currently I’m off work on extended medical leave (unknown end date), so mostly don’t have any major claims on my time and should be able to be around most days. With that said, medical issues and meds will crop up from time to time however I believe things have settled down enough to allow me to return to the rp.

Timezone | Sydney AEST (GMT+10)

How did you find the rp? | Blame Rogue. Always.

Current/Past RP Accounts | I briefly played Benvolio here last year until health issues got in the way!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Edmund/Easton Craven.

Easton - You have to wonder, don’t you, what they thought when they picked your name. Easton. Town in the East. A name basically devoid of meaning, of hope for what you’d grow into. They didn’t wish you valor or prosperity or happiness or any of a hundred actual meanings, oh no - that all goes to your brother the brave boar. Of course it does – you were never wanted, so why should they want anything for you?

Craven - Oh, you know it’s origins in the Gaelic Ó Crabháin (Son of Crabháin) , or perhaps the far less noble Welsh Craf (garlic) but you can’t but help take a certain vicious, raw and ironic pleasure in the fact that it’s co-incidentally also a synonym of coward. In your mind you hiss it, hurl it at the portrait of your father – but all that escapes your tight throat is a quiet whisper, with a tinge of longing for the way the name sits so tidily on Gabriel and Everett’s shoulders ( but then, it was never made for you ).

Edmund - This name fits far easier on your brow than the two before – but then, this one was chosen with you in mind. This one you have earned with blood and pain, whatever cost they asked was met to carve out this space, this place where you belong. Rich Protection is what you are now, guarding the Capulets with whispers, with secrets, with blood and bullets.

(I’d like to request a face claim change to Daniel Sharman if I could!)

What drew you to this character? |

You are born unwanted, unloved and you have never worked out, not once, why you were kept; why your mother carried you, grew you, bore you just to immediately hand you off to a father for whom you were little more than a curse. He keeps you out of the same twisted sense of honour that your very existence besmirches – does that “honour” do anything except ruin lives?

So much pain caused for one man’s already shredded virtue. In taking you in, Gabriel put his own selfishness above his family a second time – his play at penance means more to him than the hurt it costs his wife, the happy life you might have led if he had simply allowed you to be adopted by another family who actually wanted you. But then, how could he pat himself on the back about having done the right thing? In birth, you have learned a lesson you will not understand until you are grown – honour is simply a pretentious word for hubris.

( You are never wanted, never fitting; a jigsaw piece mixed into the wrong puzzle. )

You grow up chasing scraps of approval and warmth the way a donkey chases a carrot on a stick – in your mind, always close enough to grasp in another step and in reality always out of reach. Time and time again you take your pictures, your books, the homework your tutor praised to him and are met each time with the closed door of his study. Sometimes, if you wait long enough ( back aching from the perfect posture your father demands of you ) he will glance at one briefly, and you feel the warmth of the sun on your face, but it is quickly chased away by the cloud of criticisms that invariably follow. Each time you swear to yourself that next time your father will smile and tell you you have done well, and each time you return as empty handed as the last.

Your step-mother is never cruel, only distant and cold, but you are too young to understand the difference, to see that she walls herself off from you only to protect herself from what you represent ( and later, you will see it, the way they all protected themselves without worrying about protecting you and you will learn it well and hard that people look out only for themselves ). You are four when you call her ‘Mama’ for the first time, crying over your grazed knee, and her sweeping exit from the room is perhaps the clearest of your young memories, the words ‘Non sono tua madre’ falling dead and flat over her shoulder as she goes.

( You have been cold for so long that you start to think that even the slightest warmth might burn you to ash. )

Want curdles into bitter envy in your stomach as you realise what bastardo truly means: that the light that shines so brightly upon your brother will never fall upon you. That nothing you ever do will be enough to remove the bloody stain of your birth from the spotless white carpet of the Craven family. The acidic green bile burns through you, a sharp chemical taste in your mouth for years as it hollows you out, echoing caverns of craving in its wake until you think if you don’t have something then your very foundations will crumble into nothing.

Just when you think the last of your supports is washing away with the caustic tide you find something new to fill you to the brim. Liquid molten rage cascades into those raw-cut caverns, tumbling flames through your veins that leave scorch marks on your heart and fill your lungs with choking smoke. At first it’s all-consuming, over-whelming, an inferno that threatens to devour you in its intensity and you lash it out at everything around you; venting the hurt and pain of it at anything within reach. In time you manage to leash it, harnessing the Pyrrhic power of it to your own ends, channelling it in your own directions until you forget what it’s like to not be scalded and scorched from within, until you forget that fire is never meant to be played with.

( You set yourself alight to stop anyone else from striking the match and laugh as your victory pyre consumes you. )

Tl;dr: Fucked up, messed up boys are my brand yo.

( I feel I can pretty much perfectly encapsulate what cleaved my attention so firmly to Easton with that one time where my character inspo boards led pinterest support to send me a concerned email asking if I was okay.)

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

Obviously these are all contingent on the plot, other writers agreement etc etc, and are just ideas.

i. you were destined for the glory / the honor and the fame. / i was destined for the bullet / to be the gun with no name.

Everett has everything Easton has ever wanted, from parents who care to wealth to power to a circle of friends he can fall back on. He has everything that should of been Easton’s, if only Easton had had the sheer luck to have been born to the right woman. Easton never had a chance to shine as he should, buried since birth in his older brother’s darkest shadow, and now he’s clambering for the sun.

It’s the oldest tale in the world, this Cain and Abel fable, and yet Easton seems to be the only one who knows which page they’re on. Everett extends his hand and as much as the elemental fury inside wants to slap it away ( as much as some buried corner of his soul cries out to grasp it in earnest ), Easton rests his palm reluctantly in his brothers for now – after all, how much easier to put a knife in the back of someone who has invited you inside their guard?

ii. the moral of the story is / i will gut you if i need to. / i will carve my way out / with only my teeth.

It’s not that Easton isn’t loyal – in his own way he’s unswervingly loyal to the Capulets. Would he kill for them? Without blinking an eye. Would he die for them, on the other hand? And yet in many ways he defines himself more as Capulet than he does Craven; this allegiance, this new family that he has chosen for himself. When it comes to alternate allegiances, there are none he would so much as waver from the Capulets for; he has chosen the best player in the game and for now he’s content to ride their rise.

The problem is that, at the end of the day, Easton craves power and he craves control and the freedom that he believes comes with being at the top of the pyramid. He doesn’t see the chains that come with it, that bind Rafaella, Tiberius and Juliana with duty; only the way people jump to their words, scrape bows in their direction. And the Capulets may be a metaphorical extended family but at the same time they’re also, at their core, a very specific blood family and he can see the ceiling above him that his half-blooded Craven name will never let him rise past. Even the most loyal dog can bite and one day the Capulets may find that the dog they thought trained is actually a wolf - and that when you unleash a dog on your enemies it’s not always willing to be re-collared.

iii. when you are not fed love / on a silver spoon / you learn to / lick it off knives.

Affection is a difficult concept for someone who’s experienced so little of it in his life. On the one hand, he hungers for it; a deep insatiable need for the way his father’s hand rests proudly on Everett’s shoulder, the way Margherita had looked at her son, for soft hands to stroke his brow when he’s sick or a shoulder at the end of the day. But those are things for people who are worthwhile, who matter, and if Easton’s life has taught him anything it’s that he is deserving of nothing ( as much as he tries to yell into that void that he is deserving of everything ).

On the other, he approaches affection with the same wary fear as a dog that’s been kicked a time too many; to feel affection for something is to expose a vulnerable point to his enemies, a weakness for them to exploit – to say nothing of the self-destruct code he would hand to object of said affection, that he may as well be baring his throat to their blade when they inevitably realise how unworthy he is.

And so he tries to lock it away, snaps and bites at anyone who gets too close to keep a clear arms length around himself, and allows the loneliness to eat at him unabated.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Absolutely! I live and breathe for angst so as long as it comes at a time that makes me and everyone else bawl about it, go for it!

IN DEPTH

January 2012 (19 years old) Munich

Easton wonders what he’d expected, all those times he’d typed her name into google, deleted it and re-typed it a few days later. Whatever dream had prompted him to finally follow through, whatever holes he might have hoped to fill, he’d known it was a mistake the moment he’d stepped out of the airport.

Now, seated in this bright, cheerful kitchen, he’s sure of it.

“ So you’re him then. The child. ” Her hand closes for a moment around the golden cross that hangs around her neck, knuckles whitening for a moment as though gripping it tighter might ward off his presence here, in her life. How many rosaries had she said to absolve herself of his birth, to absolve herself of him? ( And he knows that they both know it will never be enough. )

Her throat bobs for a moment as she swallows. “ You have his eyes. ”

His jaw clenches a little at the reminder, at the way she’s already dissociating herself from him, abstaining any responsibility. Not my, but the. As if she’d had nothing to do with it. With him.

“ Yeah. ” The silence thickens for a moment, suffocating the room until he can almost feel it straining his lungs. “ You’re her then. you’re… ” What? My mother? Gabriel’s ex-whore? The one who abandoned me?

He’d always assumed he must look like his mother; the only comments he ever got about Gabriel were his eyes. But at this moment, the most familiar thing about her face is the same closed, guarded expression that Margherita and his father had always worn when they looked at him.

“ They told me you were dead. ”

Ingrid nods, as though she’d expected as much. and her eyes flick to the clock on the wall behind him. Past her, on the door of the fridge, he can see the bright primary colours of a child’s painting, photos of her with a man and three small children, and for a minute it’s a kick in the gut that he struggles to draw breath past. In Verona he’s nothing but the one who destroyed a family and here he’s just the ticking time bomb waiting to do it again.

He stands abruptly, the chair clattering back loudly against the tiles. “ This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. ” His fists clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms to counteract the ringing rush of hurt and anger. “ Sorry. ”

“ Easton. ” It’s the first time she’s called him by name, and he stutters in place, nails digging harder into his palms. “ I assume you want answers and I suppose - ” She won’t meet his eyes. “ - I suppose I owe you that much. ”

EXTRAS

Headcanons:

- Easton secretly likes to paint, and its one of the few things he has that provides him a sense of peace. Still, it feels like a vulnerability, a crack in his armour, and he guards the knowledge of it fiercely and warily, trusting it to no one. He scrubs his skin almost raw after each session, getting off every trace of oils that he can, because it’s far far easier and safer to explain blood in his knuckles or under his nails than paint. It’s so ingrained that the scouring ritual is almost a vital part of the process, a cleansing of more than just the paint. The vast majority of his paintings end up destroyed upon creation, because for all the peace he manages to find in creating them, when they’re finished he sees nothing but the flaws picked out in Gabriel’s voice.

- Pinterest Board

#accepted #accepted: edmund

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jadejedi · 4 years

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The Young Queen

Padmé Amidala, as seen through the eyes of media across the galaxy, from her election as Queen until after her death.

This fic came out of my deep, enduring love of Padmé Amidala, Naboo, and also third party POV fics. I used a conglomeration of Legends and new canon, as well as a lot of my own world building. Most of the Nubian politicians are some version of canon, except for Padmé’s successor as Princess of Theed, who I made up. Unbeta’d.

Find it here on AO3

THEED TIMES

Princess Amidala of Theed Wins Election Against Veruna

By Suballé Tanvoll

The current Princess of Theed, Amidala, was elected the third youngest ever monarch of Naboo last night. While a fourteen year old political prodigy, who has only served as an elected official for a little over a year, beating an older, more experienced fourth term incumbent, might be surprising to off-worlders, it comes as no surprise to the Naboo. Amidala’s ani-corruption, pro-arts, and pro-social programs platform has become extremely popular in the wake of King Veruna’s recently discovered corruption in the dealings with the Trade Federation.

Amidala was elected as Princess of Theed last year, having served previously in both the Refugee Relief Movement and the Legislative Youth Program. After one year in office as Princess, Amidala had an approval rating of 89%, and is seen as a thoughtful, compassionate leader. For the Age Exception Political Aptitude Test (AEPAT), Amidala scored amongst the 90th percentile. Her intelligence was made obvious to the public in her time as Princess of Theed, where she spearheaded improvements to the capital’s infrastructure, and helped Theed as it continues to transition to a more industrial based economy by passing laws that strengthened unions, imposed stricter regulations on landlords, and ensured the health and safety of industrial workers in and out of the workplace. Amidala won the election against King Veruna with 67% of the votes, a very comfortable majority. The Queen- Elect had the support of Governor Bibble as well as Senator Palpatine.

While she gained popularity as Princess of Theed through her social programs and focus on infrastructure, her campaign largely rested on her harsh criticism of King Veruna and the corruption of his administration. King Veruna, now in the fourth term of his rule, is the longest serving Nubian monarch in over a hundred years. While he is popular with some for his expanding Naboo’s galactic influence by exporting plasma through the Trade Federation, and his founding of the state-of-the-art Naboo starfighter corps, he has lost much of that popularity in recent months. Recent revelations about his involvement with Damask Holdings involving side deals with the Trade Federation have caused outrage both amongst several of his elected advisors and the public at large.

Amidala will step down as Princess of Theed at the end of the galactic month, and then two weeks later will be crowned as Her Royal Highness, Queen Amidala of the Naboo, in the Palace of Theed. In her victory speech last night, Amidala emphasized her desire to fight corruption and move Naboo forward into prosperity.

“For too long our politicians have forgotten that we serve the Naboo. It is the duty of politicians to always seek the best interests of their people. Today, you have spoken. You have told this corrupt government that the Naboo will no longer tolerate a leader who thinks of himself before he thinks of his constituents, and who involved Naboo in risky deals at the cost of our precious ecosystem. I promise you that I will defend Naboo’s honor in rooting out all corruption, and that this will once again be a government for the people.”

“Welcome back to the Planetary Broadcasting Network, Alderaan’s most trusted news source. I’m Cair Pash, and I’m here with my co-host, Yvonne Utelu.” Both hosts smile serenely at the camera.

“Before we get to our main story of the afternoon, Yvonne has some interesting news from the Mid Rim this afternoon.” The good looking, olive toned news anchor turned to the brunette sitting next to him. “Isn’t that right, Yvonne?”

The woman smiled blindly at the camera. “Absolutely, Cair. Today, the planet Naboo, a small Mid Rim world with relatively small galactic significance just shocked the galaxy by choosing a fourteen year old girl in favor of the incumbent, King Veruna. The Queen Elect is a young woman by the name of Amidala, currently the Princess of Theed, their capital city. Despite Naboo having a long history of youth involvement in politics, Amidala’s election is unusual even for them, by being their third youngest ever monarch!”

Cair shakes his head. “Truly amazing that the entire planet would trust a mere teenager to rule them! I understand that this might happen in a hereditary system, such as ours here on Alderaan, but to willingly hand over a planet to someone so young? What seems to be behind this?”

“Well, there has been much dissatisfaction with the current King lately, as he has become mired in several corruption scandals involving Damask Holdings, loosely associated with the Banking Clan, the Trade Federation, and Naboo’s rare natural plasma deposits. Not to mention, Naboo is a very small, peaceful planet, with a heavy focus on art and education. The Naboo place a lot of emphasis on intelligence and purity of heart, rather than age or experience.

“While it is an entire planet, there is still relatively little at stake for the newly elected Queen Amidala, as Naboo has little galactic significance.”

“Hm,” Cair hummed thoughtfully. “Still, a very interesting story. Thanks, Yvonne for that look out into the Mid-Rim.” He turned and faced the center camera. “Now, let’s turn to our main story for the day, also involving a corruption scandal, and this time with Chancellor Valorum…”

“Hello, and welcome to everyone joining us for the coronation of Queen Amidala,” greeted a dark skinned human woman in her forties. Rather than being in a newsroom, as per usual, she was standing in the courtyard of Theed Palace. “I am Nira Strellan, your host, and I am here with NPBC’s Palace correspondent Iarás Thal, as well as the Coruscant Daily’s Mid Rim correspondent, Jak Rils.”

The younger woman and the thirty-something Zabrak man both smiled at the camera. Both women wore elegant, yet reserved Nubian gowns and hairstyles, while Jak wore more typical Coruscanti business wear.

“We are here to bring you coverage of the day’s festivities live from Theed, eventually culminating in the coronation of our new Queen,” continued Nira Strellan. “The mood here in Theed is one of both hope and relief, as Amidala’s election a month and a half ago was seen by many as a sharp turn away from the corruption that mired the previous administration.”

Iarás nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. I think that those can both be used to describe the mood of the whole planet right now. In Theed, I would say there is also a sense of excitement surrounding this coronation. Amidala was Theed’s Princess for over a year before her election, after all.”

Nira nodded and turned to her co-host. “Irás, why don’t you tell Jak and the viewers at home not familiar with our culture what we can expect from today?”

