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aminiatureworld · 3 years

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Characters: Ganyu, Zhongli, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,930

Warnings: Character death, violence

Premise: There is something cruel in the sudden death of a loved one, especially one who should’ve gone on so much longer. And yet perhaps that is not the cruelest twist of fate. Perhaps death is sometimes a small mercy.

In which the reader returns as a member of the Abyss.

Author’s Note: I decided to give archons ichor-like blood just because. Also sorry I did my best to be ruthless, I hope I didn’t get too carried away

Ganyu

In all the thousands of years of her existence Ganyu had never received the answer to the question of her humanity. Which pieces of her were adeptal and which were mortal? It was a foolish question perhaps, but something that had haunted her, almost as much as you.

She’d received a sort of answer one day, though not one given but rather one snatched away. It was a little time after your passing, when Ganyu still couldn’t discern the nightmares of her sleep from the memories of her waking moments. She was laying up on the peak of Mount Hulao, wondering why the sun should be shining up in the sky, when the familiar lilt of Cloud Retainer’s voice traveled up to her ears. There had been more adepti frequenting her abode than usual, all peering over the mountain, making sure their ward did not drown herself in sorrow. Ganyu didn’t know who Cloud Retainer was talking to now, but her words were as clear as ever.

“Poor darling, she was born with the heart of a human after all.”

At the time Ganyu had felt almost affronted, as if some great wrong had been laid at her feet. Yet even as there had been anger there was also curiosity. What did it mean then, to have a human heart? Perhaps there was weakness in it, but it seemed there was also privilege. For even as she curled around herself, bleeding out from some invisible wound, she could still picture your smiling face, and the happiness she’d gleaned from it.

Now this picture swam in her head once more, floating in stark contrast to the image now in front of her.

You had returned, how in Teyvat had you returned? Ganyu knew the ways of the world, knew that half-adepti could be killed. Had she not experienced proof of this when you’d died? Had the demon which stood upon your corpse, laughing at the blood coating his hands, not shown Ganyu that even those blessed with immortal age could not escape the wrath of the world? How could you be standing here in front of her now then, as alive as you’d been those thousands of years before?

Though perhaps you weren’t alive, perhaps this was simply a trick of the Abyss. For there was no light in your eyes, no flicker of recognition in regards to the person you’d once pledged your soul too. Ganyu was bewildered, glancing this way and that at the heralds surrounding you. “What have you done to them?” She pleaded, voice barely audible. “What monster did you create?”

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to harm you, to take up her weapon as she had done so many times before. If the Abyss was tricking her than the likeness was impressive. Your attack patterns were familiar, an old dance that Ganyu had learned so long ago. You stabbed this way and that, as if Ganyu was being attacked by a needle rather than a sword. And yet she still could remember the dance, and had only a scratch on her arm. She’d always chastised you that your form was too artistic.

“Why don’t you remember me?” She now turned to you, ignoring the Heralds which lay frozen upon the ground, having no qualms in their destruction. You narrowed your eyes in response to her callings, seeming as mute to her entreaties as you had been to your name. Did you even remember it?

Ganyu jumped back as you once more aimed to stab her. Unfortunately it seemed as if you had learned somewhat from this fight, or perhaps just retained the memory of the sparring the two of you had often shared. Stretching out from your lowered position you rammed your back into Ganyu, causing her to topple to the floor. Flames coated your sword, which you now pointed at the pinned half-adeptus. Ganyu’s eyes widened, as panic truly began to run through her. Once more she called out to you.

“Stop.”

“What?” Ganyu watched as your arm faltered and your face contorted itself into a frown. You narrowed your eyes, breath coming faster now.

“Stop saying that name!”

“But it is yours.”

“It is the name given to me by a liar. It is the name of a weakling.”

“It is the name of the person I love.” Ganyu knew she should be running, should be taking advantage of your weakness. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to pull herself away, desperate in the hope you might return to her.

“That person died thousands of years ago.”

“And yet they’re standing right in front of me.”

“Thanks to those who the gods would destroy. Thanks to those who understand the true nature of this world.”

“And what is that?” Ganyu felt her voice falter, shocked by the venom in your words.

“Cruelty. The cruelty of the gods. They betray humanity, betray that which they’re sworn to protect. They’re nothing but fickle creatures, no more than beasts. The only thing they truly love is their own superiority.”

“You’re wrong. You know you’re wrong. You… you love the gods.”

“How could I love such monsters? You’re deluding yourself. Deluding yourself as you always did. You were always too soft… Ganyu.”

As if reinvigorated you took a deep breath. Taking a few steps forward you loomed over Ganyu. She couldn’t help but notice your eyes, how glassy they seemed to be. For a moment she was so seized by them she barely registered the sword raised above her head.

Yet the practice which had led her out of the darkness of your death now refused to let you take her life. Rolling over Ganyu jolted as your blade came crashing down into the stone right next to her ear. Running back towards the exist of the lair in which she’d found herself Ganyu foundered one last time.

“Come with me. There are so many who miss you. Cloud Retainer and Moon Carver and Madame Ping. Come back with me. We can go see the statue they’ve created of Skybracer for the Lantern Rite, I know how much you liked the festival.”

“I’d rather die again than be a traitor to humanity. You’re part human yourself. And yet you bow and scrape at the feet of tyrants.”

“And aren’t you also part adeptus?” Ganyu felt tears pooling at the corners of their eyes, their salty warmth stinging her frigid skin. “I wish you’d taken my hand.”

“And I wish you and the rest of the traitors would just die!”

“So be it.”

Ganyu tried not to remember the scream that pierced your throat as your leg buckled, tried not to think of the blood that pooled where her arrow had lodged itself at the top of your knee, droplets landing in icy circles on the barren ground where she herself had just been lying. Instead she ran, ran out of the domain, ran away from the person who had once brought her such joy.

The moon outside was a smiling crescent, its light casting a cold shade on the trees around her. The stars which seemed so far away were now hunters, she was their prey. She plunged through the scraggly forest, desperate to reach the safety of Jueyun Karst. The sky seemed to be burning away, or perhaps swallowing up the world. Finally a familiar mountain ridge was spotted, and Ganyu let out a cry of relief. She was halfway to the top when the darkness descended and the night swallowed her whole.

Ganyu dreamed. Or perhaps she did not dream. Perhaps she simply remembered. The wind rustled her hair, and the faint sound of a flute echoed in the air. She lay on your lap now, smiling sleepily as you recounted some odd experience, expression one of soft, sedate joy.

“I’d never truly met a pilgrim before. They were quite unlike what I expected. The poor man, he nearly fell over in his attempt to bow as low as he possibly could. I told him that there was no need, that I wasn’t important enough for that, but then he only seemed surprised when I talked. Perhaps he expected some divine wisdom, although according to you I might only be able to offer him a somewhat incomprehensible account of the Archon War, since my mother saw approximately half of it.”

“Still, you must have made him very happy.” Ganyu smiled up at you as you twisted your expression into one of exaggerated solemness.

“Perhaps you are right. For what are we but being to give our souls to the happiness of humanity? Although I must admit that I have already pledged mine elsewhere.”

“And where might that be?”

“How silly of you to ask Ganyu! Honestly, you’re becoming quite forgetful. Why, it’s right there, in your heart.”

“Y-you shouldn’t say that.” Ganyu stammered, a familiar blush dusting soft warmth over the bridge of her nose. You merely laughed, leaning down to give her a quick kiss. Your lips tasted of lazy summer sun, and Ganyu found all embarrassment replaced with a sense of utter contentment.

“Why not? It’s the truth. And it will always be the truth.”

“Even when you and I have turned into enemies?” This surely was no longer a memory.

“Even then. For in my heart you will never be anything but my beloved. And don’t you forget it.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What a foolish thing to say Ganyu. Of course you know! You always will.”

“I… I love you.”

“I love you too. Always.”

When she awoke the half-adeptus gave herself up to the small luxury of crying. She knew that she couldn’t stay here, knew that there was work to be done, the work she’d promised to the people of Liyue. Yet even as she told herself to get up Ganyu continued to cry, to sob as if in great pain.

For indeed what is more painful than the sudden, utter shattering of one’s heart?

Zhongli

Throughout the millennia of his existence, throughout all the changes that had been wrought on the former geo archon, Zhongli could feel at least a little bit grateful to time.

Time had been kind to the archon, for it had let him retain all those things that mattered. He could still recall the soft tones of Guizhong, the excitement as she explained some new contraption; he could recall the way that the familiar tones of a flute once echoed throughout the canyons of Liyue, the call of an adeptus who was still young and untethered to the sins of others; and, if he focused but for a moment, he could still recall the look of surprise on your face, the exclamations of protest, and the soft smile that brightened your expression as you finally reached out to take the glaze lily from him.

How he missed you, you his most perfect half. It seemed so long ago, and yet so painfully close, the day you two had met. You were a minor deity, formed for the benefit of humanity, made incarnate by the prayers of those early inhabitants of Liyue who could not simply lock their doors to keep the dangers of the world out. You had been an odd deity, the combination both of hope and suffering; the longing for peace combined with the knowledge that such a thing was unlikely.

“It’s very odd, being a deity born of human hope.” You’d commented once. You’d joined Zhongli to look out upon the sunset, climbing a mountain that would one day be dwarfed by the pillars that would spring up after the last of the Archon War.

“I should not see why it would be any different than any other deity. After all, we all live to give to humanity in some way.” You’d shook your head at his response.

“Zhongli, you weren’t made from humanity. Even if the people of Liyue foundered, even if they moved or lost faith in you or no longer needed a geo archon, you would live on. We who are born from humanity, we will fade if we are forgotten, if human prayers no longer reach us.”

“I doubt there will be a scarcity of the need for hope anytime soon. Alas the dangers of the world are not yet gone.”

“Perhaps not, but one day humans will be able to fight and hope for themselves. And then who knows where we lesser deities will be.”

Your odd conversation had worried Zhongli at the time. Not because he truly believed that you would disappear, no he had too much faith for that, or perhaps too much love. No, it was the way you had said it, as if you had resigned yourself to some terrible fate. He’d held you closer for the next few days, as if to remind you that you indeed existed, as if to assure himself that he would not have to lose another person who he held within his heart.

The death of Havria had been a shock, but Zhongli could tell you were more shaken than he was. For some time, the amount Zhongli could never calculate, you had said little, withdrawing into yourself. Old shadows had reared their ugly heads again, and now you seem at their mercy, drowning in your own self-imposed prophecy.

“My love, do not fear your own disappearance. You are not like Havria, you have no one who might betray you.”

“It’s not that Zhongli. It’s… it’s just the reminder of how fickle humans are.” You sighed, eyes fixed not on the archon sitting in front of you but on some unseen horizon. “Gods are fickle, they always have been. But that’s what you expect, and you cannot hold it against them. Humans on the other hand, humans are supposed to be static, even as they grow their faith is seen as assured. It’s… uncomfortable, a reminder that such an assumption has no real basis except one of hubris. Who else might fall at the hands of those they protected.”

“Not you. I could not imagine them harming you. You are their incarnation of hope after all, of the human will to survive. And no human can live without the will to survive. Besides my love, last I checked you had rejected the chance at a domain.”

“And leave you? Of course I did.” Your tone was indulgent, but the smile that passed your face was distracted. “I hope that I won’t meet death in such a way. I thought to be forgotten was the cruelest fate, but perhaps it’s not; perhaps the cruelest fate is to be betrayed by the ones you love. How much Havria must’ve suffered in her final moments.”

“But you will not meet either of those fates my love, I promise it.”

Zhongli had ended up being right, as neither of those paths were to be the one you walked. The one placed in front of you was perhaps one you would’ve approved of, though Zhongli could never truly bring himself to accept that. When the Qingce had threatened the quiet settlements which grew out of the harbor you’d come to the aid of humanity. In a manner that felt much too passive in Zhongli’s mind you met your fate. What was the emotion of your final moments? Zhongli could never find it in him to delve into that question. He could barely find it in himself to think of you at first, drowning his sorrows in the blood he spilt to ensure the continuation of Liyue, and then in the millennia of his rule afterwards. Even his tears had seemed distant, as if they were wetting the face of another person, someone very far away and very different than he was.

There were reports of a disturbance in the Guili Plains, of the agitation of Ruin Guards, and of whispers of the Abyss. Zhongli realized that it was no longer his duty to look into such things, that his resignation of the post of Geo Archon also relieved him of the duties of scouting the plains of Liyue for such dangers. Yet just because the stipulations of a contract have shifted does not mean the contract no longer exists. Zhongli’s duty to protect Liyue remained. He was not perhaps a deity from humanity, but he was destined to protect it nonetheless.

The domain that he’d managed to find was oppressing, the atmosphere tense. It made Zhongli think of older times, though not so long ago. It made him think of a razed city after the smoke had cleared, though this location was sure to be crawling with enemies. A pity there were no allies to fight alongside him now.

And yet you had somehow managed to follow him here, somehow managed to appear once more, after a millennia of buried loss. Upon entering the chamber in which you stood Zhongli could do nothing but stop in his tracks. You had appeared. Somehow, despite your death, despite the years, despite the fact that you’d never known the Abyss in your long ago existence, you were now here. Zhongli felt dazed, mind clouded, limbs made of stone. He made no effort to move, not when your eyes lit up in grim, impersonal recognition; not when an all too familiar claymore appeared in yours hands, not when you lunged forward and geo-infused steel slammed into his shoulder.

Zhongli knew something was wrong, knew that he must’ve made a mistake a some point in his long, drawn out existence. Whatever it was he couldn’t piece it together, could barely continue to stare at you as your weapon battered him over and over again. Blood was sticking to his gloves, his shoulder, his neck; small golden trickles opening up every time you swung your claymore. He knew he should fight back, knew that this wasn’t truly you, could not be truly you. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to fight back, to harm even an illusion of the person he once loved.

Eventually he found himself slumped against a wall, eyes still gazing up at you in mute entreaty. He hadn’t tried to call for you yet, hadn’t yet attempted to break the spell washed over you. The words stuck in his throat, those lovely words that belonged to you. He could not fight and he could not call out. Instead he sat there, frozen, heart beating erratically as he tried to find the ground beneath him.

“You’re a surprisingly abysmal fighter, Morax.” The voice was yours but the words weren’t; you would never call him such a thing. Perhaps it was that which finally enabled him to speak.

“And you have changed in a millennia”

“I learned of your treachery, of the crimes you committed when I was gone. Of the people you slaughtered.”

“I do not know what spell they cast to bring you back in such a state, but you cannot believe what you have been told. My love, since when did you mindless follow the rules of others?”

“Mindlessly?” You barked out a laugh, though it sounded almost like a cry to Zhongli’s ears. “The only time I mindlessly followed someone was when I was with you. You tricked me, you lied to me. You pretended to care, only to betray my existence the moment I was gone. Morax, the god of Liyue. What sort of god slaughters people for attempting to create a civilization just as he once did?”

“You were not there for the life of Khaenri’ah. You do not know what took place.”

“I doubt I needed to be there to understand the facts. You betrayed humanity Morax. Do you not deserve to pay for such a crime?”

“Zhongli.”

“What?”

“You used to refer to me as Zhongli.” At that moment the ex-archon pulled himself up. Standing up he managed a smile, though inside he felt as if he were fracturing. “If your anger must be removed in such a way, so be it. Take it all out on me. But, when your rage has finally been spent, please come back to the light. This place, it is too dark for you.”

“My rage can only be quenched in death.”

“So be it.”

Zhongli was not sure how long you hacked away at him, claymore swinging in a wide arc as the future scars which Zhongli would wear multiplied. His clothes were in shreds at this point, his coat barely clinging on to the semblance of what it was made to be. The metal which he wore was stained a rusty golden color, and his shirt was now damp with blood and sweat.

Perhaps this was his rightful punishment, the result of having ruled Liyue too long, having grown too old. Perhaps you truly did hate him now, having somehow reincarnated into a being of pure wrath. Perhaps he’d somehow meet his end here, and perhaps then you would be waiting for him, you and all the ones he’d lost, restored to your former selves.

And yet another part of him knew that he was tethered to his contract, to the promise to protect the citizens who now bustled about, enjoying their newfound freedom. And that part of him knew that this could not truly be you. Even if the Abyss had managed to coax your body and soul from the other side they’d only managed to bring back a shadow. A shadow could never replace you, for it knew none of you complexities. It could only haunt those around it, in hope to be paid the same amount of attention.

It was this knowledge that allowed him to fight back, even as he willed himself not to hurt you. Claymore met polearm, and the ground seemed to shake around the both of you. If any other members of the Abyss had managed to rouse themselves within this time they were almost assuredly crawling away, for surely the structure would fall at any moment. But Zhongli cared not for this fact; the walls could crumble around the two of you for all he cared. There was nothing else in the world, only you, the weapon in his hand, and the contract in his heart.

Finally you began to falter, the energy you’d contain slowly draining away. Slowly Zhongli began to regain the upper hand, beating you back into the edges of the abode. Finally at one point you slipped, and Zhongli found himself kneeling over you, polearm planted into the ground, barely grazing your cheek.

“If you have truly been brought back to life, then I beg you not to throw such a thing away on the revenge of those who never knew you.”