“Well, right now we are about an hour away from the start of the coronation ceremony,” Iarás began with explaining with a smile and a smooth voice. “Amidala is currently in Theed’s temple of Yena with her advisors that were also elected and re elected this election cycle, including Senator Palpatine and Governor Bibble. Yena is one of Naboo’s four deities; she is the goddess of politics and governance. It is this deity that Amdiala, like all monarchs, will associate most heavily with during her reign.”

“Now, what does it mean that she will “associate” with Yena?” interjected Jak.

“Generally, in our culture, people choose one of the four dieties based on their life at the time, and honor that god or goddess in the way they dress, worship, and in the way they conduct themselves,” Iarás explained. She motioned to the green gown that she was wearing, and to the tan and gold gown that Nira wore. “We both associate with Civ, the god of industry, and so we favor greens, golds, and neutral tones, especially for formal occasions such as this.”

Nira nodded in agreement. “Exactly. So Amidala will most likely be wearing either blue or possibly black or white, all colors associated with Yena, as blue represents the pure waters of Naboo, and therefore a purity of heart, and white represents transparency and integrity, and black represents determination and honor. All attributes that Amidala will certainly want to project, considering whose administration she is following.”

Jak nodded in understanding, and Iarás continued with her explanation of the day’s festivities. “So, while Amidala is in Yena’s temple, King Veruna and other members of his administration not re elected await inside the palace for the exchanging of power.” Iarás motioned out of the courtyard to the street that extended in front of them and into Theed. “Until the beginning of Amidala’s procession from the Temple to the Palace, street vendors have lined the streets and people have gathered for food, art, and games.”

“From what I understand, Amidala is extremely popular here in Theed, isn’t that right?” asked Jak to the two Naboo hosts.

“She certainly is,” Nira agreed with a bit of a grin, clearly proud of the new monarch, despite her professionalism. “She has served as Princess of Theed for over a year, and very effectively at that. But, it isn’t just in Theed. No matter where you go in Naboo, from Varykino to Dee’ja Peak to Moenia, Amidala won every major settlement. We here on Naboo value, above everything else, intelligence and purity of heart in our leaders. The people no longer saw King Veruna as representing those values.”

“Here on Naboo, we see politicians as intermediaries between two parties,” Iarás explained, both to Jak and to the camera. “Our Senator intercedes on behalf of the monarch to the Galactic Senate. The Governor intercedes on behalf of the people to the monarch. The role of the Monarch is to intercede on behalf of the people of Naboo to the Galaxy at large. She is who will represent us and be the face of our planet to the galaxy. That is why royals on Naboo choose regal names, because they no longer belong just to their family, but to all of Naboo, and why they wear ceremonial make-up, to present not their own face, but the face of Naboo and our traditions.”

Jak shook his head. “That is truly fascinating.” He turned back to the camera. “ I’m Jak Rils from Coruscant Daily, here with Nira Strellan and Iarás Thal here covering Queen Amidala’s corunation. There much more to come in this ceremony, after the break.”

YOUNG NABOO

Amidala Coronated- The Young Will Lead Us

By Jorvol Brinn

Yesterday at the Theed Palace in a ceremony full of pomp and circumstance, Amidala, former Princess of Theed, was coronated as the third youngest ever Queen of Naboo. The citizens of Theed lined the streets from Yena’s Temple to the Palace, eagerly awaiting their new monarch.

Beyond just the planning for the ceremonial coronation and exchange of power, there is a lot that goes into the arrival of a new administration. From the handmaidens, chosen from both the Royal Guard academy as well as scouted for specific talents, these individuals are chosen the moment the new monarch is elected and trained intensively the six weeks leading up to the coronation. There is also an entire royal wardrobe to create individually for the incoming monarch, which has to incorporate artistic beauty, Nubian tradition, and practicality, as every outfit that the monarch wears is not only for looks, but for safety. The most important part of this six week transition period, however, is of course the change over of power, as yesterday’s ceremony was largely symbolic. Amidala has been in constant meetings with both the newly elected Princess of Theed, Modlora, as well as now-former King Veruna and the advisory council, both new and old.

Many outside of Naboo question how someone as young as Amidala, who is only fourteen, could possibly be trusted with so much responsibility. We here on Naboo know that age is not what matters, but it is what is one’s heart and in one’s mind that truly counts. In the process of running for Princess of Theed almost a year and a half ago, Amidala gave up her birth name in favor of a new regal name. She has claimed all of us as her family and as her priority. In her speech announcing her candidacy for Queen last year, she said,

“When I first entered public service, I believed that everyone who served did so for the same reasons that I did: to make Naboo a better place for not just its citizens, but for the planet as a whole. Since then, I have learned that I was wrong. But that does not make me naive. It means that we have not held our leaders to high enough standards. Our leaders cannot put personal gain above the good of the people. When I ran for Princess of Theed, I chose this name, Amidala, to show that I choose all of Naboo as my family and as my duty, and King Veruna did the same when he ran for King. He has forgotten this. I will not. Together, we will make a government for the people.”

She has shown again and again that she is a leader of wisdom and integrity. Her youth is not a hindrance to her leadership, but an advantage. She is not bogged down by the same cynicism that poisons so many politicians. She has proven that she doesn’t see what can’t be done, rather she sees what hasn’t been done yet.

As young people here on Naboo, we are fortunate to live in a society that encourages us to reach as high as we can from an early age. Queen Amidala is an example of the best of our society, and proof that our age is not something that can stop us from making our world a better place.

#god i have so many wips rn #star wars #star wars fanfic #padmè amidala #my fic

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persona-rrau · 5 years

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An art/fic collab between myself (@straylize) and Polux (@hyakunana)! All of the art by Polux, but below you can read the fic that accompanies it! We wanted to give this pair some love, and the watercolor work is fantastic. The fic was a ton of fun to write too. We hope everyone enjoys this!

Art: @hyakunana

Fic: @straylize

Title: “Axe”ident

Word Count: 5003

AO3 Link: here!

Preview:

Some forces in the world were truly impossible to fight against—the rolling waves of a stormy sea, the beating sun in the desert, the rocky terrain of the mountains—and Haru Okumura.

Ryuji Sakamoto had learned that many years ago—she was a strong-willed woman, one who would never change her mind once it became set on something. It was truly fortunate, though, that she was generally the sort to use that will power in order to bring about good for herself and those around her. Even the greatest of obstacles were not meant to stand in her way, and if they threatened to, then Haru would find a way to tear them down herself. It was simply her way, after all. Despite being generally soft-spoken and seen as demure by many, Ryuji was also aware that she could be firm and assertive; her ability to know exactly how to balance those aspects of her personality were exactly what made her so effective.

It was something he learned when he only barely knew her, as he had experienced firsthand how her sheer strength of will could get her exactly what she wanted once she had set her mind to it. They were only teenagers when Ryuji first met Haru; they were only teenagers when a fateful moments led him to find her in a dangerous situation in a back alley one night. They were only teenagers when he took a stand against her attacker, and only teenagers when he sustained a serious injury to protect her. In turn, they were only teenagers when Haru decided that this brave young man was the one worthy of serving as her retainer.

She had never cared for the man tasked with being her protector; though she was taught to do as her father said, it certainly hadn’t meant she enjoyed it. Kunikazu Okumura was a man of great power, leading both the Okumura region and its capital, the city of Astarte, to great prosperity. His control over things around him was unmatched, and though he abided by the laws of Arisatia and respected the King’s rule, anything purely under his jurisdiction was handled in a manner that couldn’t be denied as uniquely his. But strict as he may have been, there were times when he knew how to compromise—and very often, that compromise had been with his very own daughter. He had not been keen on the idea of Ryuji serving as her retainer, and with good reason. He was a commoner, practically a peasant by Astarte’s standards. He was crass and crude, even when on his best behavior, and it was made clear that he had a short fuse.

To further that, the boy had been injured. Haru’s attacker, a man Kunikazu had once put a measure of trust in, had broken Ryuji’s leg and left him potentially unable to fully recover. He had believed that at most, paying for the boy’s medical care would suffice well enough, but Haru refused that notion. She wanted for Ryuji to be her retainer at any cost. That person was the only one she felt suitable, far more than who Kunikazu himself had tasked, and certainly well beyond that of the suitors he had chosen for her.

It was clear to him that her reasons stretched beyond being enamored by his brave façade. Kunikazu Okumura was a man who knew his daughter well, bold and soft-spoken, but a romantic at heart. She was interested in Ryuji as a suitor, regardless of class and circumstance. And that reason had been precisely why Kunikazu agreed only on the conditions that when his leg recovered, he would have to work twice as hard to prove he was capable of being a protector. Kunikazu needed to ensure this boy would be up to the task, that everything Haru wanted him to be would, in fact, be met.

Her fierce determination was truly a force to be reckoned with, because it hadn’t only been her father that she had won over with her stubborn demeanor. It had been Ryuji as well. She had made it clear to him in those days that she didn’t intend to take no for an answer. Haru stood by his side each day as he recovered and rehabilitated; she had been the one to support his weight when he took his first steps, and the one to cheer him on as he trained his body to meet the standards that Kunikazu had set in place all those months before.

The journey had been a long one, to be sure, but just as Ryuji had inspired Haru with his brave and chivalrous nature, with his boldness and his crass mouth, Haru was just as inspiring. She was a young woman who never gave up, even when things looked grim. She somehow always found a way to smile even through her struggles, and her determination was something that Ryuji himself never wanted to deny. It was why he had given in to being her retainer to begin with…

And why in the years that followed, he found himself unable to say no to her whims. It took them years to find that balance, but it was one that suited them perfectly. A noble and her retainer, but also the closest and dearest of friends—and a myriad of feelings that existed between them unspoken. They owed their lives to one another in a sense—Haru’s very literally, while Ryuji’s was centered solely on how a peasant would not have made a life for himself that was sustainable without her help.

It had been nearly a decade from that fateful day when Haru, the immovable force she was, had begged sweetly for Ryuji to accompany her somewhere new.

“I dunno, Haru. Could be dangerous with so many people in town,” His words came out easily, casually; though it was uncommon to hear a retainer speak their lord’s name with no formality, it was preferred between them. Haru disliked the stuffy formalities. Being called ‘my lady,’ felt impersonal; they were friends, first and foremost, after all.

“That is why you should accompany me though, isn’t it?” Haru’s response, in turn, had been almost sickeningly sweet. Her looped her arm around Ryuji’s and gave it a gentle squeeze against her as she offered him a knowing smile.

Ryuji’s cheeks flushed slightly, he allowed his gaze to avert as his brows knit together. “That circus thing’s in town, ain’t it? Who knows what kind of weirdos are wandering around.”

“I believe they’re a troupe of traveling entertainers rather than a circus. But they’re famous! Mako said her sister has heard of them, even all the way from Eigaon!”

Her tone was airy and delighted; Haru always managed to emanate warmth at even the smallest of details. Careful to press again Ryuji in a half-hug, she elected to reiterate her point. “It’s barely off the manor’s grounds, anyway. If the city weren’t so bustling today, I’d have gone alone like I usually do.”

Ryuji’s expression shifted into a frown.

“Your old ma—Governor Okumura… he’s really gonna kill my ass one of these days if you keep runnin' off to some secret hideout without tellin’ me…” He paused, and it was followed by a brief, but exasperated sigh. “Guess I’m gonna have to go with… you’ll just go without me anyway, won’t ya…”

It was almost immediate how Haru pulled away from Ryuji and clapped her hands together, equal parts enthralled and victorious. She let out a giggle before she turned in the opposite direction. “I’ll meet you at the back entrance, Ryuji!”

With another sigh, Ryuji took off in the direction of his own room; if he was going to accompany her beyond the manor’s gates, then he would have to be prepared for all threats while remaining inconspicuous. That meant wrapping the weaker part of his leg with a bandage for a little extra support, his light armor, and a small but blunt concealed weapon. These were just the basics, as he didn’t anticipate a proper threat in the way he did when they ventured in toward the city center or the harbor—but it was his duty to protect Haru, and he would take all the precautions necessary to be able to carry out his duties as needed.

Getting ready always took a bit of time for Ryuji for that reason; a retainer still had protocols to follow in order to be effective. As he did so, he wondered quietly just what it was Haru was up to. It wasn’t uncommon for her to go off on her own for a bit, particularly after having an argument with Kunikazu or anyone else. No matter how calm she remained, Ryuji had learned that she did have her own fire of rebellion within her. The first time they’d had a major disagreement, she had, with a smile, contemplated getting an axe.

It was something he played off as a joke and then quickly apologized for his insolence, but over the years, that threat had come out a few times. Naturally, Ryuji had never actually seen her wield an axe, or perhaps he would have taken it seriously.

In any case, that day had seemed a bit different to Ryuji. Haru was in good spirits, and yet still wanted to venture off to her secret place. That place she went off on her own to and demanded Ryuji not follow—which, on those days, was advisable. He still followed her a certain distance so that he would be able to come to her aid if needed, but never followed through the whole way, nor did he peek in on what she had been doing. Unlike all of those times in the past, though, she had requested his presence. It was hard for him to not wonder, though he guessed that she would be revealing her intentions soon enough.

By the time he had prepared fully for their small outing, Haru had been waiting in their agreed upon meeting spot.

“Sorry,” Ryuji offered the apology lightly, bringing a hand up to his head to ruffle a bit as his short, disheveled hair. “Wrapping my leg took a little longer than planned.”

It was only a half-truth, and though Haru knew it, she responded by shaking her head and offering him a smile. “We aren’t under any time limits. I wouldn’t just go on my own after you promised me that you’d come.”

That much was at least a truth. Haru certainly would have left without him if he refused to go or tried to stop her. But Ryuji said he’d go—so she had no reason to try an escape a cage that presently didn’t exist. He wished to keep her safe, he was tasked with the same, but he didn’t seek to limit her freedoms—he only sought to keep safe from harm as she chased those very freedoms she wanted for.

“Let’s get goin’ then,” He bowed slightly to her, an offer of gentlemanly politeness that seemed unfitting for someone as rough around the edges as Ryuji always was. Even after so many years, he hadn’t become stiff like many other nobles and retainers they knew. Yet still, despite those frayed edges, he did his duty well, following the nature he had been raised with—polite and only disrespecting those who didn’t show compassion or respect for others. Those types were the opposite of Haru, after all. With a smile, he moved towards the door, pulling it open and gesturing for her to exit the manor.

There was a brief silence that lingered as they made their way outside. The sun shone brightly above them, with few clouds in the sky to offer them shade. The air was warmer than most would expect for late spring—Astarte’s climate was well suited for being a beachside port city, with only the ocean breeze shifting their direction to cool them. It was nothing short of an ideal day to be outside, though even still, Ryuji had no idea what was on their agenda.

“So… where are we headed, anyway? I mean… I know it’s your secret spot, and I know the path’s this way, but…” He trailed off, in need of a brief pause to find the words he needed. Words weren’t exactly Ryuji’s strong suit, though, so he came up short. “Guess I’m just curious. Ain’t like you’ve given me any hints.”

“It wouldn’t be as fun without a little suspense, right?”

Haru giggled, and Ryuji’s cheeks flushed in response. Her answer was so typically like her; Haru was definitely the type to seek even the smallest of thrills if it meant keeping things a little more exciting.

"Haru speak for ‘I’m not telling, so just wait and see,’ huh.”

She responded with only a hum before she elected to take one step ahead of Ryuji. She would lead the way fearlessly, with little reason to hesitate. Her enthusiasm showed in her steps; they bounced in such a way that the curls of her hair seemed to have a life all their own, and Ryuji’s eyes seemed to focus easily on their movement. Her hair seemed to have a life of its own, somehow. When she was feeling glum, her curls seemed to deflate entirely, when angry, it seemed to stand straight on its ends. And then there were the days like this one, where her elation caused that bounce that seemed to been even more vibrant than her smile and more energetic than her steps. Ryuji had no idea how such a thing was even possible, and yet every day, he managed to see it with his own eyes.

There was a silence that fell after Haru hummed, warm and comfortable. It was something familiar between them, that they didn’t always need to converse in each other’s presence. Ryuji trusted where she would guide him; in turn, she trusted that he would keep her safe.

The path they walked wasn’t at all populated, though. Despite the hustle and bustle through Astarte’s streets, they stayed away from the main roads. They walked on one side of a stone wall, through a path of dirt and sand that was lined by trees and overgrowth. The other side of that wall was a populated city street, which left the two able to overhear the conversation of residents and tourists alike. Some spoke about their vacation plans to visit the beach, other spoke of merchant’s business, and further were the ones who spoke of that traveling troupe of entertainers that had made their way to the regional capital—the name ‘Seven Sisters’ came up quite frequently as they progressed along the path. Silence remained between the two of them, though, with Haru and Ryuji both content to let the idle chatter in the distance fill the air instead. For Haru, it was a good means of anticipation—which worked well on Ryuji’s ever-present curiosity.

The silence remained and anticipation built until they came across a small clearing in the path. It was hardly a sight to behold; the clearing was little more than dirt, sand and tree stumps. The stone wall remained on one side of them, while the path ahead narrowed just as it had behind them. Near the further narrowing path sat some large sections of wood, presumably from one of the trees that had been chopped down already, Ryuji concluded. Next to the wood was an axe, which seemed to be where Haru was headed.

She let out a pleased giggle as she bounced towards the axe, it seemed almost like a monumental effort for her to pick it up. She heaved a groan before she turned to look at Ryuji, who had been momentarily stunned into utter silence.

“Wa-wait—!” He barely managed to sputter out before an incredulous sound escaped. It took a long moment before he managed to form another sentence—which had somehow managed to sound even more incredulous than the incoherent sound that preceded it. “You were for real about that axe thing!? What the hell, Haru, that’s dangerous! You can barely hold it without topplin’ over!”

Haru didn’t falter even for a moment, though. It was as if she had completely anticipated the way Ryuji’s would react, and had a response telegraphed for that express purpose. “Did you really think I just took a walk to release all of that stress, Ryu? ”

Ryuji sputtered again; the sweet way she spoke betrayed the hardened edge of how she said his nickname specifically. Most would have thought it cute that she had one at all, but Ryuji knew that with the emphasis on his name that way, he probably needed to avoid pressing his luck too hard. “Lo-look. All I’m sayin’ is… you shoulda told me way earlier. Axes ain’t my thing, but I could’ve given you some form tips or somethin’ so you don’t get hurt.”

His jaw clenched, his brows drew together—Ryuji’s face was contorted in such a way that he was hoping he was cooling off the hot water he’d quickly found himself in. It wasn’t a lie , after all. He would have done all of those things had he known far earlier what she’d been up to… he just also would have perhaps preferred she chose to wield an axe that was more suited to her small frame.

“I think my form’s improved greatly since I picked this hobby up,” Seemingly satisfied with Ryuji’s backpedaling, she offered him a much less deadly smile. “That’s why I wanted to show you.”

“Why you wanted… to show… me?’

He was undoubtedly puzzled by her reasoning, which she also seemed to anticipate.

“You may be my retainer, but that doesn’t mean I want to rely on you for everything. I need to be able to defend myself better… but truthfully, I wanted to learn for myself how to do it,” She began to explain, and though Haru paused, she didn’t give Ryuji enough time to get a word in edgewise. “If I asked Father, he would likely set me up with a fencing instructor. But I don’t feel that suits me, and such… pristine lessons, they won’t lend well to truly being able to fight for myself. So that’s when I decided I would learn with a weapon of my choosing, and when the time was right, I would show you what I’ve learned.”

“Haru…” It took a long moment before Ryuji managed to utter even her name. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but she always managed to find new ways to surprise him. Really, her reasoning hadn’t been at all surprising. She had always rebelled against following strict tradition, and always desired to do things on her own terms. This had been no different.

It was difficult not to just admire her tenacity, and so Ryuji dipped his head as a smile tugged as the corner of his mouth.

“You win, like always,” It wasn’t as if Ryuji would really say no to her anyway—it was merely an acknowledgement that her reasoning resonated with him, and Ryuji was not one to stop her. She was, after all, an unstoppable force in his eyes. A cyclonic beauty that couldn’t be matched in any sense of the word. “So… you just want me to watch what you can do, then?”

“If you could just move that piece of wood onto the stump for me…” She was capable of doing so for herself, but Haru knew she’d have to set the axe down in order to—and once she had it in hand, she didn’t want to have to pick it up again.

Ryuji’s eyes shifted warily to the axe before he nodded and moved towards the pile of unchopped wood. “Just watch where you’re swingin’ that thing.”

He meant it to say ‘ don’t swing it in my direction and take off a limb, ’ but even Ryuji had enough self-control to not let those words slip from his lips. The smile never left Haru’s lips, and though in that moment, it was difficult to read whether or not she harbored any annoyance that warranted a release of stress… there was at the very least, an aura of pride. Rather than push his luck any further, he did what she had requested from him—and then immediately pushed some distance between them by way of stepping back toward the wall.

“Watch closely, Ryuji!” Haru’s words were brief, but bright; that aura of pride in what she had taught herself seem to pour out of her. She stood in front of the tree stump, her hands tightly gripped around the haft of the axe. There was no form or finesse to it at all; the weapon was large and unwieldy for someone of her size and build. Yet still, Haru drew upward before she slammed the tool down towards the wood that sat upon the tree stump. It was with absolutely no skill at all that she’d somehow lucked out, splitting it down the middle. Her aim was good, to be sure… but she lacked technique.

Despite that, she looked at Ryuji proudly. “I know my form needs improvement, but when I first tried, I could hardly lift the axe…”

A stunned silence filled the air; Ryuji’s eyes were wide, but it was impossible for her to tell what he was thinking. Was he impressed? Surprised? Completely abhorred? She wouldn’t know, not until he spoke.

“Ho… ly… shit… ” stunned was certainly one way to describe his state at that moment. “Haru…”

Immediately, she began to backpedal. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and Ryuji responded in kind by leaping forward. “Oh… um. Did... Did I do poorly?”

“N-no. Nonono, it’s not that! I mean, yeah. Your form kinda sucks, but that shit ain’t easy. That axe is fuckin’ huge and you still split that thing right down the middle!” Abhorred definitely would not describe Ryuji—awed would, however. Haru brightened instantly; though Ryuji was crass and blunt, not hesitating at all to tell her that she still had a long way to go before improving—he was honest. She could see that even if he agreed she had much to learn, he had no intention of being discouraging toward her. Ryuji had never been good at holding back, after all—he was the sort who wore his heart on his sleeve and his emotions plainly showed in his expression. It drew a sense of relief from Haru; even if Ryuji still appeared to be keeping a safe distance to avoid her wild swings, it was plainly obvious that he wasn’t displeased.

“Perhaps now that I have the basics, I could seek out someone to train me,” She mused quietly, more to herself than to Ryuji. It wasn’t as if she expected him to know where she’d even be able to find such a person—but Haru felt encouraged by Ryuji’s awed reaction.

“Keep it up and you’re gonna put me out a job…” His response came with a bit of an awkward laugh. He wasn’t really concerned that she would use that sort of training as a means of firing him, not after all she’d done to ensure he would be her retainer. He couldn’t deny though, that he felt a sense of joy and purpose in being able to be a pillar of strength for her, though. Even still, he believed in her ability to stand strong on her own Maybe it would mean that in the future, he would simply have to watch her back instead of guarding her on all sides. And really, would that be so bad? Ryuji didn’t think so. “Can’t deny that I kinda wanna see you do it again. Think you can go two-for-two?”

“I’d be happy to try, if you’d do the honor of placing down another piece of wood for me.”

That was a request that was easy for Ryuji to comply with; he wanted to see Haru try again. He didn’t actually harbor a single doubt about her capability to do so, he simply wanted to watch her a little more closely. He’d been (and still was) so awed that he couldn’t commit the action to memory as he’d wanted to. Besides that, Haru seemed so thrilled with herself that he could hardly resist indulging her once more. So he did as requested, offering her a playful bow at the formality of her request, and once he retrieved another piece of wood from the pile, he placed it upon the stump.

“All right, let’s see it!”

He encouraged, and Haru readied herself. It all looked just about the same to start, but as she began to swing the axe downward, the weight of the tool got the better of her. Her wrist twisted, her face contorted, and she let out a cry of distress. The axe dropped from her hands, and she managed only barely to evade another injury with a quick step back.

Ryuji left absolutely no room for hesitation.

“Haru!” He leapt forward, no time wasted as he made his way to her side. The axe was all but forgotten, as was his request to see any more of her new resolve. All that mattered was tending to her; it was his duty. But more importantly, he didn’t wish to see her in pain. Haru held her wrist and bit her lip in an attempt to hold back the tears that had formed in her eyes, but hadn’t fallen. “C’mere… let me get a look at it.”

His words were gentle, but still carried that sense of duty and urgency that made it clear why Haru harbored so much trust for him. She nodded, wincing just a little as she held her arm out. His touch was just as gentle as his words; for all that he seemed rough around the edges, he never seemed to let that carry through when it came to his touch. He poked and prodded gently, which she responded to with small hisses of pain.

“Looks like it’s just a sprain. We’ll have the doc look at it tomorrow, since he’s probably off-duty by now. Still…” Ryuji didn’t want to just leave her injury untended to. “Let’s sit for a sec.”

“Sit? But…” She spoke quietly, her gaze shifting to the space around them. The tree trunk was the only spot that could double as a seat, or else one of them would have to sit in the dirt and sand.

“I’ll give you a boost,” Ryuji took the thought in another direction. He motioned toward the stone wall that lined the path. Even if other civilians were walking along the road on the other side, they would blend in just fine. Plenty of people sat atop the walls to rest through the day—the only difference would be what side of the wall they came from, something hardly anyone was likely to notice.

Haru offered him a nod of trust in return, and within moments, with her good hand clasping her injured arm, Ryuji lifted her by the waist. He used all the strength his arms and legs could muster, especially at that angle, and with his overcompensation for his own weak leg, to set her atop the wall. After a moment, and with a deep breath, he hauled himself to the spot next to her on the wall. Haru held back the displays of pain, though a few whimpers managed to escape her throat as he settled himself in.

“It’s a bit of a walk back,” Ryuji pointed out—that and the later hour in the day, with twilight looming—meant he couldn’t just leave things be. He began to roll up the fabric of his pants until he could find the cloth wrapping that he’d used earlier to keep his leg secure. He continued to speak as he began to unwrap it. Though he knew he would put himself at risk that way, Haru’s well-being came first. “We gotta secure that thing so you don’t aggravate it.

“Ryu, your leg…” She was worried, and it wasn’t as if Ryuji didn’t know exactly why that was. She looked at him with that soft, concerned gaze, but all Ryuji did was shake his head.

“No biggie. I’ll be fine. Besides, that’s my job, y’know? Gimme your wrist again.”

He wasn’t going to take no for an answer; Ryuji was just as stubborn as Haru herself. As he tended to her arm, he held it steady. Ryuji wrapped the bandage with care—his expertise in doing so for himself lent well to their current predicament. “Just lemme know if it’s too tight.”

“No… it’s perfect, Ryu…” As Ryuji finished wrapping the injury, she used the hand now stabilizes to reach for his. She didn’t allow him to pull his hand back. Instead, she clasped it tightly, careful to not bend her wrist the wrong way. It still hurt, but the stabilized positioning kept her tears at bay. Instead, a soft and grateful smile tugged as the corners of her mouth. She scooted closer and rested her shoulder against Ryuji’s arm, cheeks flushed. His flushed in turn, before she even finished her thought. “Thank you for being so thoughtful, and for taking care of me.”

***

A short distance away from atop the wall sat another. He was quiet, observant. With little more than a pencil in hand and a sketchbook settle in his lap, he smiled at the sight of the future Governess and her retainer sharing a sweet, intimate moment.

“Yes… you are both truly… inspiring in every sense of the word.” He laughed quietly to himself; though he would not interrupt them now, there was little denying that they would soon prove to be precious muses to him. He turned the page of his sketchbook and began to draw—a moment like that was meant to be captured and never forgotten, after all.

#persona 5 #ryuji sakamoto #haru okumura #yusuke kitagawa #royalty/retainer au #universal vers #fanfiction #fanwork #art #lore #ryuharu #we're both super proud of this!!

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dent-de-leon · 6 years

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what do you honestly think about keith's character development on the show?

This sounds like you’re expecting something a little different, so let me preface this with: I love him and I think he has some of the most interesting and well executed arcs in the show. Now, I think of Keith’s character development in terms of different criteria that makes the most sense to me. They are as follows:

His backstory

His ties to the Galra

His uniquely intimate relationship with Shiro

The relationships he works so hard to forge with the rest of the team

His leadership arc

If we’re going to discuss character development, it makes sense to begin at the beginning. And man, I’ve always loved Keith, but throughout season 1, he was stagnant. He gets the least development out of anyone on the team. It was even confirmed by the showrunners themselves that he has the least lines out of all of Team Voltron this season, including Allura and Coran. We’re talking about someone who spoke the least, gave the least insight to his backstory, and was for all intents and purposes a blank slate. The appeal to season 1 Keith is that he’s an intriguing character shrouded in mystery.

But really, we know nothing about him. When season 2 rolled around, people started complaining that he got too much spotlight. But he was the one who sorely needed any and all development at that time. Finally, we had something to go by–he’s galra, he’s struggling with his identity, he had a father that he lost, he’s afraid of losing Shiro more than anything, he wants so badly to be good–season 2 gives him his chance to shine.

And throughout the series, we are continually rewarded with more and more glimpses into Keith’s past and potential future–how he thinks of Shiro reaching out to him before they fall into the abyss, the innovative use of time-space mechanics to allow Keith to relive his history and properly reflect on it rather than having Krolia just tell him, the heartbreaking use of Shiro’s dreams to illustrate how much he and Keith truly mean to one another. All these elements of Keith’s backstory are incredibly compelling, and on that front, I think he honestly recieves some of the most history and background out of anyone.

Now, let’s talk about his Galran blood. Keith goes through many phases over the course of coming to accept himself for who he is. Initially, he views his heritage as something innately shameful and malevolent–haunted by nightmares, he tries to hide it. The princess in particular has a grudge against him for things completely out of his control, and he passively accepts her judgement. He never once challenges her, and instead lets her come to terms with the situation at her own pace and rebuild that bridge when she’s ready.

He’s incredibly considerate of her feelings and insists she need not apologize. Keith’s own sense of self worth has been dismal for most of season 2 though. It’s Shiro who witnesses his trial and Shiro who immediately shows his unwavering love and support right after. Many fans were upset that we didn’t see more characters really reacting to Keith beyond Hunk also learning to change his views, but the show runners clarified that the dichotomy between Allura’s resentment and Shiro’s total acceptance despite both being victims of the Galra was the focal point of this arc:

So we know how Allura and Shiro reacted to Keith’s galra reveal. What about the other paladins?

Lauren: “I think the rest knew Keith well enough to know it’s not a big issue. And they don’t know much about galra–do you grow purple fur at some point? But Allura has that history, so…”Joaquim: “And with Shiro, we have that history. But he loves Keith, so he sees the good in him.” (source).

They’re the ones who have been directly affected by the Galra, and so it’s their opinions on Keith that are ultimately the most telling. But throughout this time, Keith’s worth is continually weighed by both himself and some of his teammates. It’s very much a time of upheavel for him, of continual developments and change–and this only carries over into later seasons. When we return to Keith’s BOM arc, it’s after he’s been put under immense stress and has been forced into a position he feels he cannot handle. His earlier time with the BOM was about finding out his history. This time, he’s trying to figure out his place in the present when he feels he has none. Being Voltron’s leader just doesn’t feel right, especially with Shiro back at his side.

Especially when Shiro is also challenging his calls at every turn. The episode title here is Code of Honor, and it really reflects what was racing through Keith’s mind at the time. Honor means everything to Keith, and he’s not willing to compromise his own sense of morals–even for the sake of the team. He can’t stand sitting still and wasting time, putting on acts–when Lotor is out there somewhere, and still very much at large. When the BOM are on the verge of discovering a new strain of quintessence, when there’s just so much more good he feels he could be doing with the order.

But, even then, Keith is forced to confront his own beliefs and feels torn between personal loyalties and duty. Time and again, Kolivan tries to drill it into him that the BOM are not Voltron, that they must make sacrifices, that Keith must be willing to put the mission and self-preservation first. He would never leave someone behind, and that’s a danger to Kolivan’s entire operation. Keith is someone very passionate who acts on his heart, and Kolivan tries again and again to impress on him the importance of distancing himself from those emotional attachments– “You cannt allow your feelings to cloud your judgement.” “I wouldn’t–” “You have in the past.”

There’s more to the BOM than just Knowledge or death–the premise of his indoctrination and initial time with the BOM. It’s also a matter of acknowledging the risks, of realizing when something is a lost cause. “In Voltron, we would have gone back to save Regris.” “This isn’t Voltron.” “The mission is more important than the individual.” “You didn’t consider something might’ve happened to you. That would make me down two men instead of one.” “No, Shiro and Lotor are up there!” “Then you’ll die with them.”

Victory or Death, Knowledge or Death, stay with Voltron at all costs, leave in search of answers, the predicament of leadership and whether or not the mission is worth the individual–it’s a lot. I can’t think of many other characters who go through such a long and arduous journey of balancing different life creeds and weighing the moral ramifications of each, nevermind anyone that goes as in depth with it as Keith. His entire relationship with the Galra is a learning process that continually challenges his once stagnant world views, forcing him to confront the potential flaws in his own moral code and come to terms with what really matters most.

And you know what? The Keith we have now is presented as someone who remains steadfast in their morals, who always strives to do good and protect what matters most. He opens others’ eyes to the possibility of what a world with Galra like him could do, to a better future. He inspires them–“He’s our leader, plus he’s half Galra, so I think he’s like, the future.” “With Lotor gone, it was clear there was a power vacuum in the Galra Empire. Zethrid and Ezor wanted to exploit that for their own gain…but I knew I had to find my own path. And it led me to you.”