“I won’t listen to your disgusting lies any longer!”

“You loved me once, do you not remember that?”

“How could anyone truly love a tyrant?”

Zhongli sighed, but his hands were trembling violently. He knew it wasn’t you, that it could not truly be you. And if it was, then Zhongli was ready to pay the price in suffering.

Contracts were the most sacred concept of Liyue. One must abide by them, whether it benefits them personally or not. Though he was no longer Liyue’s god, Zhongli was no less tied to those promises he’d made. This was his price, the price of power and influence, the price of his continued existence.

“When time has run its course and the world of the gods comes crashing down, I will see you again.”

He did not expect your blood to run red.

#genshin impact fanfiction #ganyu x reader #zhongli x reader #ganyu #zhongli #genshin impact #requested #scenarios #my writing

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

Note

I need to know what u think of an AU where JC is the one who dies (sacrificing his life to save WWX) instead of JYL, he’s not as angry with WWX bc JYL is still alive so when he sees his brother about to get murdered he just steps in front of him while JYL and WWX see :) I don’t even know what I want u to do with this? Give me some headcanons? Is it a prompt? Idk I just want u to to see what u make of this (I promise JC is my fav but my mind likes to make me suffer :p)

It wasn’t a matter of conscious thought when Jiang Cheng threw himself between that cultivator’s sword and Wei Wuxian’s unguarded back, all his defenses down in the face of Jiang Yanli’s pleading, same as always; it was just instinct. Wei Wuxian was always the troublemaker, the crazy one, and Jiang Cheng always the one being dragged along; he’d long ago learned to spend all his time watching his shixiong’s back, keeping him away from dogs, away from angry shopkeepers, away from any harm. It was instinct, just as it had been the day he’d thrown himself out into the street to distract the Wens, and he’d always justified that instinct because he knew that Wei Wuxian would do the same for him.

Though – he didn’t know that anymore, not after everything that happened recently. Wei Wuxian had made him all the promises in the world, to stand by his side through wind and lightning, and he’d seemed to have no issue abandoning those promises, picking the remnants of the Wen sect over the remnants of the Jiang sect without a moment’s hesitation and not even the courtesy of an explanation.

The Yiling Patriarch was all but a stranger to him, and Jiang Cheng still didn’t understand why.

So it was probably stupid of him to react as if the person being stabbed at was Wei Wuxian, not the Yiling Patriarch – stupid of him to give up his life for someone who didn’t care about him nearly as much as Jiang Cheng cared for him.

But that’s why it wasn’t a thought. It was instinct.

He heard someone scream “Jiang Cheng!” as if their heart were breaking, and he thought for a moment that it was Wei Wuxian again, the one who loved him best. Wei Wuxian, not the Yiling Patriarch, who threw him to the dogs over and over again, put his sect at risk of utter destruction a second time over, just to indulge himself and his bizarre fixation on saving the Wens at the expense of everyone else. Who didn’t care about their duty to their sect, to their parents - who didn’t care about him at all.

Jiang Cheng’s heart hurt. It was probably just the sword that’d just been driven through it, though.

Hands grasped at his clothing, pulling him back; his sister’s face had lost all blood, and Wei Wuxian looked as if his world had ended – he wasn’t sure why. Jiang Yanli had her son to care for, a new life in Lanling that she refused to abandon even if Jin Zixuan was now gone; Wei Wuxian had his Wens, his new cultivation – perhaps it was some little regret, far too late, for the Jiang sect that would now come to grief, leaderless, the end of their family line and the disappointment of their ancestors. Jiang Cheng’s final and most absolute failure.

Jiang Cheng looked at them both, the ones he loved the most and who had left him without a single glance backwards, and found with his last breath that he had nothing to say to them.

He closed his eyes so they wouldn’t have to.

The battlefield was full of corpses, and Jiang Yanli didn’t care about a single one of them.

“Do you think he can be brought back, the way Wen Ning was?” she asked, holding the corpse in her arms as if it were still the baby brother she sang songs to as a child, the little crybaby who was so fierce on the outside and so soft on the inside. She had been able to lie to herself with Jin Zixuan’s body – he almost looked as though he were sleeping, head on the pillow beside her own – but Jiang Cheng had never slept well in his life, his brow always furrowed as if he was worrying about something even in his dreams, and the blank peace on his face was so wrong that she couldn’t bear to look at him.

She wasn’t asking Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian had only stopped the massacre when Lan Wangji, of all unlikely people, had bodily tackled him; everyone had always said that the Second Jade was like oil and water with her A-Xian, but he’d unexpectedly taken their side in this battle and was even now letting a barely-conscious Wei Wuxian sob Jiang Cheng’s name into his collar. He looked silently at her, his gaze a quiet reminder that her question was inappropriate – one Ghost General had already been enough to cause all of this tragedy, and certainly no one would ever accept another as a sect leader.

She looked steadily back at him, indicating in return that she didn’t give a damn about the standing of the Jiang sect if it meant she wouldn’t have to bury her baby brother.

Lan Wangji hesitated, looking down at Wei Wuxian. “You cannot stay at Yiling,” he finally said. “After this…”

They’d killed people from virtually every sect; no matter who had sympathized with Wei Wuxian before this or how much they felt he was wronged, they would have no choice but to raise up arms against him.

Jiang Yanli understood. They would be fugitives, condemned by all. She didn’t care. “Will you help us?”

He nodded and stood, Wei Wuxian cradled as gently in his arms as she held Jiang Cheng in hers.

“Will you come with us?” she asked. Anyone who loved her brother enough to defy his sect, to stain his untainted blade with the blood of his own kin, deserved a chance to court him properly, if she hadn’t misunderstood his intentions; she didn’t think she had, not with the expression so clear on his silent face.

“I will help you,” he said, and that wasn’t an answer, wasn’t the one she wanted, but it would have to do for now. “Let us go.”

It was Jin Zixuan who figured it out, oddly enough. Perhaps it was because he was an outsider, looking at the situation without affection to blur his eyes.

“You gave him your golden core,” he said, less than a week into his resurrection – Lan Wangji had been very efficient in his help, not only finding a new place to hide Jiang Yanli and the remaining Wens but also returning to Lanling to steal Jin Zixuan’s corpse and little Jin Ling before returning to his own sect at the first sign that Wei Wuxian would awaken from his coma. He hadn’t sent word since that time, whether from regret or other reasons; their only consolation was that there was no news of his death. “That’s why you couldn’t do anything other than demonic cultivation – is that right?”

Wei Wuxian looked at him through blood-red eyes. “Get lost,” he said; the phrase made up the majority of his vocabulary, these days, and because he refused to curse his shijie he mostly ended up not talking to her at all.

“Wen Qing was a famous doctor – she could have figured out a way to do it, and that would explain why you felt so indebted to them,” Jin Zixuan continued. “You never told him because you didn’t want to burden him. But instead you left him without any reason, any explanation: he must have felt that you abandoned him because you didn’t want him.”

“Get lost!”

“You broke his heart,” he said, and looked down at Jiang Cheng’s body – still perfectly preserved, but unmoving. The resurrection spell had already failed three times. “No wonder he doesn’t want to return.”

“I did it for him!” Wei Wuxian screamed, tears of blood dripping down his cheeks. “He didn’t – he wouldn’t – he has to come back!”

Jin Zixuan said nothing.

They ended up back in Yunmeng, rather unexpectedly; the new leadership of the Lotus Pier, a distant branch cousin who’d survived the massacre because he’d been night-hunting elsewhere, had all but begged Jiang Yanli to return. Against all odds her reputation had survived the massacre at the Nightless City; the loving wife, sister, and shijie that nearly sacrificed herself to save what lives she could and to banish the dreadful Yiling Patriarch who was never seen again from that day forth – she was very nearly regarded as an incarnation of the goddess of mercy.

She had no idea where that ridiculous notion came from, but it did mean that she could live in Lotus Pier again, with Jin Ling by her side – she’d told Jin Guangshan to name someone else as his heir, or at minimum as regent; the Jiang sect needed her and her son more. It wouldn’t have worked if Jin Zixuan hadn’t snuck into his mother’s room to convince Madam Jin to throw her support behind it; officially he was still in his tomb, since Lan Wangji had been very subtle, but in fact he lived within shouting distance of the Lotus Pier, spending his days playing with his son.

They all did, actually, the whole lot of them resettled into a tiny adjacent water town populated largely by civilians that relied on the Jiang sect for their prosperity. As long as Wei Wuxian never did anything, which he didn’t, the illusion that he was gone for good in a cloud of self-destruction after his terrible massacre could be maintained; no one expected they could possibly be so daring as to simply go home after all of it.