This is so far removed from the boy who was terrified of his own blood, who lived in waking nightmare that he was a monster. He’s self-assured and accepted in a way he never was before. Keith represents a potential new era of peace and prosperity for the Galra Empire, one where there were always be a place for people like him. This is an especially crucial change for the people within the Empire as well as the rest of the universe seeking out any sort of Intergalactic Alliance, because we know how the Empire looked down on those with mixed heritage.

How Lotor had to fight for every ounce of respect. There’s even hints at it like the mere mention of the term “Blood-Emperor,” which Lotor comments is antiquated but still seems to be highly valued by members of the Empire, “No one has used the term ‘Blood-Emperor’ since before we were a star-faring race.” Keith and those that are inspired by his code of honor–like Acxa–could very well be the ones that hold the key to a future where half-Galra are no longer regarded as lesser for their blood.

I’m gonna skip over Shiro for the moment, since his bond with Keith is one of the main overarching themes of the story that pervades and informs nearly every other aspect of Keith’s character development. So, let’s talk about the rest of the team–from the start, Keith is not a “team player.” He is, however, agressively Team Voltron, and more than willing to fight others if they ever threaten to leave the team. He sees abandoning the Lions as abandoning one’s duty, and his strict–originally much more black and white–code of honor prevents him from doing so.

He also seemingly easily weighs the decision for Pidge, and makes it clear that she’s expected to make sacrifices for some abstract “greater good.” “You’re putting the lives of two people in front of everyone in the entire galaxy!” “Keith, that’s not how a team works. People have to want to be part of it. They can’t be forced.” Again, we see that Keith starts off at someplace very different from where he ends up. Throughout the series, he’ll soon become the person risking the mission for the sake of the individual–and he’ll become disenchanted enough that he won’t see Voltron as the an infallible means to every end.

Allura even tells him, “But our mission is bigger than any one individual,” when he refuses to move on from Shiro. And later, when he tries to take a different path, she says, “Marmora can go on without you. They have for thousands of years. Voltron cannot.” What we’re seeing here is a ripple effect. At the beginning, Keith fundamentally misunderstood what it really means to be a team. Pidge’s character arc taught him that. And as with everything he learns, he internalizes it, and carries it with him for the rest of the series. He grows and develops into this very multi-faceted, dynamic character, with an idealogy and sense of ethics very much shaped by his interrelationships and experiences.

He latched onto Voltron like a crutch at first. The Blue Lion was all that kept him afloat during his self imposed exile into the desert. The Lion was there for him when he had no one else. And later, Team Voltron becomes the family he’s always wanted. His position on Voltron also presents him with the unique opportunity to feel truly fulfiled in the same way that becoming a pilot at the Garrison did. After getting kicked out, he felt “lost.” Discovering that strange energy and the carvings of the Blue Lion gave him a sense of purpose–Voltron gave him a purpose. And he desperately wants to believe in it. For once, instead of being looked down on or dismissed as a discipline a case, he can be the good person he’s always wanted to be. A hero even.

But his disillusionment with Voltron is very much necessary for his continued growth and development. Keith is never one to obey orders, and his willingness to question anything that doesn’t feel right and retaliate against it is very much one of his persistent, defining characteristics. It’s not so much instinct as intution, and Keith has always been good at reading others’ intentions. Not to mention the whole quintessence sensitivity thing. Either way, it eventually becomes apparent to Keith that he can’t stay with the team any longer, and he must first go on his own quest for the sake of what he believes is right. What’s right for the team–Shiro as the Black Paladin–as well as what’s right for the universe. He also desperately needs to do some deep introspection before he’s ready to fully accept the mantle of leadership that’s been demanded of him.

And the writers give us that–they give Keith time. Time to grow, time to heal. The Quantum Abyss is a blessing in disguise, a balm for a troubled soul. Keith is someplace safe, quiet, and has the company of his mother for the first time in years. She is able to allay all his fears of abandonment that have plagued him for so long, and the two are able to learn a lot from one another. Essentially, Keith gets to live out the picture of a happy childhood he never had. He gets to make up for lost time with his mom, and even raise a dog. Regaining some of that lost youth actually has a profound effect on his ability to mature and move on.

He can finally start to heal and move forward, breaking away from his past with the promise of a brighter future. When Shiro is brainwashed and lashes out at Keith, dredging up some truly awful things that would have once caused Keith immense pain, we see that’s he’s self assured in himself enough to not back down. He knows he’s loved, he knows his parents wanted him–he knows Shiro would never abandon him. And he’s able to admit his love for others in turn. Telling Shiro “I love you,” was huge. As was reaching a point where he was able to admit he loves Krolia. Words have power, and there’s a reason Shiro doesn’t react to the brother line but Keith’s admission of love stops him dead. Seasons ago, years ago, Keith would never be able to admit this.

Joaquim: “The one exception Keith allowed in his life in terms of expressing himself was probably with Shiro, because he felt the closest to him. And that situation was an extreme series of events. I think he was pleading with him. I think he was letting him know exactly where he stood, and why this shouldn’t be happening. And why he knew that there was still good in there…If you look at Keith going back to the original episode, where he comes out of the shack, and greets Shiro, that’s a very different Keith than the way he acted with all the rest of the Paladins. So I think with Shiro, in particular, his guard is down a bit and he’s able to express himself.”

Lauren: “But don’t expect him to go telling anyone else he loves them.”

Joaquim: “That’s right. He’s not handing out hugs and love hearts to everybody.” (source)

For a long time, Keith remained at a careful distance from the rest of the team. For reference, let’s look at his relationship with Hunk. At the end of season 1, Hunk is completely thrown that Keith would leave Allura behind. And what does he say? “What if it was one of us? What if it was me? You wouldn’t leave me, would you? Would you?” Keith has nothing to say in his defense, and Hunk is so clearly hurt by that. So, where does this distance stem from? Why is it Keith is so anxious about straying too close to others?

Well, we already know–it’s do to early childhood trauma and abandonment issues. Things we’re clearly shown, and that Keith outright later states in his vlog. “I don’t know why I’m that way…maybe, I’m naturally untrusting because my mom left me? And so, instead of accepting people into my life, I push them away before they reject me. I guess I have some walls up…”

We also know he feels further alienated by his Galran heritage, “It’s just, being Galra is a big deal. Maybe that’s why…I was never good at connecting with people.” And really, for the longest time, Shiro was pretty much the only support he had. And that meant everything. “Shiro is the one person who never gave up on me. I won’t give up on him.” So, the fact that Keith learns to take that leap of faith and reach out to others, just seeing him go from where he and Hunk were at in season 1 to a place where he was able to say, “I never told you this, but out of all the Paladins, you’re the one I’m most impressed by”–that’s huge.

He reaches a place where he’s able to comfort Hunk on such a deeply personal level at the time when he needed it most, and these aren’t just important team building skills, they’re the markings of great leadership. He’s taking care of his team. He learns to not only open up to others, but build enough of a bridge where his team trusts him completely. Where they’re able to open up and reach back out to him in turn. Lance learns to put aside his childish one-sided rivalry, and we even see moments where he goes to Keith for help and opens up about his insecurities. Keith comforts Allura after the alternate reality trip and reassures her when she’s vulnerable. This stuff doesn’t come easy to Keith, but he takes the time to learn and reach out because of how much he cares for his team.

I know there are many people who feel Keith’s arc as the Black Paladin was more so an homage to the original and had no place here, that it was ill fitting or Shiro was more suited to the position–personally, I was really hoping for a return of Black Paladin Shiro myself. But Keith has undeniably made great strides since day one, and he’s not the inexperienced, untamed fire he once was. For reference here, I remember many fans prior to season 2 citing Keith’s stunt on the hoverbike as one of the many reasons why he was a poor leader. “If Shiro wasn’t unconscious for this, he’d never let Keith have the job!” Stuff like that. And it was so incredibly rewarding to me to see that Shiro taught him that, that they were always sort of cut from the same cloth, that they had learned so much from each other.

Now, here’s just some quick excerpts from my other meta on why Keith was so opposed to flying the Black Lion at first–because, as per usual, Shiro’s presence in his life informs a lot of his behavior and feelings:

Looking back at all this in hindsight [given Shiro’s chronic illness] it’s incredibly telling, because it indicates that, when Keith was pushing back againt Shiro training him to be his successor, he knew what was really going on. Keith knows it’s not just the Galra that Shiro’s worrying about, that he sees himself as living off borrowed time. Keith’s rejection of the Black Lion is him rejecting the notion that losing Shiro is inevitable. He’s been terrified of this for years now, and it’s a possiblity he refuses to come to terms with.

He makes promises like, he’ll save Shiro “as many times as it takes,” even knowing there are some things he can’t strike down with his blade. And he’s always believed Shiro would still make it.

Keith adamantly refuses to pilot Black at first because of how much he cares for Shiro. And later, it’s out of respect for Shiro’s will that he reluctantly agrees to lead. And when he leaves the team? Again, he says it’s in part for Shiro’s sake–“It was always meant to be yours.” When Shiro vanishes, we feel that loss entirely through Keith, the one deep in mourning and unable to move on. He mourns Shiro with a grief that’s intimately personal on a level none of the others–save Allura–understand. He lashes out in grief-ladden outbursts and pushes the team away at every turn, instead seeking out the comfort of the Black Lion, clinging onto whatever remnants of Shiro he can. It’s unbelievable that, even when so overwhelmed by heartbreak, his soul still innately seeks out Shiro’s. To reiterate:

Keith can subconsciously sense Shiro’s presence. Throughout Shiro’s time in the Astral Plane–that time when his soul was interwoven with the Black Lion–Keith never acknowledges the Black Lion as her own seperate entity. He only refers to her as either Shiro himself or an extension of him: “Shiro’s the Black Lion.” “I know this is what you wanted for me, Shiro. But I’m not you. I can’t lead them like you.” “Please, no.” “This one’s for you, Shiro.”

Eventually, Shiro passes on the Black Lion to Keith, because he’s the person Shiro trusts most. And Keith is able to properly accept his new role, because for once, he feels secure and self-assured. Shiro is at his side and Keith has his blessing to pilot. Shiro is right there and isn’t going anywhere, he’s back, he’s safe, and he’s able to recover and heal. In the meantime, Keith has matured into quite a leader in the Quantum Abyss, and he’s become a man whose team will readily follow. They all look up to him in a way they never have before. Even Lance. And Shiro isn’t left behind either–becoming the Captain of the Atlas allows him to continue being the team leader he was always meant to be, as well as offering the opportunity for co-leadership sheith that has been foreshadowed for nearly the entire series.

Lastly, in terms of relationships, I think it’s no secret that I’ve mentioned quite a bit the noticeable parallels between Adam’s past relationship with Shiro and Keith in the present. Adam’s “but I won’t go through this again,” compared to Keith’s “You can’t do this to me again,” Adam walking out on Shiro and then immediately cutting to Keith determined to wait by his side, ect.

A Little Adventure also ends on the note that Shiro has come to see him in a new light–something evident since the Quantum Abyss. Again, here’s just some things from past meta real quick–because, if we’re talking about character development here, I know a lot of people have said–where could they go from here? I’ve heard people insist that the relationship was too stagnant, that it was boring or uninteresting because they never changed. But it’s obvious there is a clear shift in the relationship on both ends. So, for consideration, just some things I’ve noticed:

When Shiro’s soul is adrift, displaced from his body, he dreams of Keith. Given the emphasis on mystical bonds in this series, I think it’s no coincidence that Keith was also the one calling out to Shiro all this time. And when Keith begs Shiro not to leave him again, to return to him, by some miracle…Shiro is brought back from the brink of death. His soul, which had been all but lost, was tethered to Keith’s. That love anchored him back to this plane: “Shiro, please. Fight! You can’t do this to me again…” “I was dreaming…Keith, you saved me.” “We saved each other.”

There’s a reason why all his worst nightmares are Shiro leaving him behind–Shiro’s the one person who never gave up on him. I think it’s pretty realistic that Keith would feel so intensely for him, even at such a young age. I think Keith was always sort of carrying a torch for Shiro, I think that’s just who he is. And I think that, after years and tons of growth and change and character development, having all these memories be Shiro’s dreams, have the narrative compare Keith to his ex and then hear Shiro say, “You saved me”–it’s a pretty brilliant way of showing how Shiro’s come to have feelings for the man Keith became in turn.

See also:

But here’s the thing, Shiro isn’t weak in [his fight with Sendak], the matchup with Sendak is pretty even right up until the end there. He just needed a little help. And you know what? That’s a huge part of Shiro’s overarching character arc–how he has to learn it’s okay to lean on others and he doesn’t have to exist as a solemn statue behind stone walls.

If you look back at the flashbacks in A Little Adventure, he tells Adam, “You don’t have to protect me.” All his life, he’s wanted to prove he wasn’t weak. But at some point, he started to misconstrue that as, I have to be strong enough to never rely on anyone else, I can’t ever be vulnerable. The lesson he eventually learns that I think goes over a lot of fans’ heads here is that there’s nothing wrong with being protected.

And Keith’s way of saving Shiro is in so much more than daring rescues. It’s how he’s always been the one to believe in Shiro. It’s how he’s the one who always tells Shiro to keep fighting. It’s how he always insisted Shiro was the best leader among them. It’s how he begs Shiro to keep going no matter what, that it’s okay, don’t worry, “you’re gonna make it.”

In short, Keith became Shiro’s support in the same way that Shiro’s always been there for him. They anchor one another. And lastly, this note on how Keith and Shiro’s relationship has grown into a place where it seems meant to last:

Lauren: “And that’s something that, where Adam might be able to walk away from a relationship, because he doesn’t feel that respect, that relationship is something that Keith would hold on to his whole life, and probably never be able to walk away from.” (source)

So, suffice to say–Keith goes through a lot of character development, and honestly, so much of it is really solid with a wonderful foundation to build off and grow.

#keith #sheith #voltron #sorry its long

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meadweos · 5 years

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𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 —— 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒑𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 !

❛❛ Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. ❜❜ — Iain Thomas

001. 𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒓…

sun or moon? stars or clouds? sea or sky? sunrise or sunset? early morning or late night? snow or rain? pastel or primary colours? hot chocolate or coffee? dusk or dawn? baths or showers? swimming or running? singing or dancing? paperback or hardcover? misty mornings or rainy mornings? soft pillows or hard pillows? pop or punk?

002. 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆…

… forced to choose between saving your best friend or yourself, what would your choice be?

❛ My best friend. ❜ It seems as though there’s a lump in her throat as she speaks, her voice sure and strong. ❛ Far more readily than I would save myself. It’s --- It’s not right. It wouldn’t be right for me to --- for me to not save her, save them. ❜ She goes silent for a few more seconds, her eyebrows raising as she asks a simple question. ❛ Why, what did the others say? ❜

If ever you’ve already asked a question but already know the answer, it’s this one: Dorcas suffers from chronic heroism, and would save her best friend far more readily than she would ever consider herself worth saving. There’s no ‘forcing’ about it - Dorcas would choose others over herself in a heartbeat.

… trapped on a deserted island, who would you want to have with you?

❛ Probably Calliope or Emmeline. Maybe, maybe Lily. Or Alice. I mean, it’s kind of impossible to choose, right? You can have someone you get along with, or someone who you know is better at magic than you, or someone who knows stuff about surviving on a deserted island, or literally anyone famous. ❜ Dorcas shrugs. The question is more casual than the others, and her shoulders droop as she breathes in and out deeply.

… able to turn back time and given the chance to change one thing, would you?

❛ My - my brother. I’d go back, for my brother. So I could save him. Or die in his place. Anything. Just - my brother. He should be here. ❜ Her voice is panicked, now. It’s a question she hadn’t been expecting, and she knows traveling through time is possible - time turners - but she doesn’t trust herself to use them. She doesn’t trust herself to save him without breaking everything. She didn’t save him the first time. What’s to say fear won’t paralyze her again?

… able to see the future, would you try to change it, or let it happen as it should?

❛ I mean, if things are happy in the end, I’d probably let it happen as it should. But i’s not about me or my happiness. If the people that I love are happy, then I’d keep it the same. But I’d change it in a heartbeat if I knew the end of all this was anything but simple, pure happiness for any of them. ❜

If Dorcas knew what would happen to her, to her friends, her life wouldn’t be the thing that she’d want saved. No. Marlene dies soon after she does - they think it’s by Travers and his crowd, but nobody ever finds out. He gets her entire family. There are no more McKinnons that will ever grace the grounds of Hogwarts. Gideon and Fabian Prewett - brave, strong, good - are killed by five Death Eaters that same August. The ground becomes hallowed, sacred, and nobody can speak their names without thinking of Molly - poor, dearest Molly. Lily and James have a son, they get to be happy, but they’re locked away in Godric’s Hollow, and it’s there that they die, only months after Dorcas had. Their son lives, but his life is scarred, and set out for him, already. The life of a martyr. Sirius wastes away in Azkaban, and when he gets his only taste of freedom, it’s tinged by imprisonment in a house he never wanted to call home again in his life, and then he dies, and there’s no body to bury. Peter’s a traitor, until he has one moment - one shining moment of humanity - and then he is dead by his own hand. Remus lives an entire life without his best friends, goes near mad with the grief of that loss, and after finding Sirius again, he loses him so soon, and then dies himself, too.

Emmeline lives. She gets to live, for a shining, glorious number of years, but they’re numbered. They’ve always been numbered. He comes for her, as he came for Dorcas, and she dies in the street. Alice is tortured into insanity like Frank is - they become Aurors and are successful pillars of the community and then it happens. They get their happiness, their son, but it is ripped away. He’s raised by his grandmother - formidable and strict, always criticizing him for not being the father he’d never known. Nobody ever knows what becomes of Regulus Black. Nobody ever talks about his story, or how he’s a good person, in his own way. Andromeda and Ted get married. They have a daughter, with a name as long and complex as Andromeda’s own, but then Ted goes away. He goes into hiding, and he doesn’t come home. His name is on the list of deaths announced on the radio, and Andromeda’s world stops, too, when she loses her daughter as well. Emma Vanity has a career in Quidditch - she lives through both wars, and is happy. She’s not untouched by the ravages of war, on either front, but it doesn’t hurl her into the waves like it had with the others. Lucius and Narcissa live. Lucius, imprisoned for far less years than he deserves, gets a pardon at the very end of things - they both see their son grow up, see the son they had raised to be a snake marry, and have children of his own. Mary survived, but, God, at what cost? At what cost? She loses her best friends, her family.

Severus dies as he had lived - hopelessly in love with Lily Evans, staring into the last piece of her has left - her son’s eyes, but he has become someone not even Dorcas would recognize - a man of casual cruelty, who bullies young Neville Longbottom until he’s his worst fear. But there are no more McKinnon’s. No more Meadowes. No more Prewett’s. No more Black’s. No more Tonks’. The war that they had thought would be final isn’t. They are raised to become soldiers, some less touched by this reality than others, but it comes to them in the end, and one by one, their lives are torn apart. But, in the end, they get to be happy. There’s happiness even in their failure to surely end things. They don’t get to live until their eighties, sit back on their rocking chairs and reminisce about the old days. They die young, but some of their children live. They fight like hell to live, but they do. It’s the question of whether or not it’s worth it. They are children born to be soldiers, who bring soldiers of their own into the world without knowing it. Harry Potter is saddled with a fate worse than death - he’s raised like a pig for slaughter, and people don’t talk about that enough. He survives, he wins, but at what cost? Nightmares, pain, horror? For the rest of his life? His scar may not hurt anymore, but his limbs ache, and he remembers the feeling of someone in his mind more vividly than he ever wanted to. His friends, his friends, die. Fred and George Weasley? Dead. Remus? Dead. Tonks? Dead. Colin Creevey? Dead. Happiness isn’t something easily measured - they are happy, but it’s always tinged by the fact that a lot of their problems haven’t gone away. Psychologically, the harm of war stays with you forever.

Dorcas would want everyone else to live. She’d throw herself in front of that Killing Curse for anyone, for anything. If she knew, she’d want everything rewritten. It would begin and end with her, nobody else, and she’s so foolishly optimistic that it might actually work. But the thing is she doesn’t know, and if she did, she’d surely go mad with the weight of it, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t change it - just that she wouldn’t be the same. And in the end, when she dies, she isn’t the same as we know her now. She still doesn’t kill, but she’s raised her wand far more times than she ever thought she’d have to, and she still holds out hope for everyone, but it’s not rose tinted anymore. The sad truth of the matter is that right now, she’d die for any of the people I mentioned above. Any of them.

003. 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔…

what’s your character’s myers-briggs personality type?

INFP — The Mediator

Mediator personalities are true idealists, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better. While they may be perceived as calm, reserved, or even shy, Mediators have an inner flame and passion that can truly shine. Comprising just 4% of the population, the risk of feeling misunderstood is unfortunately high for the Mediator personality type – but when they find like-minded people to spend their time with, the harmony they feel will be a fountain of joy and inspiration.

what’s your character’s alignment?

Neutral Good

Creatures of neutral good alignment believe that there must be some regulation in combination with freedoms if the best is to be brought to the world--the most beneficial conditions for living things in general and intelligent creatures in particular. Creatures of this alignments see the cosmos as a place where law and chaos are merely tools to use in bringing life, happiness, and prosperity to all deserving creatures. Order is not good unless it brings this to all; neither is randomness and total freedom desirable if it does not bring such good. Neutral goods value both personal freedom and adherence to laws. They feel that too many laws may unnecessarily restrict the freedom of good beings. They also believe that too much freedom may not protect society as a whole and encourage counterproductive divisions and in-fighting. They promote governments which hold broad powers, but do not interfere in the day-to-day lives of their citizens.

if you had to use one tv trope to describe your character, what would it be?

Skilled, but Naive or Wide-Eyed Idealist

#sac:task1 #( the phoenix flower blooms invisibly out of the white ashes of the sea. )#chill? what? i have none apparently

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mowseries · 6 years

Text

Allies Obstruct

=INTRO A: COLLAPSING PEACE=

((Courtesy of @codedhopes & @super-tired-robot))

<<—Previous——————Table of Contents——————Next—>>

[It is the year 20XX. Breakthroughs in robotic technology have ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity. Violence is confined to the Battle Colosseum, where robot combatants face off in spectacular duels. The sport has become a worldwide favorite, and elite competitors regularly rise to the challenge to garner glory… or else fall from favor.

Of all the world’s combat teams, the Mighty Numbers are recognized as the best of the best. The family was famous worldwide, and often attended exclusive events to defend their status. One such event—the Queen’s Tournament in England—had just come to a close. Now, the family was finally on the way home.]

Will: -Sighs as he looks at the folder full of papers- … (I don’t like working with sensitive material outside the office, but I should probably at least review some of these…)

[They had risen through the ranks and claimed their rightful status as champions and victors, but it hadn’t come without cost. The final match of the tournament had been held against team Greater Dusk: a notorious gang headed by an assassin.]

Will: -Pauses at the pile of newspaper clippings- (Oh, right… they must be interested in the coverage and how pervasive the search is…. I guess Avi put together these for their records.)

[The match had quickly turned from a touted title match to a deadly fight for their lives when most of the opposing team had become overtaken by a bizarre “berserker” mode, becoming insanely aggressive and losing their free will to the madness. The situation came to a climax when Dynatron, the electric diva, had been taken hostage by Bladeblaster…

…who was subsequently attacked by an inexplicable mysterious visitor.]

Will: -Frowns, flipping past printed copies of notifications from various federal authorities in London and New York, all of which were marked “VOID” by Shade’s Certified Assassins' League stamp- (At least everyone made it out safely…. Thank God Dynatron is alright. There’s no way they’ll ever find Tobias, and Kate is taking care of Jack even as we speak…)

[In truth, the young man who had intervened was not a Xelbot at all—but rather, a robot from another world entirely!]

Will: (Mikhail said that he had something to tell me about the finals… I wonder what it was?)

[For several years up to that point, the Mighty Numbers had been made aware of portals to other worlds. It was on one such fantastic adventure that they met a family of robots (known as “Robot Masters” in their native world) and become good friends.]

Will: -Snorts as he comes across these news clippings- (Oh, I remember this night... it's a little less than you TRULY deserve, Graham, so you really should be thankful—not that you're smart enough to figure out who really did this.)

Will: (At least they didn’t get in trouble. I’m glad Graham didn’t even try to pin that on us…)

Will: (Lord knows he’s been willing to do that every time else…)

[They had seen many adventures together, and it wasn’t only the robots who had made friends: the Doctors had, too. For the first time in ages, Dr. William White had made a friend—a human person he could trust…

…Well. About as much as he could trust anyone, other than his good friend and colleague, Doctor Soichiro Sanda, at any rate.]

Will: …

Will: (Ah, Kate’s notes! Oh dear—I think these are in code…) -Squints-

[The events of the Queen’s Finals (as they’d taken to calling the last four matches, and the championship match in particular) had left a lot of loose ends and many questions. The nature of the infected crosses that had caused the madness remained an uneasy mystery… one which had driven another friend of theirs to investigate the matter personally.]

[Unfortunately, he had only fallen into a sleep born of deep sickness, himself.]

Will: … (Still no word of Felix getting better. Oh, Felix… I do hope you are alright. Sounds like Jack is doing better, which is a relief. The poor man took a sawblade right to the spine when he stood up to his boss. But…) -Grips the paper tighter, pressing his mouth into a thin line- (I’m not sure if this bit about a “provider” is code…. If Bladeblaster was a CherryDyn construct, wouldn’t that company be their “provider”? That’s what it looked like when we investigated, at any rate. And…) -Narrows his eyes- (I really don’t like this bit about Bladeblaster apparently faking his death…. But of course it would be like Graham to cover his tracks like that, now wouldn’t it…)

[Tobias had made a public, international spectacle of himself. The Mighty Numbers had been bombarded with questions from all sides, not the least of which had been uncomfortable inquiries from federal authorities. Thankfully, the team’s sniper—Mighty No. 8: Countershade—was himself a member of the Certified Assassins’ League, and was able to pull some strings to get people to back off. He’d grown very tired and irritated in the process, though, as he’d been forced to take most of the heat… and was, as a result, openly short-tempered and snappy.]

Will: (I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept for several days once we get home… if it weren’t for the fact we have a match immediately after.) -Flips through the notes- —…

Will: -Stops and smiles at a picture of Beck’s birthday-

[The happy days with their friends seemed so far off after several months abroad. But soon they would be back home. They could celebrate missed birthdays, resume the friendly spars—after ending off on such a high note, with the exciting matches between Beck vs Echo and Cardinal vs Countershade!—and put all this gloomy mess behind them.]

Will: (I know how much the Mighties have been looking forward to bringing home the trophy, like they’d promised. I’m sure the Rebel Angels are excited, too….)

DING!

“This is your captain speaking. If you look out to your left, you can see the lovely New York City skyline as we approach…”

Will: (O-oh—) -Fumbles for phone- (Mother wanted me to call her as soon as we came stateside, even if it was an odd hour—) …

Will: -Mutters- Oops… forgot to charge, aheh… -Scratches head slightly, ruffling his afro- (With all the stress Dyna’s been under, I should have remembered to double check all the devices before landing. Wouldn’t be surprised if my laptop was drained as well…. I’ll have to recharge everything when we get home.)

Will: (Ah well! We’ll be home soon, at last! And that’s something to celebrate.)

[After all, they were more than a team: they were a family. And nothing could keep the Mighty Numbers down for long.]

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#Allies Obstruct #Mighty No. 9 #Mighty 9 #Mega Man #cje #codedhopes #mowseries #sirensniper #unluckyadept

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goodfortune-au · 3 years

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Good Fortune (Soulmate AU) Chapter 16: The Bubble

Slowly but surely, April became May. Spring began to flourish within the town in the form of light breezes and fragrant flowers, and just as the local flora thrived and prospered, so did the relationship between Angel and Pennywise. His visits had become as regular and routine as the days of her full-time job, and she could not be happier for it. It was almost like a fairytale; Angel would wake to his voice in her ear, she would slip out of bed and get ready for work. She would walk to the library, would feel the warmth of his hand enveloping her own along the way; she would work her shift, she would sometimes encounter him waiting for her when she took her breaks. He would talk to her and make her laugh, he would promise to come back to her when her shift was over. She would spend the rest of the day waiting with bated breath for her shift to finally be done, and then as soon as the clock struck five she would punch out and hurry home, not so much for the sake of safety anymore as much as for her own breathless excitement. While she waited for him to return from wherever he had wandered off to, she sometimes wondered just what he did in his free time when he wasn’t making his visits. She wondered more than ever just what he was, who he was, and who she was by extension. She tried not to let those thoughts get to her too much though; she was enjoying all of this far too much to be of rational mind now. They were in a perfect little bubble together, and she wanted more than anything for it not to pop. And then, just as her mind would start to drift off…

“Hello, my darling.” He would say in a low, gentle tone, often behind her.

“Pennywise!” You could always hear the smile, the unabashed glee in her voice. She would immediately stop what she was doing to turn around and hug him. Time would stop as they both embraced each other, Angel pulling him toward her as tightly as possible, letting all worry and trouble melt away from her flesh with the feeling of silver silk within her fingers. Pennywise, in turn, would return the gesture with a protective sweep of his hands around her back, would feel her shivering ever so gently against him out of relief, out of excitement to see him again. He would relish in it, the taste and scent of her joy, just how trusting she was of him, an entity whose origins and history she truly knew nothing about, yet she willingly gave herself to his care anyway. How delicious it was to savor, the secure knowledge in that she was growing increasingly more accustomed to his presence, was even starting to crave it and yearn for it. He would pet her hair, a silken hand brushing elegantly down the chestnut locks that fall over her shoulders and he would hum, would always sing the same song with throaty vibrations that would echo deliciously through her body.

Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements…

“How was the rest of your day, sweetheart?” He would always ask when they pulled away from each other.

Angel always dreaded that, the end of the hug. He always felt so warm; the sensation of that familiar warmth traveling through her body was addicting. She would spend what felt like an eternity just clinging to him, treasuring the feeling of him, so real and tangible that she could sometimes hardly believe it. Ever since that fateful night on Valentine’s Day, Angel had spent every day afterward in complete and utter bewilderment at his presence. Everything from his repeated manifestations to his supernatural behavior had her in a befuddled stir; she almost felt the need to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. But no, despite it all, he was quite real, and it was truly as though such a dream had come true. His aura was so pleasant to her, almost like his soul was simply resonating with hers, their respective essences two halves of one whole intertwining so perfectly with one another. It felt so right being with him that she awaited the break of their embrace with a sort of subdued melancholy; the second they parted and the warmth left her body she would resist the powerful urge to simply return to his arms. There almost existed some kind of magnetic pull between them, a surge of something she could only perceive to be otherworldly existing in the both of them, an itching to stay with the other at all costs. Maybe she was just imagining it; maybe it was all in her head. Or maybe, just like him, it truly was real, and she just didn’t understand why yet.

“F*cking terrible.” She would admit with a long, drawn out sigh when she stepped away from him to continue what she was doing. “Work was annoying- the librarian kept getting on my case for the smallest shit imaginable.”

Pennywise would always recline or otherwise make himself comfortable somewhere, whether it be the couch, a chair at her dining table or sitting directly on her bed. If Mayor Jello was nearby, for whatever reason, he would quickly make himself scarce and disappear from the room. He would listen intently to her woes and give her his undivided attention, wanting to make clear to her more than anything that he valued what she had to say. After all, that would endear himself to her all the more, to establish himself as someone who listened to her when very little people in her life so far had allowed her the courtesy.

“Mmm, you haven’t done anything to get on her bad side, have you?”

“Of course not!” She would exclaim, usually amid prep work at her kitchen counter. “I don’t screw around at my job, it only gets me into trouble. When I was working the Bassey Park fairgrounds, I was the only one who got caught if I sat down during my shift.”

“How scandalous.” He would smirk.

“I know, right?” She would scoff. “It didn’t matter that I was the only one who emptied out the garbage cans at the end of the day, or wiped down all the stalls, or cleaned bird shit off the picnic tables, my bosses still had it out for me. That old bat has it out for me, too, I’m pretty sure. Ever since I lost that book last year she’s hardly let me see the end of it.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh.” She stops for a moment, suddenly sheepish. “Guess you weren’t… Around for that. I lost a book forever ago when I checked it out from the library. Some BS historical documentation of the town, guess it was… Pretty rare.”

“Ohhhhh… I see, I see.”

“But I don’t even remember losing it. To be honest, I don’t particularly remember much from that time in general. I guess ever since… Georgie went missing, I fell into a bit of a funk. Still haven’t… Completely come out of it. Grief does weird stuff to you.” She continues chopping, or peeling, or mincing. “Or I guess… Depression does weird stuff to you too.”

He comes to plant a kiss atop her head. “I know, my dear. That’s why I’m here now.”

She smiles at him, blush staining her cheeks. “I know.”

Angel had “clued” Pennywise in about Georgie very soon after they had started talking, some weeks ago when their relationship was just beginning. Who he was, how she had known him, how she thought of him as her own little brother in a fashion. Had told him all about that time in her life, when she was just starting out at the library and how, for a short while, things really felt as though they were changing for the better. How things had only seemed to start going downhill ever since that day he’d gone missing, how it made the kids as well as herself feel broken up and disjointed, how it had made a dark cloud of gloom descend over the town’s collective heads.