Lan Wangji was in seclusion, they were eventually told; Wei Wuxian hadn’t believed it for one second, smuggling himself into Gusu to check – he’d come back unconscious, slung over Jin Zixuan’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Struck by the discipline whip,” her husband, the fierce corpse that wasn’t fierce at all, said, and didn’t comment when she instinctively reached out to touch Jiang Cheng’s body, to trace the scar he had; she often spent her days next to the bed that preserved his corpse. “Many times; his body is ruined. It will take years for him to heal – the Lan sect saying he was in seclusion was their way of saving face. Wei Wuxian wants to bring him back to the Lotus Pier to hide him.”

Jiang Yanli rubbed her face, thinking not for the first time that the world would be an easier place if only her two brothers weren’t so stubborn. One who wouldn’t wake up, his spiritual consciousness all in pieces; the other who wouldn’t give up – “The Lan sect wouldn’t accept that.”

“He wasn’t planning on asking. That’s why I knocked him out. Anyway, they’re distracted with the Xue Yang matter now – my father’s still insisting on protecting him, and the Nie sect gets angrier about it by the day; without the Jiang sect, there’s only the Lan to play peacemaker, stop there from being another war.”

Jiang Yanli, who was very nice but also very much not the goddess of mercy, tilted her head to the side; something of her mother was in her eyes. “A war would be a good cover, though, or at least the rumblings of one. If we were going to steal Lan Wangji away from his sect, that is.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll sneak into Lanling to talk to my mother, maybe see if I can follow Xue Yang and see what he’s up to. You go talk to the Nie.”

Jiang Yanli’s visit to the Unclean Realm turned out to be more fruitful than anyone had expected. The moment she walked into Nie Mingjue’s receiving room, her Jiang sect bell rang so hard that it shattered, which it definitely hadn’t done during the war – they both stared at it wordlessly for a while.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “You know my family history,” he offered as an explanation, embarrassment at the public revelation of his problem already turning to anger but suppressed by his strict adherence to etiquette.

“That’s no family history,” she said, bemused, as she crouched down to poke at the pieces. “The silver bell of the Jiang sect can steady focus and calm the mind, and the ones made for the family are the strongest by far; it would only shatter like this in the effort to resist a spiritual poison…how are you feeling now, Sect Leader Nie?”

He considered for a long moment, and his face grew black with rage. “Better. I feel – like my mind has been filled with fog, and a clear breeze has blown it clear.”

She smiled up at him. “Perhaps you should visit Yunmeng.”

He scowled, and she realized he must know about Wei Wuxian’s presence, though she wasn’t sure how; despite that, in the end, after a roaring argument with Nie Huaisang in another room, he agreed to go, even if the idea of staying willfully blind clearly pained him to the core.

Jiang Yanli quietly approved of his decision to put family over principle.

When they put their mind to it, the Nie sect had an underrated talent for saying ‘I don’t know’ to just about everything. Neither brother blinked an eye at the Wen sect remnants that still teetered every time they went on a boat, very clearly not Yunmeng locals; they politely greeted Jin Zixuan as if he’d only been gone a while and not murdered; much to his older brother’s very evident irritation, Nie Huaisang even leapt over to give Wei Wuxian an enthusiastic hug while Nie Mingjue was still talking with Jin Zixuan about what it meant that Jin Guangshan had hidden away the still intact Wen Ning, who Jin Zixuan had found in a hidden part of Koi Tower during his most recent visit and immediately liberated.

“Definitely a case of spiritual poisoning,” Wei Wuxian said after a short examination, and the most reliable doctor they had left in the Jiang sect concurred. “The silver bell can help a little –”

They’d already shattered seven of them, but Nie Mingjue had actually cracked a smile for the first time in months, to hear a sobbingly relieved Nie Huaisang tell it.

“–but it can only help so much; that technique is really only meant for acute cases. And you really need to figure out what was doing the poisoning; there’s no point in curing you if you’re only going to get poisoned again.”

“A matter for a later time,” Nie Mingjue, who clearly had some suspicions that made him look as though he’d been stabbed in the back, said. “Now that we know it’s a poisoning, and my mind is clearer, I can take some action myself – the Nie have plenty of techniques to stabilize the spirit.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile was full of self-hatred, as it always was these days. “I don’t suppose any of those are designed to work on the dead.”

“Actually,” Nie Huaisang said. “Several are. Why do you ask?”

Jiang Cheng opened his eyes.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #jiang yanli #lan wangji #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin zixuan #my fic #my fics #congrats!#you get a full ficlet #this one just wouldn't stop writing

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slyther-bi · 3 years

Text

This took longer to write then expected. When it comes to writing I need to listen to music in order to write. It helps me invision what I plan to write. Sadly none of the songs I listened to helped me but eventually I came across a song I used to listen to and it helped me invision the prompt that @sevy-stuff-blog gave me. This one shot is on my Wattpad story "Harry Potter one shots" but I'm posting it on here so that @biggestsleepymoth can view as well as anyone else who doesn't follow me on Wattpad. The prompt was confusing but I hope this turned out okay and that you all enjoy it. (Edit: I fixed my spelling errors and added any forgotten words)

Guilt

Requested by @sevy-stuff-blog

Big thanks to @biggestsleepymoth for helping me out.

Some info: Luna helps comfort Snape who is feeling guilty about Dumbledore's plan

Severus Snape walked down the halls battered and bruised. He had just come back from a Death Eaters meeting and the Dark Lord was not pleased. He was furious and he always punished his followers when he was furious no matter who they were. Sad to say Severus was one of the unlucky ones tonight.

Severus hated this, he hated everything about it and wished he could get out of it. Sadly that wasn't an option, he promised to be a spy for the light side. Being a spy would help them win the war, atleast that's what Dumbledore told him.

Plus doing this helped ease his guilt about everything he's done, doing this may not excuse his actions but atleast it's a start. He let out a groan and dropped to his knees in pain. He was hit with the crucio curse more then he can count. The fact that he was still able to walk was a shock to both him and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore had given him a potion to help with the pain and suggested that he go straight to his quarters instead of going to see Madam Pomfrey. He had also been given two weeks off teaching in order to heal. Severus let out a few pained coughs and fell completely to the cold stone floor.

He wished he hadn't listen to Dumbledore and gone straight to the hospital wing but he was an idiot. 'Great now I'm gonna die here' he thought and began to cough again. A bit of blood came out as he coughed and his vision began to blur with tears. He didn't have to energy to keep himself from crying and allowed the tears to fall.

He deserved this, he did. He put the only person he ever cared about, along with her family, in danger for what? He did not know but he wished he could go back and change the past. Go back and keep himself from telling Voldemort about the prophecy or maybe go back and keep himself from joining.

Maybe then he wouldn't be in this mess. Laying here on the cold hard ground battered and bruised, coughing up blood, and in tears. 'My god I'm pathetic' he thought and made an attempt to get up. His body let out a jolt of pain not liking the idea of moving, Severus bit his tongue in order to keep himself from screaming. "If this is how I die so be it" he whispered to himself as his vision began to blur, the attempt made him grow light headed and he knew he was about to fall unconscious.

Before he lost consciousness he heard the faint noise of footsteps. He tried to move his head to see who was there but each movement caused him a great deal of pain. The footsteps came closer and stopped right besides him. Severus's vision was so blurred that all he could make out was that this person had blonde hair. Before he could make out any other detail about the person he passed out due to pain and exhaustion.

A small groan escaped past Severus's lips, he slowly opened his eyes and saw that he was in an unknown room, well not so much unknown he had been in here before but he never knew who brought him here. He attempted to sit up but he felt a pair of hands push him down "Don't attempt to sit up, you'll only hurt yourself more" he looked at the person who spoke and his eyes grew wide. "Lovegood?" He asked in confusion, Luna gave him a soft smile and held out a potion that would help ease the pain.

"Here sir, drink this it will help with the pain" She spoke softly and held the potion up to his lips. Severus allowed her to tip the potion into his mouth. He drank the potion in one go and made a face of disgust "I'm sorry, I know it taste awful" Luna stated and set the vial aside. Severus shook his head and sighed "It's fine" he muttered, Luna smiled and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you join?"

Severus stared at Luna in confusion but that confusion faded when she pointed at his left arm. It was only then that Severus realised that his shirt had been removed and the dark mark on his arm was visible. He closed his eyes and tried to avoid answering the question but it seemed Luna wouldn't let him.

"Professor, please" She spoke softly and stared at him with pleading eyes. Severus opened his eyes and looked at her, after a minute he let out a deep sigh. "Because I was young and naive" He whispered as he closed his eyes again. He couldn't bear to look into Luna's eyes, he couldn't bear seeing the sadness in them. "Because I was blinded by the promise of power, the promise to be freed from a life of abuse, the promise to be the one on top, to no longer be looked down on." Severus spoke and finally opened his eyes to face her, he let out a sigh and sat up.