How the disappearances hadn’t stopped ever since that day.

Pennywise had known very well about all of these things, but there was nothing he could do for the time being except feign ignorance. No, let her tell him all about the boy, let her regale him with silly little tales of her with those brat children. Let her think for the time being that he was a force apart from that which brought this miserable little town cowering on its knees. It would all come in time. The time was coming for her to learn of who he truly was, but he couldn’t very well simply bring it up in conversation. No, there needed to come a catalyst of some kind, some kind of crossroads to shock her system and forcibly make her cope with the knowledge. He knew it to be a dangerous and risky situation; he knew that, as much as he had made great strides in winning her over, she could be just as easily lost if she responded badly to the revelation. He knew she was a girl of some considerable moral character; he’d known just how much the death of that abhorrent child on Halloween had gotten to her, the survivor’s guilt she had endured for both that and the disappearance of the shopkeeper on New Years. He’d known how much the loss of that little child on the day of his awakening had broken her up in ways she didn’t even realize. He did truly regret that, if he were honest. Had he known the significance of that boy in particular, he’d have selected someone else to take for his first meal. It was true that his role within the town would be an unsavory pill for her to swallow, but it would have been all the more easier for her to grapple with if he’d not taken him. How stupid and impetuous of him, but he would hardly ever admit to such a lapse in judgment. It didn’t matter either way, because he was going to get what he wanted one way or the other.

He allowed himself consolation in the knowledge that, whatever she had endured before, it would surely be different now that he was here. He knew who she was, knew that she was prone to these so-called depression funks, frequent and staggering declines that would have her losing all purpose at best and the will to live at worst. A pattern as a result of patent dissatisfaction with her life, in the routine in which she was mercilessly confined to, monotony she wished so badly to break. Add grief to all that and it was exponentially worse; the poor dear was truly having a rough go of it all this time around. But this time around was different. This time around, he was here. Pennywise was that change she so desperately craved, and he was a change so unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Never before had a paradigm shift so powerful as he come to her on bended knee, offering her the world on a silver platter. Never before had she been treated as anything other than a nuisance or an outcast by society, never had she known such love and had it so genuinely reciprocated. He knew how desperate she was to keep that love, knew she was starved for it and knew she wanted to savor it as long as she possibly could. She expected it all to go wrong eventually, he knew that. And it would, just not in any way she could have ever expected. He was going to make sure this discovery would traumatize her so in that she would seek his comforting touch instead of cowering away from it in fear, for the instinct would be so deeply ingrained she would not be able to stop herself anymore. He would make sure of it.

But no, not today. Not even tomorrow. The time would come, the opportunity would present itself and when it did he would simply make his move. Though she adored what they had, the relationship between them growing more with each passing day, there were still certain aspects she was missing out on, things she wanted but didn’t dare to ask for. And he didn’t push it, because he knew some part of her wasn’t ready for it. Physical affection like hugging or spooning wasn’t off the table; it was just enough to familiarize her with his touch without taking things to the next step. But that next step was coming, and though he could taste that she wasn’t yet comfortable enough to go through with it, to accept it, he knew that hesitation to be growing thinner and thinner by the day. The first kiss… How intimate an exchange, and one he had been dangling in front of her for weeks. Whether it be neck kisses, cheek kisses; whether it be long, lingering looks in each other’s arms or moments of unbearable tension between them, he would simply not allow it to go any further. He knew it was driving her crazy, he wanted that. Even if she wasn’t comfortable with kissing yet, he knew some rebellious part of her yearned desperately for it all the same, and he was delighted to encourage that part of her. Once she was suitably ready for it, and at a time when she needed it most, he would make his move.

Angel had wanted so badly to kiss him, it was something she’d wanted ever since she’d started developing feelings for him watching that silly television show. Back in those days, when all she could do was look at his face through the screen and long for something she never thought she’d be able to have, it was simply torturous. It was such a frustrating feeling, it made her feel helpless, like she was drowning in a sea of painful, shameful longing that she could never escape. And yet, despite all, what bliss it was to look on his face and imagine the hypotheticals; how they would feel pressed together in that moment, sharing in each other’s warmth. They would talk together, laugh together, sway together in each other’s arms. They would fall silent looking into each other's eyes, the tension between them untenably excruciating and then, slowly, one would dip forward and their lips would touch. These were thoughts she would entertain on a daily basis as she got ready in the morning, as she worked her shifts, and as she crawled into bed at night. Hardly a single day passed in which Angel wasn’t plagued with such everpresent wanton desire. Why, then, was she so hesitant to kiss him, take the next step; why was she so powerless to ask for that which would make her so sublimely happy? Hard to say. Call it insecurity on her part, perhaps; Angel had grown up ingrained with the cruel assertion of others that she was disgusting and undesirable. Forget Valentine’s Day, every day outside of that was almost just as bad when there were boys oinking at her in the halls at school, pretending to ask her out and girls calling her fat and ugly in hushed whispers during class. That kind of thing was hard to ignore, as much as her family tried so hard to get her to dismiss those things on those tough nights when she would sit on the floor in a crumpled-up heap and cry her eyes out. Even as she matured she was still haunted by all the words of her peers; she’d spent a time in high school brazenly pretending to ignore it all, shove it back in their faces by wearing the most outlandish things imaginable and spurning their hatred, but as times got tough again she would find herself dressed in increasingly less bold color, almost as though all the joy was being sucked right out of her. All the years of rejection were simply impossible to overlook, and now that she finally had something treating her like she wasn’t the most repugnant thing on the face of the planet, she was… So deathly terrified of doing anything that might jeopardize it. They were in a perfect little bubble together, and she wanted more than anything for it not to pop. What if she tried to kiss him, and he simply rebuffed her? What if he laughed in her face, what if he was revolted by the mere thought? There was some part of her so ill at ease about the thought of pushing him away that she wasn’t comfortable at all in making the first move. No, she wanted him to do it instead. At least that way, she would know that this, all of this, wasn’t just some ridiculous delusion on her part. It was safer.

The fear of rejection steeping on her lovely form was a taste as sweet as wine to Pennywise, one he couldn’t help but savor silently. He couldn’t help it, it was just so tantalizingly delectable on his ancient palate, her fear a flavor so different from the rest of them that it called to him, beckoned to him. He was the only creature on this earth and in existence who was worthy of tasting it, of feeling it dissolve on his tongue like the most cloyingly spun sugar, and though he would not deliberately seek it out, not yet, he could at least delight in sampling that which was born from her own misgivings and insecurities. It was an offering that would sate him for now, but only make him hungrier for what was surely to come. Oh, the delicious little cat and mouse games he longed to play with her. How he longed to take her in his arms, share in the wonderful pull of their mutual tension, a little tacit agreement brewing between the both of them before he released her, before he sent her on her way with a single, simple objective; don’t get caught. It was a primal game Pennywise was well-seasoned in playing, but despite all the years he’d been playing it with his chosen victims, it would be different with her, different in a way Pennywise had never truly experienced. And he would surely win. He always did, and when he did he would delight in the spoils that waited before him, spoils he had been waiting to savor for eons; a mate, veins hot with adrenaline from having been found, the blood rushing to her face as she looked at him with desperate, wanton desire and begged with her eyes for him to take her as she lay pinned beneath him. And take her he would. Oh yes, he would give her what she wanted, would give it to her until she was screaming and howling with pleasure into the night, in the cold air of the cistern beneath Derry. He smiles when he thinks of it.

But not now. For now he would simply bide his time and wait, for he knew their relationship was not without hurdles to surpass. He could not give himself to such pleasures until she knew who he was and still trusted him despite it, despite every rational thought in her head screaming for her to get a grip and leave that which brought such pain and suffering to her hometown. She would betray her morals for him, would forsake everything she ever knew to be with him, destined to be his lover and take all that he has to give her not only in compliance, but in willingness to make him happy. He knew how desperate she was to cling to that which brought her own happiness, something which had shown her such generosity and compassion in her greatest times of need, and he would exploit that for all its worth. He would milk her desperation to please him and reward her effort by lavishing her with the utmost love and attention and praise. He had kept up his encouragement of her passions and hobbies as the months progressed, and when she had down days, he was there to offer her comfort and consolation. It was the least he could do for her; after all, she would eventually give herself to him completely, she would belong to him in every sense of the word. She would love him, she would cherish him, she would take care of him. And Pennywise always took care of that which took care of him. Always.

Though Angel was thoroughly distracted with her relationship, she was nonetheless still slightly unnerved by the continued disappearances within the town. The police were still no closer to apprehending the perpetrator of the crimes, not that that particularly mattered to Angel at this point. Given everything she’s seen and heard and experienced, she was fairly certain at this point that whatever was causing all the strife and morbid happenings within the town was no mere man; it had to have been a monster of some kind. The most damning indicator of this was what had transpired on the night of Halloween, where she had bore the unfortunate burden of lying captive witness to the death of Patrick Hockstetter, who had completely disappeared by the morning after. And she knew it was his death; judging by the sounds, the raw, shrill, piercing screams, he was being savaged by something. She did find it strange that the police found no evidence of his body near the Kissing Bridge, not even so much as a single drop of blood. It was all very puzzling, but she couldn’t very well deduce the mystery on her own, no matter how often she was forced to think about it.

So she’d come to Pennywise with questions; whether or not he’d known anything about who was causing it, if he had any power to stop it, if… If he’d had anything to do with it. Pennywise would always deflect the questions. He wouldn’t lie to her, but he wouldn’t tell her the truth either. He would always come around to the same conclusion, would placate her anxiety with the assertion that she was safe, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, not now, not ever. And though this was almost enough to soothe her troubles, there was still a part of her that stewed with worry for the children, for the Losers, who were just as vulnerable as anyone else to this threat.

“Pennywise I… I’m so scared. What if it… What if it gets them? I can’t… I can’t even think about it...”

She would shake like a leaf as she confided in him, would cling to him like a fear-soaked babe fresh awake from a nightmare, and then one day when the town was haunted by one too many chilling disappearances, she had started to beg, implore him to do for them as he had done for her, pressing her head into his chest as she sobbed and cried.

“...Could you… Protect them too? You’ve kept me from harm all this time, and they mean so much to me… Please… Please… ”

He would shush her as he petted her hair, would soothe her with trilling, chirruping insect song, would hum with pleasure as her sniffles gradually tapered into silence within his hold, as the hours passed between them. And he would reassure her, would tell her exactly what she wanted to hear.

“I’ll do as you say darling, I’ll do whatever makes you happy, you have Pennywise’s word.”

But that did not make him happy. No, it made him rife with dismay, to know that she was still so attached to the little shits, the only ones who stood in the way between him and his ultimate happiness, what he had been waiting for years upon years upon years for. It dismayed him so to think of her so committed to their safety that she might… Reject the revelation of who he was, might turn away from him and toward them in her grief. He doesn’t like that she’s so involved with them; she belonged to him. Only him. He wanted her to care about no one else, nothing else, and he wanted to work on slowly eroding their bond. He wanted so badly to eat the little brats, just pick them off one by one until they were gone from this world, nothing more than an irritating afterthought. Nothing would bring him greater satisfaction than to deprive her of that which distracted her from her purpose, her betrothal to him, being promised to him and him only. Yes, he would do as she beseeched him to do; he would hold back from taking them. The time would come when he wouldn’t have to anymore, and he waited with impatience for that day, but that day was not now. She still had yet to come under his spell completely and irrevocably, she still had yet to find out who he truly was and accept it. When she did, and she inevitably would in time, she would not care for them or their wellbeing anymore, she would stand idly by as he disposed of them once and for all.

As the month of May progressed, she continued to keep the company and counsel of the Losers, who slowly but surely came back to continue their visitations following the… Incident that had occurred on Uno night some weeks back. They’d been worried for her but did their best to shrug off her strange behavior, writing it off as simply an anomaly, and in time it had been all but completely forgotten. The school year was winding to a close and they naturally had a number of tales to tell regarding their misadventures. In time, the Losers had even gradually brought with them a couple brand new additions to their group; short and stocky sensitive sweetheart Ben Hanscom who harbored a passion for building things and Beverly Marsh, a snarky, tough-as-nails wildchild with fiery red hair to match her temperament. They were a natural fit for the group, had stumbled into it one day via an altercation with Bowers and his gang of thugs and been welcomed in with open arms. The kids were all too eager to induct a couple new faces, for they all knew very well that there was safety in numbers. With the growing coalition of Losers and the promise of Pennywise to watch over them, Angel felt more and more at ease despite the daunting atmosphere of Derry.

“Show ol’ Anj your battle scar, Ben.” Richie says boisterously in the living room that night. They had sought refuge at Angel’s house following the big standoff.

Ben hesitates before hiking up his shirt. There’s a crudely carved H for Henry Bowers etched into the soft flesh of his stomach.

“See that shit?”

“Whoa, Bowers got you good, huh Ben?” Angel says leaning back, arms crossed. “I swear, that kid is a f*ckin’ timebomb if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Yeah, Angel used to have the worst time trying to keep him in line.”

“Were you a teacher or something?” Ben asks, pulling his shirt back down.

“Oh no.” Angel laughs. “Couldn’t pay me enough for that shit. I was a TA.”

“The only one worth a damn. Richie recalls, fishing through a bag of Doritos for the perfect chip. When he finds one suitably encrusted in cheese dust he continues. “Used to charge for answer keys. Five bucks a quiz, ten bucks a test. I had an A in math for an entire semester because of her.”

“I kind of remember that.” Beverly speaks up. “It was a rumor floating around the halls for a while, but I never had that class. You really did that?”

“Had to make a little pocket change somehow.” Angel sighs. “But those days are over, sad to say.”

“Yeah, now she’s a boring old working stiff. Can’t protect us from the big kids anymore because she’s got a serious full-time job now.” Eddie laments.

“Hey, I’ve got bills to pay. I can’t get by just by babysitting four kids with extremely bad luck.”

“Make that six kids with extremely bad luck now.” Stan says with a smile evident in his voice. Everyone laughs. Bill pats Angel sympathetically on the back.

Angel would never mention Pennywise. To tell the truth, she saw absolutely no point in it, and it seemed an affair best kept private anyway, at least for the time being. After all, the children didn’t have much business knowing the intimate details of her love life, so she kept it to herself. That wasn’t even getting into the aspects of his existence she didn’t even know how to explain, like all the gifts she had received for months from a mysterious benefactor, how he had courted her without her knowledge through said gifts and came to her in her dreams, how he finally wound up introducing himself on such a sordid occasion when she needed it most. Besides, she rather enjoyed that she had something just for her that she didn’t have to share with anyone. It felt intimate, it felt special. This thing, this… Relationship she had with him, it was all so new. She truly didn’t know how to explain it to anyone, not even her family and least of all the kids. Her family… That was a matter all its own she had no idea how to address. She knew they would be ecstatic she had finally found someone, a… Boyfriend of some fashion, but he was a clown, and most bafflingly of all he clearly wasn’t human. She doesn’t even know how to imagine bringing him to visit with them, didn’t know how she could possibly explain herself to them. How would she explain the way they’d met? Would she have to lie? Of course she would.

Pennywise’s patent lack of human qualities was growing more apparent by the day. She’d known from the moment he’d come to her that he was not of this earth, but as the days continued and she’d spent more time with him she was growing more and more aware of that fact. She didn’t necessarily mind; she’d always wanted something… Different in a significant other, not that she ever imagined in a million years that she’d get what she wanted in such a bizarre fashion. The way the gifts he’d given her were inexplicably left in convenient places for her to find, the way he effortlessly infiltrated her dreams and her mind time after time after time, the way he was able to make himself puzzlingly appear on the TV and touch her without physical presence were all very convincing indicators of just such a revelation. It didn’t bother her; she found it fascinating, she found it enchanting. He was just so wonderfully interesting, and she loved to simply marvel at everything he could do.

But yes, in addition to all of this, there was more to him, and she was seeing it all with each passing day. He would make the strangest noises. There was of course the insectile chittering she could hear emanating off of his form from time to time, but sometimes when he was watching the Derry local news, a low, rolling, rumbling growl would rise in his throat, something raw and primal and animalistic that seemed to shake up through the floor like an earthquake of some kind. She interpreted it as dismay on behalf of the disappearances. He would sometimes change his size; though he normally stood at a towering seven-foot stature over her, he would sometimes appear even taller than usual. He’d come to cuddle with her one day in a hulking, massive form that had taken up most of the living room and dining area, and she’d been so taken with his colossal appearance that she had dropped her things by the door and immediately gone to join him. She had fit snugly within the curve of his arm. And most interestingly of all, he would shapeshift himself when she would make art; would act as a model for her ghoulish creative endeavors and mold his face into gruesome shapes for her pieces. She adored this quality most of all, found it… Attractive, in a sense. She’d grown up quite fascinated with the morbid and the grotesque, and knowing he could assume such forms only drew her in to him that much more. It was becoming more apparent with each passing day that he seemed perfect for her in so many ways. She was… She was in love with him.

There was, of course, a small part of her that was still slightly paranoid, though. Despite how perfect things were, despite the bubble, she had a slight niggling sense that things were just a little too perfect, like there was mold and maggots beneath all the saccharine cake and frosting of their relationship. She was afraid some kind of shoe would drop, a realization would come to light which jeopardized the idealistic nature of their rapport and she would be left with the rotten taste of it all. Watching him day after day, keenly observing little hints of monstrous behavior, some part of her was scared. Asking him questions about the dark presence within the town and coming back with repeatedly inconclusive answers, some part of her was slightly intimidated. She knew her suspicions to be an absurd notion after all he had done for her and all he had continued to promise to do, but some small part of her feared it all the same. Yes, despite the purity of their dynamic, all the love and trust that had been established so far between them, some part of Angel… Feared that he was the monster.

That was ridiculous though or, at least, that was what she would tell herself. Pennywise was sweet, he was considerate and compassionate, nothing at all like the thing that had seemingly brought such pain and suffering upon the town. He was protective and gallant, he was her guardian angel and he’d vowed not to let anything happen to her or the children so, honestly, just how could she justify laying such baseless accusations against him? So he was a little on the inhuman side. That meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. It didn’t mean he was a monster, and it certainly didn’t mean he had ill intentions. And though it was selfish and wrong of her to think such thoughts, a small, indifferent part of her conscience made the admission that, as long as she and the kids were safe, it really didn’t matter much whether he was the monster or not. She personally had nothing to worry about, she knew she would be protected from it, and that was all she needed to sleep soundly at night. It was terrible, and she dared not admit it out loud, but it was a thought she harbored all the same.

Pennywise knew of these thoughts, knew all about how they were plaguing her mind and consciousness day after day after day. How could he not when, after all, he’d been the reason for all the dissidence in her head? Exposing some of his own monstrous traits had not been a thoughtless mistake on his part; no, no, Pennywise had done just such a thing on purpose and with the explicit intention of making her familiar with the unsavory revelations she’d soon be contending with. He wanted her to see those sides of him, wanted her to not only see them but accept them, even if it was still hard for her. After all, when all was said and done, she would not only abide his wicked transgressions but openly aid in them as well, even if it was not a transition made overnight. He couldn’t wait for the day when she could join him at his side in his hunts but in the meantime he needed to take the necessary steps to slowly introduce her to the idea of her purpose. He knew that he had already come along quite a ways in this particular endeavor. He knew that she liked cuddling in the crook of his massive arm, found herself silently stirring with something deliciously wanton she didn’t quite understand at the sounds of his snarling growls at the TV. Knew that she loved seeing him take monstrous forms for her little art projects, that she was little more than thrilled to find that he could appeal to such macabre corners of her psyche by visualizing such morbid things. He could already taste her willingness to justify his role within the town in the name of preserving her own relationship, knew that to be indicative of a darker, more twisted side to her that lay dormant, waiting to be awakened, one he would try in earnest to rouse from its slumber. She was meant for him, she was, and this was the reason why, beyond anything else that had been made apparent to him so far. No one else in this shitty little existence could find such things so attractive rather than polarizing in a significant other, could accept such beastly behavior for the sake of love and love alone. Angel truly was something special.

It was the middle of May when she was beginning to reach her breaking point, and Pennywise could sense it, could taste it. It drove him positively wild, but one wouldn’t be able to tell that by his composure; no, by all appearances, Pennywise was positively cool and collected. He was able to keep a lid on things with the greatest of ease, play the part of the suave and charming suitor for, after all, he’d been preparing for this for eons. He’d been imagining these precious moments for so many years, and now that they were within his reach he intended to savor each and every one. He would only get to experience these things once, and the way it all melted on his palate was worth all the hard work, the excruciating months spent looking on her from afar and wishing he could simply hold her in his arms. That first night they’d spent together was such bliss for him, it took everything he had to take everything slow and not move too quickly. If he’d gone too far in their first real meeting he’d risk putting her off. He had showered her in physical affection but had held off from giving her anything concrete, anything of real substance. But regardless of how much he forced himself to hold back, he had basked in the flavor of her innocent desire, in the way she gave herself to his embrace completely and utterly, how she’d fallen asleep in his arms, her gentle breath syncing with his alien heartbeat. Pennywise was not one often capable of such unabashed emotion, but the way he’d felt her stirring contentedly in his hold was enough to make the eldritch beast swoon. How delighted he’d been, to have won her over so easily. Such easy prey.

And it was getting easier by the day. Pennywise found keeping her favor was exceedingly simple at this point. She gobbled up his attention like candy, would talk to him eagerly every day when he would come to visit, would obey his every little command, the way he subtly directed their conversations or beckoned her to sit with him on his lap or simply encouraged her to accept his compliments. It was all a very nuanced manipulation on his part; every interaction was a calculated step in his overarching plan. She was all too excited to oblige in all of it, too moonstruck to consider ulterior motives or devious angles he might be playing at. No, to her, he was her guardian angel, her knight in silken clownsuit; she adored him, she idolized him. He had given to her what she had built up in her mind as the be-all-end-all of human existence, reciprocal love and affection she had never known her entire life. And he had decided he would not delicately introduce his true presence in the town. He would make sure the epiphany disjointed her at her core, would force her to confront it at her most vulnerable, at a time when she was least likely to reject it. It would be a hard pill to swallow for sure, but with all that he had achieved in their relationship thus far, he was all but certain she would eventually come around to it.

Angel was so positively consumed by the honeymoon phase of their relationship and so reassured by his vow to keep a protective watch over her and the children that life was progressively becoming easier to cope with again. The bad wasn’t gone, and of course she wasn’t immune to hard days, but hard days were easier to bear when he was there at her side, cheering her on with a syrupy sweet voice and a winning smile. Pennywise knew that constant attention and approval was the key to winning her heart, and he was content to lavish her with the utmost validation and deference until she would do nothing but hang on his every word. It wasn’t as though he was doing it just to win her over, either. No, she was his queen, and she deserved only the best, from him and from anyone who had the privilege of making her acquaintance. She was the lone sunbeam in an otherwise dim and bleak horizon, the only thing upon this plane that Pennywise would spare of any mortal pain and suffering. He would not hurt her, he would always treat her with the greatest gentility and care, would only treat her roughly when she explicitly asked for it, when she desired it from him. And he would, always, always give her what she asked for, if she begged and pleaded for it sweetly enough to garner his honest consideration. He would spoil her, he would pamper her, he would give her the world. He loved her.

She was getting better as the days went by. It had started out rough; even in her lovestruck elation she was still in the midst of a bad depression spell, and it was evident in the way she behaved and conducted herself around him. When he had first started talking to her, he had an awfully difficult time trying to get her to accept compliments. She would always deflect them or reject them outright, and she often avoided eye contact with him. Her hair was often disheveled at best and greasy at worst, and a lot of the time when he would come to visit he would find her in the process of gorging herself on unhealthy foods, which she would very quickly try to hide from him upon his arrival. It would make her gain weight, and it was something she was clearly upset about. She would wear a lot of the same things when he came to her, and he found that she dressed very unremarkably in general as a result, a stark contrast to what he knew of her wardrobe patterns in high school when she was of a little more self-assurance. He would never remark on her weight with any negativity, he would simply reaffirm his attraction to her whenever she was feeling inadequate, would tell her just how much he liked her curves, that she was so delightfully soft to feel pressed against him. It was with all his attention and unflagging positivity in regards to her that Angel found herself with her head lifted a little higher every day, her confidence increasing until she found herself rediscovering joy in things she had long ago lost passion in. She had even started dressing a little bolder in response to his flattery, finding his words so addicting that she had started reintroducing color and vibrance back into her ensembles. Gone once more were the days of drab, baggy turtlenecks and long, draping skirts that hid the form; Angel was bolstered, so out came the blouses, the mesh, the fishnet tights and the flaring miniskirts once more. And Pennywise loved all of it.

It had bled over into her work routine as well. Sure, the daily grind at the library never changed, and sometimes it got a little boring, but the possibility of seeing or hearing from Pennywise always put a smile on her face. She would always get the same stupid, dopey little grin when he crept into her mind; she would feel warm, she would start to blush, she would get restless at thoughts of him. Thoughts of his voice, thoughts of those eyes boring down into hers. Thoughts of just how tall he was, how his hair in the shadows was a gorgeous auburn that burned fiery orange when it finally caught the light, how crisp and immaculate his makeup always was, that it never seemed to smear. Thoughts of the way he would talk to her, how kind and charming and funny he was, the sing-song lilt when he would purr her name. The way he would rock her in his arms when they were alone… The way he would feel pressed against her at night… All the chemicals, all the tension between them over the weeks and yet he still hadn’t kissed her. It was driving her positively insane. She knew it to be ridiculous on her part; if she really wanted it so bad, shouldn’t she just reach out and take it? But she couldn’t for the life of her be so bold. Though Pennywise had restored bits and pieces of her confidence, this was nonetheless an area in which she had little knowledge or experience, and of course there was still that part of her that was deathly afraid of rejection. She wanted it from him, wanted more than anything to feel his lips against hers, velvety soft and wet, wanted him to take that leap for the both of them and bring them into a new level in their relationship. She wanted more intimacy, she wanted to share herself, she wanted to know more about him.

She’s getting lost in thoughts of him as she works one Friday afternoon, letting delicious musings carry her on light feet as she walks through the rows of tidy bookshelves, cataloguing returns. The pile yields many of the same books from days and weeks before, popular reads that would get checked out on a regular basis that she’d grown accustomed to seeing in the bin every now and then. And the patrons are largely the same as ever too; the library was prone to attracting only a certain ilk of Derry’s population, either students who took their academia at least a little bit seriously and seniors who often had nothing better to do, sometimes frazzled parents who needed someplace to bring their child that would occupy their fickle minds. She’s humming a song that’s been stuck in her head all day ( The Ghost in You by the Psychedelic Furs), looking forward to the end of her shift with a kind of pleasant, stirring excitement. She wears her favorite silk sweater with a chic checkered circle skirt and colorful argyle socks, and around her neck is the pearl heart and the necklace he had given her for her birthday. It jingles delicately with every step she takes, when she bends down to place another book back in its designated row, and when she turns around to grab another book from the pile. The library is expectedly quiet, so she’s left to carry on in her fantasies undisturbed, the only sounds in the room being the gentle sound of turning pages and the mechanical whirr of the AC unit overhead. She’s nearing the end of the pile for the day, she almost looks forward to taking the front desk again so she can sit down and rest her feet for a while. The librarian is nowhere to be seen; she can only assume that she’s off attending to some important matters she need not concern herself with. She simply continues in her duties, her thoughts drifting through elegant pictures of her dashing suitor, and she feels the heat creeping across her cheeks again at the thought of him. She finds herself drifting off, her eyes glazing as she thinks of his towering stature, his beautiful smile, and she pushes the cart forward--

“Hey.”

She snaps back into attention, her eyes shifting back into focus as her fantasy is brought to a screeching halt. She almost thinks she hallucinated the voices behind her, but then she hears the giggling. She turns around. There’s a group of three boys standing before her in a loose circle. They looked to be roughly Bower’s age, or even a little older, and they all wear a leering sneer on their faces. She can sense the judgement in their collective stare as she backs up into the cart.

“I… C-Can I help you..?” She stutters. She wonders what they could have possibly been laughing about. Was there some sort of “kick me” sign taped to her back or something?

“I knew it was you.”

“I… Huh?”

“You’re that chick Henry always talked about.”

She feels sick. Time suddenly slows to a crawl as she stands before them, and she knows she looks stupid just staring back at them but there’s nothing else she can do. She’s frozen to the spot. She knows what’s coming.

“Didn’t I tell you she looked familiar?”

“Yeah, he was always going on about some bitchy lesbo TA, always getting him into trouble at school. Said she wore the tackiest trash imaginable.”

“That has to be you, right? I mean, god, look at that skirt with those socks. You’ve gotta be a fag if you’re gonna wear shit like that.”

Where was Pennywise? Where was anybody? She’s desperate for someone, anyone to come to her rescue, save her from this awful situation before it got too out of hand.

“He said you had a big mouth too. Why aren’t you talking back, huh? Scared of a bunch of boys, you flaming queer?”

All those hurtful words are pelting her like bullets and she’s speechless with disgust. No one comes to her aid, no one even seems to register what’s going on, even as their voices rise to regular speaking volume. They all continue in what they’re doing, simply negligent or at the very least patently oblivious to the current happenings. All she can do is keep taking steps backward. She’s abandoned the cart, she’s inching back towards the south wall of bookshelves, but she comes into contact with something solid behind her. A hand snakes up her skirt to grab her ass and she squeaks helplessly, biting back a yelp. When she whips around again she finds another one behind her, and there’s a chorus of derisive laughter from the gaggle of boys. This one is bigger, stocky and intimidating. His breath reeks as he leans down to whisper to her, seemingly so no one else could hear but she knew better. She knew better.

“You’re pretty hot for a dyke, you know that? I bet I could change you.”

“Bet we all could.” One of them chimes in from behind her. She shivers with revulsion. Her mind is screaming for anyone to intervene but there’s only silence from the rest of the room. Not even the librarian, who had the habit of manifesting at truly the worst of times, was anywhere to be seen. She wants Pennywise. She’s begging for him in her mind; she wonders where she is, she’s frantically trying to will him here, thinking that if she tries hard enough he might just show up and take care of them for her, protect her. Where’s Pennywise, where’s Pennywise? God, where is he? She feels the tears prickling in her eyes, and the boy laughs meanly, the rest of them joining in. When it dies down the boy leans in again with an insidious whisper.

“...When do you get off, sweetheart? I’d like to get off with you.”

And that’s it. That’s all she can take. She kicks into fight or flight mode and shoves past him, and she runs, runs all the way into the bathroom in the employee lounge, ignoring the laughter behind her as she does so. She runs in, slams the door shut and locks it, her heart pounding restlessly in her chest. She can’t come out, won’t come out. The tears well in her eyes now and she sinks down onto the tile floor. One sob comes gurgling out of her throat, and then another, and then before she knows it she’s bawling into her hands, stifling her fear and misery as much as she possibly could in the closed off confines of the bathroom. That cold fear is still spiking through her veins and she cannot assuage it even as she rubs her arms pensively and takes deep, shuddering breaths in through her runny nose and out through her mouth. And through it all she's half-expecting Pennywise to come to her in the way that he always did, give her that telltale sign that signified his arrival, but all she felt was cold, so cold. She knew she should have stood up to them but she was just so scared. It didn't matter how much he had built up her confidence or how bold she appeared on the outside; she was still the same timid, scared girl on the inside, too afraid to do anything that might put her in any real danger. She almost wished she could still be that brazen girl of her high school years but that girl was mostly gone; she'd had it simply beaten out of her over the years with harsh, biting words and cruel cold shoulders. She could put on a brave front for the kids, but when she was alone she was just some shrinking violet, a wallflower that no one would pay attention to because she was just so plain and unremarkable.

She’s so afraid that they might have followed her back there, she just spends eternal minutes cowering in the bathroom, imagining dark hypotheticals that have her shaking like a leaf in turbulent winds. They had… They had threatened to… She’s sucking in heaving breaths through her lungs as she hyperventilates, trying to push the thoughts out of her mind and wishing, hoping to god that Pennywise would come to her. Just where was he? He wasn’t in her head, he wasn’t even whispering to her, he was completely and utterly AWOL. She had gotten so accustomed to his regular presence that she hadn’t stopped to consider that he might be completely absent in such a pressing situation. He was her guardian angel, just what use was he if he couldn’t even be here to protect her? No, no, that wasn’t fair. She chastises herself for thinking such awful things. He was more than that to her, he offered her so much more than a vow of protection that she couldn’t possibly take any of it for granted. Perhaps he was busy, perhaps he was caught up in something else. He did seem to have something of an agenda, even if she hadn’t any idea what that agenda was. She wished she knew more about him, wished she understood him more. She wished she had any clue who he was.

She lets her sobs taper into sniffles and then she gets up from the floor to drag herself over to the sink. She turns on the faucet and splashes cold water on her face, rubbing her reddened eyes and cheeks until they were no longer wet with tears. She lays her head in her hands and sucks in a deep breath through her nose, and then she blindly reaches for some napkins to towel off her face. Once her face is dry she blows her nose, and then she stares at herself in the mirror, small and feeble and powerless behind the mirror glass. She hates the way she looks, she hates it, hates the slope of her jaw and the curve of her nose and the perpetual bags under her eyes. She finds herself wondering just how Pennywise even found her attractive at all in the first place when she was just so… Ugly. She tries to push those thoughts away but they make themselves prominent nonetheless in her vulnerable state of mind, her mind rationalizing that maybe Pennywise finally came to his senses and left her behind just like everyone else eventually did, and that’s why he wasn’t here. It wouldn’t surprise her. It would hurt, but it wouldn’t surprise her.