His body let out a jolt of pain in protest but due to the potion Luna had given him he was able to ignored it. "Because I finally gave in to everyones lies about me" He added as tears began to form. Severus attempted to wipe them away but Luna grabbed hold of his hand. Severus looked down inorder to avoid the look in her eyes. He knew she was looking at him with pity and that was the last thing he needed.

"But you're on our side now, I know you are." Luna spoke, Severus turned to face her and raised an eyebrow "And what makes you say that, Miss Lovegood?" He questioned. Luna gave him a smile "Forgive me Professor but I overheard a conversation between you and the Headmaster. I know about you being a spy for the Order" She explained "I've known for awhile, who do you think has been healing you all this time when you come back completely hurt" She added softly.

Severus stared at her in shocked, all this time it was Luna who was patching him up after a rough meeting with the Dark Lord. "You've known?" He said in almost a whisper, Luna nodded "Yes, the only thing I didn't know was why you had joined in the first place. Nor do I know what made you change sides"

He looked away and laid back down "I made a mistake, a very big mistake that helped set this war into motion. A mistake that endangered many innocent lives" He spoke out with guilt in his voice. Luna couldn't help but stare at him in confusion "Professor, what mistake did you make?" She asked.

Severus looked up at her with guilty eyes "I told the dark lord of the prophecy, I told him that the one destined to kill him would by born as the seventh month dies...." He breathed out as tears began to fall. It took awhile for Luna to understand what Severus was talking about but eventually it all clicked.

She faintly remembered Harry stating that Severus knew his mother back when they were younger. That both Harry and Neville were born at the end of July. That prophecy lead to the death of Harry's parents and to the destruction of Neville's parents. Luna couldn't help but stare at him in shock, nor could she have stopped the gasp that came from her.

Severus had looked away from her and made a move to stand up. Before he could move he felt a pair of arms wrap around him. He opened his mouth to say something but was beaten to it "It wasn't you're fault Professor" Luna spoke and Severus felt his heart ache at those words. "It was, it was all my fault, if I had kept quiet, if I hadn't told him then-" He was quickly cut off by Luna tightening her hold on him.

"Stop, you aren't to blame" She stated "I costed people their lives, I endangered the life of the only person who was willing to help me" He muttered, his body began to shake as more tears began to fall. "I ended the life of my only friend!" He shouted out and clutched at the sheets below him.

Luna's heart began to ache and tears formed in her eyes, seeing her Professor fall apart caused her heart to ache badly. Luna let go of him and turned him around so that he could face her "Professor, you didn't know, if you hadn't had told him then someone else would have. And that person would have no regrets, that person wouldn't agreed to become a spy for the Order, that person wouldn't risk their life to help us win this war." She explained

"Nothing could have prevented this war, I can see the guilt in your eyes and I can hear the pain in your voice. You are risking your very life to make things right, without you we all would be dead. Harry would most likely be dead if it weren't for you" She added "We wouldn't have come this far without your help, I know you've done bad things, you've had to inorder to insure that the Dark Lord never questioned you're loyalty but I know truly were your loyalty lies and it lies with us here in the light" Severus couldn't help but simply stare at her, he opened his mouth to say something but Luna held up a hand and continued.

"Whatever you plan to say you can keep it to yourself Professor, You have so much bravery that it puts Godric Gryffindor and the entire Gryffindor house hold to shame. You made mistakes everyone does but it's take someone with a heart of gold to own up to them and attempt to right the wrong. I can see that you're broken but you show such incredible strength because I don't think anyone could do what you do. I don't think anyone could do what you do and stay alive." Luna said with admiration, she pulled Severus into a hug and smiled when she felt him wrap his arms around her.

"Whatever happens Professor, known that I am by your side. I promise I won't tell anyone about this, your secret should die with me. You aren't alone, not anymore" Severus pulled back and managed to give her a small smile "Thank you" he said softly. Luna nodded and stood up "I'll let you rest now, I should be heading back to my dorm" She said.

Severus simply nodded, before Luna left she hugged him one last time and left the room. Severus laid back down on the bed and wiped away the dry tears from his face. The guilt was still eating at him and he still blamed himself but after hearing what Luna said he felt that maybe she was right. He closed his eyes and let out a soft yawn, he succumb to sleep with one last thought in his head.

'I'll keep fighting, I won't give in. For her sake'

'For Luna Lovegood'

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isabilightwood · 3 years

Text

The Problem With Authority - Chapter 7

Or, Sacrifice Summon! Jiang Yanli is here to make things right, be the ultimate big sister (step 1: bring back her dead brother), and maybe steal the Peacock throne in the process

[AO3][1][2][3][4][5][6]

Awareness rushed in with a crack like lightning. With it came pain, but not as much as Wei Wuxian would have expected from exploding into a pulp of blood and guts.

The ground beneath him felt solid. Cool and rough like poorly sanded wood, nothing like the smooth, burning volcanic stone that should have bordered the river of lava, should he have been unlucky enough to neither fall in nor die on impact.

Wei Wuxian was still, it seemed, in possession of arms. Because those were what hurt — and only those. That, and a bit of a crick in his neck from lying face down on a hard surface, and a possible splinter in his cheek.

He inhaled the scent of dried blood with every breath, and still, only his forearms burned.

Dust from the floor made his nose itch.

Fuck. He was alive. And definitely not at the bottom of a cliff.

He could only conclude that he had been resurrected. A few feet away he would find the names of whoever someone had decided to give up their very soul to destroy.

What if he just… didn’t? Wei Wuxian hadn’t agreed to this. He hadn’t wanted to be brought back. He’d only wanted the two people left in the world he cared about to live, without him around to get in the way.

He lay there longer than necessary, contemplating it. But in his heart, he always knew he would get up. Besides, he felt… not great, honestly. But more alive than he’d felt in a while. Like his soul had taken a nice sabbatical.

Like he’d come out of an extended, impossibly peaceful meditation. Similar to that used to cultivate to immortality, but for the dead. And landed in a body only slightly less full of resentful energy than the one he’d vacated.

Wei Wuxian pushed against the floor, raising his head. Someone gasped.

As he raised himself into a seating position, he swept the curtain of hair away from his eyes, and laid eyes on a stranger. A short young woman, draped in Jin gold and muted pink, both hands pressed over her mouth. A sword lay on the ground next to her, almost like she’d dropped it.

But cultivators never dropped their swords.

“A-Xian!” The woman breathed.

That couldn’t be good. Only Shijie had ever called him that. Did the Yiling Patriarch still have obsessive followers even after he so publicly self-destructed? Or worse, had the Jin decided to use him for their own purposes.

Wei Wuxian had only just been resurrected, and he was already in trouble.

Unfortunately, wherever he’d been must have been peaceful, because Wei Wuxian was feeling a lot less self-destructive, compared to the last thing he remembered:

Lan Zhan, still trying to save him, though he was already dead long before destroying the Stygian Tiger Amulet sealed the deal. Jiang Cheng, finally done with him, but missing his swing, and nearly killing Lan Zhan as well. Wei Wuxian had been happy to fall.

Yet now he felt more alive than he had in years.

Which meant that whatever this was, he had to deal with it. Ugh. “Who are you?”

“Oh, right. You won’t recognize me like this.” She hurried to the wall behind her, and picked up a tureen. Wei Wuxian maneuvered himself into a sitting position as she did so, readying himself to run, once his legs felt strong enough.

And once he figured out who this woman and who the poor sap had killed himself for revenge expected the great and terrible Yiling Patriarch to kill.

She set it down on the edge of the array, and lifted the lid.

Only one thing in the world smelled like that. Just the smell was enough to bring tears to his eyes. His world shifted on its axis. “Shijie?”

She nodded, blinking rapidly.

He launched himself forward out of the array, and into her arms. “I’m sorry.” He sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Xianxian, no. I’m here.” She said, but she was crying too.

They fell to the ground together, and, because neither Wei Wuxian nor Jiang Yanli had ever been ashamed of crying, stayed that way for a long time. He stroked her hair and clung like he was nine years old again, and she was the first person he could remember tucking him in at night. The one he ran to when he didn’t understand why Madame Yu hated him so much. But now, she clung back just as fiercely.

He couldn’t believe she was here. Who would ever have summoned sweet, caring Jiang Yanli to take revenge? Few people knew how strong she was in spirit. And the body she was wearing remained entirely unfamiliar. Smaller, but more solid in his arms than Shijie had ever been.

Eventually, she pulled away, just far enough to ladle out a bowl of soup and press it into his hands. She watched him like a hawk until he’d eaten half the bowl, though he was still more than a little choked up.

When she was satisfied he wasn’t going to wither and starve to death in the next five minutes, she said, “There’s something else you should know. Your Lan Wangji —”

“He’s not mine.” No matter how much he wished it. Wei Wuxian had only ever cast his shadow on Lan Zhan’s light. He couldn’t let himself do that to him again.

“You should let him decide that for himself, but that wasn’t the point.” Shijie rolled her eyes as she patted his hand. She even took away his bowl and set it on the ground, which went to show that this was serious. Shijie would never take away soup without good reason. “He saved your A-Yuan. Lan Yuan, courtesy Sizhui now. ”

“Sizhui? Lan Zhan — me?” Lan Zhan couldn’t really have named his A-Yuan Sizhui, could he? That was — Wei Wuxian had been the one yearning, longing for someone out of reach. After Wei Wuxian’s first stint in the Burial Mounds, he never could have been worthy of Lan Zhan, of what they could have meant to each other. Lan Zhan, well meaning, had persisted in trying to help him. But he hadn’t thought Lan Zhan would still — not after all he’d done.

“A-Xian.” Shijie wiped her thumbs under his eyes, and he realized he’d begun crying again. “Those of us who know you for who you are, and not the masks you show the world, cannot help but love you.”

Lan Zhan was — Lan Zhan —

Wei Wuxian could not drag him into this, whatever revenge he was expected take. But maybe, someday —

“Anything else I should know while I’m out of tears?” He asked, when his eyes were swollen and puffy and finally dry.

She told him about the Wen siblings, and he wasn’t out of tears after all. At least Shijie had always been a sympathetic crier, so at least he wasn’t alone in his weeping.

After their tears finally died away, and Shijie had plucked a pair of his drying talismans from her sleeve, she refilled his soup. Wei Wuxian really was out of tears this time, or he might have started off again.

Only then did he remember to clarify what, exactly, was going on. Now that Shijie had told him all the important things. That he hadn’t gotten everyone he ever loved killed or condemned to a life of misery, after all.

“How did you manage this?” He asked around a mouthful off heavenly pork. “Whose body is this, I mean? And yours?”

Wei Wuxian listened with increasing horror as Jiang Yanli told the story of waking up in the body of the new Madame Jin, all the way through to the array he’d woken up in. His curiosity was sparked by the implications of what Qin Su had done — closer to what he’d been trying to accomplish with the arrays than anything he’d been able to achieve.

And she’d done it entirely by accident, with consequences they had yet to fully understand. All of which seemed to rest on Qin Su’s shoulders, with no signs that Shijie was anything but firmly anchored in her body. It bore further investigation anyways.

Though for the moment, another concern was more pressing.

“Xue Yang?” Shijie had gone near Xue Yang to bring him back? That twisted, murdering bastard without even a sense of scale to temper his depravity. And she’d done it for him. He wasn’t worth the risk. He should have killed Xue Yang years ago, when he had the chance — There was a wrenching feeling in his gut as his fear and anger spiked, irrationally, over a matter already settled. “Oh, ow. What the fuck.”

No, not his gut. His lower dantian. That sure was a tainted golden core, so it really must have been Xue Yang. The state of his golden core would certainly explain why Wei Wuxian felt so off.

Xue Yang’s golden core, which was now his. A golden core, something he’d long believed lost to him forever, resting inside him, an unwilling gift from his enemy.

Wei Wuxian was simultaneously disgusted and euphoric.

He’d never had to deal with the risk of qi deviation before, because the resentful energy hadn’t interacted nearly so badly with the sluggish flow in his meridians after its driving force was removed.

“What’s wrong?” Jiang Yanli put one hand over his forehead, and held his wrist in the other. He felt her, prodding around for what was wrong with spiritual energy. Something she never could have managed before.

Only Wen Qing knew how to treat this, though.

“Well, when a cultivator with a golden core uses demonic cultivation, it taints it with resentful energy. A little is fine and gets burned off, but a lot like Xue Yang — I’m surprised at how well he was holding off from a qi deviation, honestly.” “That’s why when I —” He broke off in a laugh.

Shit.

It was too much to hope that Shijie hadn’t caught his slip. “A-Xian. What happened to your golden core?”

“Um.” He really should have said Wen Zhuliu, but he couldn’t lie directly to Shijie. Not when she was staring at him, wide-eyed and concerned. Even if those eyes weren’t the ones he knew.

Wei Wuxian dared anyone to resist that.

When his confession was complete, she said nothing. Only sniffled.

Finally, she hugged him tight again, and ladled out more soup, though Wei Wuxian had yet to finish the second bowl. He dug in, shoveling each bite in, but chewing slowly, savoring the flavor like he’d never known he should before.

Tainted or not, the golden core inside him was fully formed and strong. An impossibility and a blessing.

“Are you all finished with the emotional reunion?” Nie Huaisang of all people swanned through the door. “Great! Hi, Wei-xiong!”

Gaping, he looked from Nie Huaisang to Shijie.

Shijie’s expression said oh right, him.

Ok, then. This was happening. “Hi, Nie-xiong. How have you been.”

Nie Huaisang plopped down in a heap across the soup tureen from him. “I’ve been better! Jin Guangyao killed my Dage, so we’re getting revenge.”

“Right, Shijie told me. Is he the only one I have to kill?”

Shijie shook her head, confirming his suspicions. “Him, another sect leader, and a few of Jin Guangyao’s guards. I’ll write the names down for you.”

Wei Wuxian really wanted to be done killing people. He wanted to — well, he wanted an impossibility. Traveling with Lan Zhan and A-Yuan, visiting Shijie and Jiang Cheng often in Lotus Pier, helping Wen Ning grow new varieties of vegetables in his garden, and arguing cultivation theory with Wen Qing. Even if Lan Zhan still wanted him, if they saved both the Wens, Jiang Cheng would never want to see him.

Shijie turned to Nie Huaisang. “We need to get him in to see Wen Qing.”

“Well, I can certainly provide a distraction, but he can’t just walk into Koi Tower like that.” Nie Huaisang hummed, tapping his closed fan against his lips. “You need a disguise.”

“A mask?” That would be the easiest thing to get a hold of.

But Nie Huaisang was shaking his head. “No, no, that won’t work. That’s just suspicious. You need something no one will see through.”

“I’ll think about it.” He wasn’t entirely sure that a mask wasn’t the solution — just not the sort of mask anyone else had ever come up with.

“You do that. In the meantime,” Nie Huaisang clapped his hands together. “Questions.”

“How did you get Xue Yang to give up his body to me?” Shijie hadn’t mentioned the details, but Wei Wuxian assumed the trickery had been at Nie Huaisang’s hands.

But Nie Huaisang tsked and shook his head. “I didn’t do it. Your sister did.”

“Shijie?”

“I lied.” She said, a slight flush rising to her cheeks. By the time she finished explaining what she’d done, he was looking at her in an entirely new light. “I wanted you back. I could save you, so I did.”

“Shijie. I — but. Your husband.” Wei Wuxian had been so caught up in having her back, that he hadn’t even apologized yet. What kind of useless brother was he?

Nie Huaisang got to his feet and practically ran for the door at the first sign of emotion.

“It wasn’t on purpose.” Shijie tried to put her hand on his shoulder, but Wei Wuxian flinched away.

“How did you know?” After all the time he’d spent antagonizing Jin Zixuan, calling him the Peacock and even attacking him in public, no one should have been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Shijie did not deign to answer, simply looked at him as though the question was ridiculous. As though she still trusted him, after everything.

“Well, you’re right. I didn’t mean to, but it was my fault.” No matter how he thought of it, if it were not for Wei Wuxian — if he’d taken a less obvious route, if he’d taken Wen Qing with him instead or gone alone, if he’d imposed on Lan Zhan enough to ask for an escort, if he’d simply remembered how easily the power given by the Yin Iron could be stolen away — . “I stole Wen Ruohan’s control, and I forgot someone could do the same to me.”

“It is not your fault. You were ambushed, and scared, and trying to defend yourself.” Shijie hugged him, and again, he melted into her arms.

“It is, though. It is.” Wei Wuxian choked down a sob. He really couldn’t start that back up again. “I just wanted to meet your son.”

“You will.” She assured him, petting his hair soothingly, the way she had as long as he’d known her. Wei Wuxian couldn’t believe his luck.

When they emerged from the warehouse, Nie Huaisang was waiting.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Shijie asked Nie Huaisang.

“If it’s here, Xue Yang hid it well.” He sighed heavily, and didn’t even flourish his fan. So clearly whatever he’d been searching for was important.

Something in this little town full of coffins and burial goods, complete with paper mannequins peering out the windows. It was scarcely dusk, but the streets were already empty. He could feel — but not see, not like the mysterious resident of Shijie’s head — the mostly inert resentful energy everywhere. He could see what would have attracted Xue Yang to the town, but not why he wouldn’t have simply made it more of a living hell, and moved along.