She knows she can’t stay in the bathroom forever, as much as she might like to, so she takes a heaving deep breath and carefully opens the door. It creaks ever so slightly as she does, and she steps back into the employee lounge. The boys surely had to be gone by now, she assumed they all must have left after they’d had their fun, had no other reason to stick around in such a dull place. She hopes more than anything that they are, she hadn’t the strength to face them, not after how mortally embarrassing the first encounter was. She hates herself for not standing up to them; had it been two or even three years earlier she might have thrown it all back in their faces, carelessly and capriciously insulted them back all in an attempt to maintain bravado, but she wasn’t that person anymore, as much as she wished she was. All that confidence was simply gone now; it didn’t exist as long as there were still people in the town to ostracize and ignore her, as long as she was crushed under the existential weight of adult life, as long as she felt this way. She wanted desperately to be that person again, for herself and for Pennywise. He deserved someone infinitely better than her, not that she could ever admit that out loud to him. She found herself so gobsmacked on a daily basis that he wanted to be with her, that he liked her at all, that he enjoyed her company and seemed to genuinely want to see her. Not that that seemed to matter now, she thinks bitterly as she walks down the steps back into the main room.

She forces herself to go back to work, forces herself to pretend that she felt normal as she comes back to her unfinished returns. She looks around warily, scanning over the space, over every shelf and every perceivable nook and cranny of the library before she lets her gaze lower back down to the cart. They seemed to be gone now, she couldn’t see them anywhere. In fact, the library itself seemed to be relatively barren at this point save for a few lingering students. She breathes a sigh of relief, finding herself comforted at long last by the silence and the fact that her shift was almost over. She’s resolved to get through the rest of it in one piece; she almost dreads taking the front desk again out of fear of interacting with anyone else for the rest of the day but being able to sit down and properly collect her thoughts is a much-needed reassurance. Then she’ll be able to clean up and go home, and leave this terrible day behind her. Maybe she’ll even see Pennywise. She hoped, anyway. She gives a cursory glance to the rest of the books in the pile. They’re mostly nonfiction titles; a few textbooks and a biography or two, but there’s a couple mystery novels and even a western/fantasy epic about a tower in the mix. She takes her sweet time putting back every selection, thinking that for all her trouble she was more than entitled to taking things slow for the rest of the afternoon. She moves with the cart at a leisurely pace, taking deep breaths to ease the lingering anxiety in her head. The pile

is slowly dwindling into nothing, and with the lessening load the clock is ticking further and further past the hour.

She finally reaches the end of the pile, and there’s only one book left, a rambling historical document that could only belong in one place; the archives. Though it was by far her least favorite place in the library to go, she could at least admit that she wouldn’t be bothered by anyone down there; it wasn’t exactly accessible to everyone else. If you wanted anything from the archives you had to ask for it from the librarian specifically. People often didn’t do this out of genuine interest in the history of the town, it was mostly just students doing school projects that required them to do a little halfhearted digging for the sake of adequate grades. She didn’t envy them in the least. She replaces the cart in its usual storage space and musters a big yawn, sparing a glance at the clock overhead. Quarter to four. In no time at all she’ll be taking a broom to the floors, dusting and wiping down all the bookshelves before collecting her things, clocking out and making her journey home. She always liked cleanup time; there was something about mundane tasks like that that allowed her to free her mind of any and all complicated thoughts. She’s all but forgotten the boys by now as she walks, document in arm, through the back rooms of the library and around to the winding staircase that leads down into the archives. She can hear the librarian click-clacking away at her typewriter in her office and she pays it no mind, simply continuing on her way and counting the tiles in her mind. As she meanders along she thinks of Pennywise, wonders if she’ll be seeing him at all when she came home. Who knows, maybe he wasn’t there because he was thinking of surprising her. He did like to do that sometimes. Maybe she was being irrational. Pennywise hadn’t abandoned her, he wouldn’t do such a thing. He… He loved her, didn’t he? She at least liked to entertain the thought. She starts to get warm at the thought of him, and as she makes her way down one flight of steps that warmth only increases. Not in any way that was sweltering or unpleasant, just in a way that swept over the entire body like a comforting blanket. It was the feeling she’d gotten so accustomed to, when he would hold her in her arms or whisper sweet things to her; when she could simply feel his presence, be it through a waiting gift or his own ethereal manifestation. She’s more than attuned to all of this by now, she’s even starting to think that maybe this warmth is a sign that he could be down there waiting for her. They would, after all, be all alone in there, and he loved it when they were all alone. Maybe he would… Maybe he… She blushes at the thought, at the thought of something that she’s been screaming for silently in her mind for weeks every time they came together, at every unbearable moment of tension between them. She wanted it so bad she could hardly stand it.

As she nears the archives she starts to feel that dopey smile creep across her face at the vivid images in her mind, at the tingling warmth that washed over her body with every step, but it sours ever so slightly when she hears a noise. She hears something down there, and she stops. A rat, maybe, or a raccoon? Some kind of pest, most definitely. Angel was the kind of girl who was wary of wild animals like that, not knowing what kind of diseases or contagious infections they might carry or spread, but she couldn’t just… Shirk her responsibilities because of a little childish fear. Her heart pounding in her chest ever so slightly, she decides to brave the darkened corridor anyway and she continues her way down the steps. The noise only gets louder but curiously enough she still feels that warmth. She rounds the corner, making her way towards the last flight. She tries not to think of whatever might be lurking in the shadows, she simply lets her eyes scan lazily over the document in her hands in an attempt to distract herself. It sounds like wet, it sounds like chewing. It sounds like… No, she wouldn’t even entertain the thought. She just keeps walking. She hears her own echoing footsteps as she ambles down the final stairs to the archives, and the picture of the darkened room gets a little clearer as she nears it. The warmth is still there, seeping into her bones and she can almost feel him, though she has no idea where he could possibly be. She makes her way down the last few steps and lets her eyes flicker upward once more to scan over the room. Cold lightning strikes her veins when she sees it.

#pennywise #daddywise #chapter sixteen #the bubble #it 2017 #it chapter one #pennywise x oc #pennywise x angel #good fortune

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everlarkbirthdaygifts · 7 years

Text

Happy Birthday infinitegraces!

We apologise @infinitegraces for the delay with your gift! We hope you had a wonderful birthday on the 9th of August. To help celebrate your birthday the lovely @pagedancer87 has written you an Everlark story just for you! We hope you like it :)

Title: Selfish

For user: infinitegraces

Prompt: Everlark without the Games AU—Games can never have existed or still exist, I’m just a sucker for “It would have happened anyway” fics

Summary: “It’s really okay for there to be times when you stop putting everyone else first, and just do what’s best for you.”

Rating: K+

A/N: All errors are belonging to me. Happy Birthday!

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As a rule, Katniss Everdeen didn’t allow herself many things.

The first and last time she had asked for something, was the one thing she had ever regretted: to selfishly have her father with her on her birthday. It was a request shyly made, and gently denied, but he had wanted to surprise her. It had him going to work on a day he normally had off, which ended up being the day that he died. At eleven, watching her mother spiral into grief driven madness and her younger sister nearly starve to death, she blamed herself. From then on she vowed to put her family first.

It became the way she lived. Everything she did and every choice she made was for the benefit of her younger sister. Not only did it make her happy, it was also very easy.

Once in awhile, something came up that made her choices not so black and white.

The Careers Exchange Program, for example.

Their assigned counselors, Haymitch Abernathy and Effie Trinket were to go through the entire district and pick two people (a boy and a girl) between the ages of 12-18 to travel to a different district and learn a trade. They came every year, and every Tribute that went inevitably found their way to prosperity and only returned to District 12 to collect their family. No Tribute had ever chosen to come to 12. To her surprise, this year they chose her.

Her initial response was to refuse, which she did as firmly and rudely as she could.

“But…don’t you want a better life for yourself, dear?” Effie asked, understandably shocked as no one had refused before. “Every district has something wonderful to offer. Why, the Capitol will have opportunities you’d never —“

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she interrupted standing up, “I’ll just head back to class now.”

“Sit down.” Haymitch said, speaking for the first time since she arrived.

She immediately stiffened at the command she heard. “You can go f—”

“Language!” Effie chided. “Perhaps we were mistaken in our assessment.”

“Aw hell, Effie. We both heard about that attitude.”

“Be that as it may, if she hasn’t the sense to even see what a dream come true this is—”

“Look, why don’t you go find yourself an overly complicated caffeinated beverage, leave sweetheart over there to me.”

With one last glance at her and a baffled shake of her head, she left them.

“You’ll have to excuse her. She’s Capitol stock, born and bred. To someone like her, staying in a place like 12 when you have a chance to leave is something she’ll never really understand. She still doesn’t get why I keep coming back.”

She studied him for a moment, “Just because you lived here once, doesn’t mean you know anything about me or my life, Mr. Abernathy.”

“Maybe, but I did my homework before we approached you. Whenever anyone comes to you, begs you for food, you give it to them. When you can’t have much to begin with. Why?”

She shrugged, “Because I know what it’s like to be starving to death and have someone do something about it at the cost of a beating.”

“So, you’re not refusing our offer because of pride. Why then? Surely you know that the skills you’d learn and the trade you’d pick up would mean at least financial stability for you and your family. So why?”

She thought about her reasons for staying. Her sister needed her. Without her many people at the Seam would go hungry. Then there was him. But really, none of those were why she didn’t want to go.

“I already have skills and a trade. We are far from being financially stable, but we get by.”

For awhile, though things weren’t exactly alright (she doubted they’d ever be alright again) they were stable. District 12 provided the coal that not only powered the trains that brought trade between the districts but also heated the homes and businesses all over Panem, as such the government provided a monthly stipend to the families of the miners who died in the same accident that took her father. Every month their stipend was just barely enough to get by (even before they added mother’s medicine and the shots for Prim’s damn cat). So, she began hunting again. With her father’s bow, she ventured into the forest to hunt, often skipping school to do so. When Gale Hawthorne joined her, trading tips and skills, together they made sure that their families never went hungry.

In addition to game she also began to scavenge for roots, berries and herbs. Her mother used the plants and herbs in her apothecary, her sister made jam from the berries as well as selling milk from her goat, while she sold the meats, furs and such to either traveling tradesmen or to merchants. It was a bartering system that had served her well.

Haymitch sat back in his chair. “Boy, you really aren’t what I expected. Well, someone’s got to go, sweetheart and Effie’s liable to pick some girl off the slag heap.”

So, she did one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

“Me?” Prim was shocked. At just 12, she had little hope of being chosen for the Careers Program.

“Katniss tells us you have a gift for healing, dear.” Effie spoke to her kindly. “I know just the school for you. You’ll be a doctor before long, I’m sure.”

So, they packed her up and sent her off with promises to write and to visit. As part of the program, not only were her expenses taken care of, but she’d begin working while she studied. Though it hurt her heart to send her off, she knew that this would be giving Prim her best chance.

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Not long after, she found herself staring down the barrel and another life-changing moment.

Gale Hawthorne. Her hunting partner, and her dearest friend. He was chosen for the Careers Program, and was moving to District 5.

“Come with me, Catnip.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname. “They already picked Madge Undersee, Gale.”

“Family can go, too.”

She looked him, confused. “But we’re not related.”

He hesitated, before taking both her hands in his. “We would be if we got married. Marry me, Katniss.”

She’d heard the gossip. People had paired them together since they were kids. With all that they had in common and with how much time they spent together, everyone assumed it was just a matter of time. If she still had Prim, she might’ve considered it. Marrying Gale and moving to District 5, would’ve meant that neither of them would need to worry about not having enough for the mouths they had to feed.

And she loved him. Of course, she loved him. But not that way. He was her brother. She just couldn’t. Even if it meant she lost him. Even if it meant she lived the rest of her life alone. She couldn’t marry him.

He mistook her silence for shyness, and was bending his head to kiss her. Her first kiss. No. Not you. A panicked voice in her head whispered. Unthinking, she raised her arms and pushed him back. Losing his balance, he fell into the fence behind him, which broke under his weight.

“Gale! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

When he sat up, instead of being angry as she expected, he just looked at her and smiled sadly. “No, don’t be sorry, Katniss. I know how you feel. I’ve always known. But I had to try.”

Her eyes began to sting with tears. “I don’t want to lose you, Gale.”

He laughed softly. “Oh, Catnip. You’ll never lose me.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. When he bent his head again, it was to whisper in her ear. “You know, it’s really okay for there to be times when you stop putting everyone else first, and just do what’s best for you. Tell him how you feel, I promise you won’t regret it.”

She blinked when he stepped away. How did he know?

He just smiled. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, when you think no one’s looking.”

Life slowly went on, and slowly got better. She saved enough to open a shop in the merchant side of town, coincidentally right across from a certain bakery.

(%)(%)(%)

This time I’ll talk to her. Today for sure. Peeta looked out the window to the shop across the street. The Hob. Katniss had set up shop the month before, and still made the walk between town and her house at the Seam. They either sold goods or traded. He watched her come in every morning, as she often opened up her shop as he was getting the bread made, and as she left for home at night.

Every day was an opportunity. Every day he tried to build up the courage. At the end of the day he promised himself that the next day would be when he finally did it.

Peeta, by nature, was a giver. It may have begun in part to avoid the attention of a cruel mother, but even when she passed, he still didn’t ask for anything. Instead, he tried to go above and beyond for both his customers and his family.

There was only ever one thing he truly wanted. One quiet wish he clutched tightly to his heart.

Katniss Everdeen.

All his life he was drawn to her. He held his breath when he heard she was picked for the Careers Program, and again when he heard Gale Hawthorne intended to marry her. Was ashamed at the relief he felt when she stayed and turned him down. He felt he was slowly running out of chances, and if he didn’t act soon someone else would.

“Oh, look. The mooney-eyed prince returns.”

He was pulled out of his thought by the teasing comment. “You’re in early today, Delly.”

Delly, had been his dearest friend since before either of them could walk. She was also his sister since she married his older brother. The former gave her a front seat at his infatuation with Katniss, and the latter gave her the influence to push him. Which she tried to do regularly.

“But of course. I couldn’t miss today’s Everlark episode.”

He raised a brow. “Everlark?”

Her blonde hair bounced as she nodded. “That what we call you two. Rye and I have a bet going on how long before you two get together. My money’s on sometime before Christmas.”

He shook his head. “Pretty sure she doesn’t even know I exist. Why would she?” Though, sometimes he thought he felt her eyes on him, she was never looking his way when he glanced up.

“Of all the places she could have set up shop, she chose the on across the street. Don’t you think that means something?”

He tried not to get his hopes up like that. He shrugged. “It’s a good location, that’s all.”

“So you’re saying if Hawthorne came back and made another pitch, you’ll just let it happen?”

He winced, still remembering the scene he had haplessly witnessed, of the two of them about to kiss. He’d turned away rather than have that in his memory banks. “I have way too much to do. Between keeping up with the bakery, and making sure Dad’s being taken care of—”

He started at the hand on his shoulder. “You know, it’s really okay for there to be times when you stop putting everyone else first, and just do what’s best for you.”

He smiled at her. It wasn’t the first time she’s said that to him, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He spent the rest of the day going back and forth between the kitchen and helping Delly at the front counter. During the busier seasons, he usually had a few more hands, but most days they got by with just the two of them.

Inevitably, he’d catch himself looking across the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katniss. Between the myriad of expressions he’d seen play across her face and the rich tones of her skin, she was a feast for his artistic eye. He hoped to paint her one day, but all the colors in the world would hardly do her beauty justice. Besides, if he couldn’t even drum up the nerve to talk to her…

It was near closing when he noticed her on a ladder grappling with large wooden sign. Every store on the street had a place above their door for a sign to hang to be easily seen from afar, and it looked like she had finally gotten one made.

He could tell right away, however, that the sign was probably much heavier than she anticipated and the chain for the sign much higher. She was on the top rung when he saw the ladder start to lean backwards. She was going to fall!

He was out the door faster than he could blink, miraculously catching her just as she slipped off the ladder.

He found he breath knocked from his chest, both from her slight weight and fright of what might’ve happened.

“A-Are you alright, Katniss?” He asked over the thundering of his heart.

“I-I think so.” Shocked grey eyes met his, and for a moment they just stood like that. She was just as warm and soft as he thought. His felt his face heat at the direction his thoughts went.

Clearing his throat, he set her down. “I have a sturdier ladder in the back you can use.”

He brought it out to her, and held it steady as she climbed it.

“Looks good.” He commented, as they both stood back surveyed the newly hung sign

She nodded, standing closely next to him. “Thank you, Peeta…and thank you for saving me.”

He smiled, “You’re welcome.”

It was the beginning of what would be the most selfish thing either of them had ever done: falling in love.

(%)(%)(%)

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlarkbirthdaydrabbles #everlarkbirthdaygifts #fan fic #by pagedancer87

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