The slippery little bastard had done nothing but complain of boredom on the way to what should have been his execution, after all. “What was he doing here anyway? It’s an eerie little town, but you said he’d been here a while?”

“Well, he was kicked out by Jin Guangyao, and it seems he set up a domestic little arrangement with Xiao Xingchen.” Nie Huaisang made an effort to sound flighty but his mind was clearly still elsewhere.

How the — no, actually, he didn’t want to know. Everything Wei Wuxian learned of the events following his death was stranger and more unsettling. “And my shishu won’t wonder what happened when he never comes back?”

Peering into the darkness of an alley, Nie Huaisang flapped a hand dismissively. “I’m having Song Lan tracked down. He’ll forget all about him soon enough.”

Good for his shishu. He deserved his second chance at love. Wei Wuxian hadn’t had time to be devastated over their separation, the failure of what he’d wanted his life to be because he’d been too busy throwing it away.

But maybe, just maybe. If he completed Xue Yang’s revenge and was here to stay, if Shijie and A-Ling and the Wen siblings were all safe and secure. Maybe he could earn a second chance with Lan Zhan someday.

It would take years to make up for his mistakes, Wei Wuxian imagined, a slow courting of hundreds of handmade gifts and tracking down the most challenging hauntings across the cultivation world. He’d remind Lan Zhan that he was good with children, and be there to help him raise A-Yuan the rest of the way. Show him he would never miss another moment.

There went his imagination, wanting things that were distant possibilities as best. Who was to say Lan Zhan hadn’t moved on? All Shijie had to go on was guesses, gossip, and a glimpse.

They passed a row of coffins, just waiting to be filled with some unlucky sap. Wei Wuxian drew up short. “Why do I sense some really strong resentful energy?”

“Xue Yang was turning people into puppets for fun.” Nie Huaisang said, causing both him and Shijie to glare at him. It seemed he’d failed to mention that to both of them.

Though, honestly, Wei Wuxian should have guessed. He pinpointed the coffin that felt like a mass grave, and whistled with no force behind it. Even so, a shifting spiderweb of resentful energy briefly became visible. That was a ward. One that would take him about an hour to unravel, using demonic cultivation.

Or, conveniently, application of Xue Yang’s own spiritual energy.

“No, this is more static. Almost like — “ He shoved hard at the lid of the coffin, and it slid forward a few inches, letting out a cloud of black smoke. “Shit, Xue Yang’s piece of Yin Iron.”

“Excellent! Exactly what I was looking for.” Nie Huaisang perked up, his usual good humor restored. “Do you think you can —” Shijie, uncharacteristically, pinched his arm sharply. “Jiang-guniang, why? I was going to say destroy it.”

“Sure,” He said absently. “Same way I did the Tiger Seal.”

“Can you destroy it without hurting yourself?” Shijie asked gently, reminding him exactly how that had gone.

“I can’t, but didn’t Lan Xichen manage it somehow?” He kept shoving at the lid, to no avail. Right, Xue Yang must have a sword somewhere. He reached into his sleeve and found a hilt, as well as a pair of qiankun bags.

“He said that, but Dage told me in confidence that the pair of them sealed them away again in secret. I don’t know if Erge told him where. I certainly don’t know.” Nie Huaisang paused. “And yes, I do mean that.”

The sword felt worse than the core, like it was used to Xue Yang’s cultivation. Jiangzai, it was called. That felt suiting. But though it resisted him, when Wei Wuxian sent a bolt of energy through it, the lid went flying into a wall thirty feet away.

Oh, so it was either nothing or too much with Jiangzai. He saw how it was.

Wei Wuxian stared down at the contents nestled inside. The Yin Iron was there, shaped into what looked like another Tiger Seal, but less powerful by far. Stacked right on top of two items that were undoubtedly just soaking in that resentful energy. Fuck. “Um. Nie-xiong? I think Xue Yang has your brother’s body. Also Baxia.”

It was agreed that Nie Mingjue’s body would have to be retrieved the next day, as Wei Wuxian had only just been resurrected and neither Nie Huaisang nor Shijie could fly. Shijie didn’t say, but he assumed she either hadn’t had time to learn, or temperamental swords were a side effect of resurrection.

In case it was the latter, he should probably bring that up at some point.

Shijie handed him some talisman paper, so he could construct a ward over the coffin, and they went down the foothills to an inn where Jin Ling was waiting.

His baby nephew had already been put to bed by the time they arrived. Which was all for the better because that meant Wei Wuxian actually got to see him.

Jin Ling was so big already, grown bigger than A-Yuan had been in what seemed to him the blink of an eye. Six years old, when he should have been all of a hundred days. Wei Wuxian reached out and hesitated, looking up at his shijie.

She nodded, watching them both with her heart in her eyes.

He hesitated several more times on the way to touching A-Ling’s hair, afraid that touch would shatter the illusion. But A-Ling didn’t disappear when Wei Wuxian touched him. A-Ling’s skin had the downy texture of childhood and his hair was silky under his fingertips, a sign of how healthy and loved he was. Jiang Cheng had taken such good care of him, though that never should have been his job, if not for Wei Wuxian.

A-Ling stirred under his touch, and he snatched his hand back, but the boy only shifted onto his side, and stuck his thumb into his mouth.

Wei Wuxian loved him so much, just as he’d known he would.

Because Wei Wuxian couldn’t bear to give up his scant moments with his darling nephew, he, Shijie, and Nie Huaisang sat on the floor to discuss how they would break Wei Wuxian into Koi Tower unnoticed.

Not something he ever expected to want. But he did want to see Wen Qing for himself — they needed to yell at each other for self-sacrifice, without her paralyzing him again. And Shijie would worry if she didn’t know he was alright. So Wei Wuxian supposed he would let Wen Qing poke around in Xue Yang’s core.

As Shije and Nie Huaisang heatedly (for them) debated their methods, Wei Wuxian occupied himself by unpacking Xue Yang’s bags item by item.

The current Nie First Disciple, a woman he’d fought alongside on occasion during the Sunshot Campaign, stood guard outside the door. Neither she, nor the younger disciples accompanying her, had seen remotely surprised to see him. So Wei Wuxian assumed resurrecting notorious traitors was just par for the course in things their sect leader did.

He reached in and grabbed something with an odd, elastic texture. Pulling it out, he flinched. And flung it on the floor.

It was a mask of someone’s face. He’d seen them before, when a possessed woman in Yunmeng had started carving the faces off her neighbors and wearing them as masks. This, though, was melded together to form a face disturbingly similar to Song Lan’s. And according to Nie Huaisang, Song Lan was still alive.

Had he written about that night hunt? Xue Yang could easily have modified the method. He would bet Jin Guangyao had focused on the profitable ideas among his inventions, and let Xue Yang make the most grotesque techniques of his demonic cultivation worse. The techniques that could do good had almost certainly been left to languish.

Even if Jin Guangyao wanted to leave reform as his legacy, he couldn’t openly use techniques that showed demonic cultivation was not all sacrificing virgins and creating puppets from amalgamated rotting meat. Better for him that the Yiling Laozu remained a monster under the bed, even if it meant leaving people to starve, their fields and forests tainted with resentful energy.

Well, if Xue Yang could twist his techniques, Wei Wuxian could twist them back.

“You, Wei-xiong, look like you’re having an idea.” Nie Huaisang fluttered his fan. Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between it, and the creepy skin mask on the ground.

He thought back to the brightest period of his childhood, flashes of a masked figured twirling and kicking on a stage, flourishing a fan in sharp movements, creating an illusion of transformation. “Nie-xiong. You’re a cultural connoisseur.”

“I make an effort.”

“That dance where the performer changes masks behind a fan — do you know how it works?” The dance, from Meishan, involved face changes, using greasepaint or changing the color of a beard. Or, more importantly, masks. Madame Yu had enjoyed it, often hiring troops from her natal sect’s territory to perform for guests and during festivals. Wei Wuxian didn’t know the trick to it, but Nie Huaisang might.

“The Bian Lian? That is a particular favorite of mine.”

“No, really? I would never have guessed.” He never would have expected Nie Huaisang of all people to enjoy a dance that involved fans! Or masks!

Nie Huaisang rapped him on the shin with his fan, and “Ow, fuck, is that thing made of steel?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Nie Huaisang said primly, which Wei Wuxian took as a yes.

“Huaisang.” Shijie gave him a disappointed look.

It wasn’t quite as stern as in her own face, Qin Su’s heart shaped face rendering it somehow even more gently chiding, but it was just as effective. Nie Huaisang sighed. “Yes, I know how it works. Would you like me to sketch a diagram?”

“Please.”

Wei Wuxian interpreted Nie Huaisang’s caving to Shijie as his having been officially taken under her wing. He wondered if that meant they were brothers now.

It was a little-known secret that Wei Wuxian was not the only child raised by Jiang Fengmian to collect family wherever he went. He had, in fact, picked up that trait from his sister. Around the time she’d decided he was her didi, no matter that Wei Wuxian was never officially adopted into the clan.

“What are you thinking, A-Xian?” Shijie asked, while Nie Huaisang was busy being unnecessarily artistic with his diagram. Wei Wuxian would have so many extraneous swirls to work around.

“Well, I’m not wearing that thing. I’m pretty sure it is human skin, just not the person’s face it’s copying.” Wei Wuxian might control corpses on occasion, but he wasn’t wearing one on his face. That was just gross, in a uniquely Xue Yang fashion. Just remembering the moment he’d touched it made him want to spend the next week becoming a prune in an excessively soapy bath. “But I can’t just run around like this.”

Neither Wei Wuxian’s own face nor Xue Yang’s was exactly ideal. But Xue Yang had committed each and every crime he was accused of, with more undoubtedly yet to come. Wei Wuxian had only committed some of crimes he was given credit for. He was grateful Shijie had ensured he was given his own back.

Besides, Wei Wuxian was clearly better looking than Xue Yang, whether they were being judged on a scale of handsomeness or prettiness.

That didn’t stop either face from being a problem. “So I thought, why not make a mask where I can pretend to be Xue Yang? But where I can also quickly change to a harmless face, and avoid any future angry mobs.”

Wei Wuxian would strongly prefer not to be the target of future angry mobs. The once had been more than enough.

“Impersonate Xue Yang? But A-Xian —” Shijie frowned, an expression he never wanted to put on her face. “Don’t get more involved in this than you need to be for my sake. I brought you back for selfish reasons, and I can ensure those marks disappear and leave you free.”

Obviously, Wei Wuxian would never do that. “Shijie, you brought me back because you care. And I love you too, so don’t tell me not to help you.”

She reached out to pet his hair, and he leaned into it. “You’ve sacrificed enough.”

Shijie might think so, but he would never agree. Wei Wuxian would always want to help. Not because he owed her for what he’d done — which he did — but because he loved her. On top of that, she was trying to overthrow a child murderer, and improve the lives of ordinary people in an unprecedented way. Of course he would do anything he could to help.

And he didn't want her to have to learn how to kill.

He pulled away, and grasped her too-slim shoulders instead to meet those bizarre, smaller eyes that still, somehow, felt like her. “It’s not about sacrifice. I can be a distraction for you. If Jin Guangyao’s as clever as you say — and I remember that was my impression of him — he won’t stay ignorant of what you’re doing forever.”

“A-Xian—”

Wei Wuxian cut off her protest. This was the best way for him to help. Any protest she had could only be an attempt to protect him. “But if Xue Yang’s a ghost he can’t catch? Maybe you can pull it off.”

#the untamed #cql #wangxian #yanqing #qin su #the sacrifice summon! JYL fic #where the summoner (qin su) sticks around #this time featuring emotional reunions #jiang yanli being the only person in the cultivation world with communication skills #and wei wuxian's mad science tendencies

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hellofromthe-otter-slide · 5 years

Text

The Trial at Mystacor

Hi, everyone. I decided to make Repercussions into a chapter fic. How exciting.

Anyway, I really did actually want to continue this fic, and I have a few more ideas for some other chapters (something kind of Zuko Alone adjacent that follows Catra before she comes to Bright Moon, something in the future, etc), but, if there’s anything you want to see me write in this universe, send me an ask or a message and I’ll definitely try.

Anyway, back to the fic. Enjoy!

Read on AO3.

The Sorcerers' Council isn't what Catra expects them to be. The five sorcerers are old and young, men and women, a mix of Etherians and fae.

And all of them are looking at Catra like they're worried she might snap right here and now in the trial chambers.

All except one woman, the head sorceress, who doesn’t look at Catra at all. She addresses the room, and even as she talks about Catra and her crimes, their eyes never meet.

The trial begins by listing Catra's crimes.

Bombing the castle in the Kingdom of Snows and kidnapping Princess Glimmer and Bow.

The attempted siege of Bright Moon castle.

The destruction of the Whispering Woods.

Violence against villages acquired by the Horde.

Kidnapping Adora.

Opening a portal that almost lead to the destruction of Etheria.

The princesses all sit on either side of the Sorcerers’ Council, Glimmer and She-Ra the two middle points. Catra can read their expressions easily.

Most of them watch Catra with contempt and distrust, but Glimmer looks at Catra with disgust and contempt.

Catra guesses it’s because one of her crimes was left out of the list.

The portal was mentioned.

The fact that opening the portal led to Queen Angella’s death was not.

Catra sits quietly and waits to be asked to speak. She remembers a different trial and the speech she prepared for it, hoping to cut into Hordak before he inevitably had her killed.

She almost wishes Hordak would’ve killed her then. If he had done that, if he hadn’t sent her on a death mission to the Crimson Waste, if she had never overheard that conversation, she wouldn’t be here right now.

But Catra can’t think like that.

All of those things happened.

And now she’s standing trial before the Rebellion because of everything that followed.

And everything she did before.

She wonders what they’ll do to her. She doesn’t think they’re going to kill her, but she’s unsure what punishments the Rebellion even has. Will she live out her life in a cell? Will they banish her?

Will they execute her?

What’s going to happen to me?

The head sorceress draws something in the air, and Catra gets flashes of Shadow Weaver and red electricity and pain, so much pain.

The flashes don’t last long.

“This is a truth spell,” the head sorceress says, and the glowing circle washes over Catra with a flick of her hand, “You will now be compelled to answer all of our questions honestly.”

Catra nods.

It isn’t like she plans to lie anyway.

That’s not why she came here.

As explained at the start of the trial, each sorcerer on the council gets one question, and then the princesses each have the opportunity to ask one of their own.

The first sorcerer asks why Catra showed up at Bright Moon, and Catra starts to feel like a broken record, repeating the same thing she’s fairly certain she told every single member of the Princess Alliance.

The second asks if Catra knew the consequences of opening the portal.

“I did,” Catra answers, ducking her head, “Entrapta told me herself what could happen, but I stunned her, threatened Scorpia, and did it anyway.”

The room is quiet for just a few moments before Catra hears a rise in murmurs.

The next sorcerer waits for it to quiet down before asking the next question.

Why?

Catra looks up, and instead of looking at the sorcerer who asked, she looks at She-Ra.

She hates She-Ra.

She tried to destroy She-Ra so many times she lost count.

She-Ra is Adora, and Adora used to be the only person she knew she could count on.

She-Ra doesn’t look back at her.

Catra doesn’t want to answer, and she stays quiet for as long as she can, but the truth spell starts to do its work, and everything she never wanted to say starts getting harder and harder to hold back.

“I did it, because I couldn’t let Adora win,” Catra spits out, the words ripped out by the truth spell, “Shadow Weaver came back for Adora, and then Entrapta told me that Adora was right about the portal, and I saw red. I needed to win. I needed to prove that I could beat her, that I was better than her, so I pulled the lever.”

Catra can’t look at She-Ra now, not with that truth so out in the open.

“I didn’t care what happened to Etheria as long as I was its destroyer,” Catra ends, and she looks up at the Sorcerers’ Council, her tail flicking uncomfortably.

They look at her like she’s a monster.

She knows she is.

The room is dead silent before the next sorceress clears her throat and asks something unexpected.

She asks about Catra’s relationship to Shadow Weaver, but she calls her Light Spinner.

It takes Catra a moment to respond.

How is she supposed to explain her relationship with Shadow Weaver?

She doesn’t know.

Even still, the truth spell does its work.

“She raised me,” Catra answers, “I don’t remember being raised by anyone else.”

That’s all Catra has to say. She doesn’t know if she can explain it any more than that.

The four sorcerers on the council turn to the head sorceress and wait for her question.

She looks at Catra with obvious hatred, and Catra wonders what she’s done to warrant such specific disdain. Everyone else watches her carefully, like they don’t know when she might turn and bring the entire Horde marching up Mystacor’s cliffs.

The head sorceress, though, she looks at Catra with hatred and disgust.

“My brother, King Micah, was trained by Light Spinner,” the head sorceress says, and even with that little bit of information, Catra understands.

This woman is Queen Angella’s sister-in-law.

Catra looks to Glimmer and notices the mirrored look of hatred and wishes for the millionth time that she never pulled that lever.

That she never left the Crimson Waste.

That she left with Adora when she had the chance.

“She wanted him to be her perfect student,” the head sorceress continues, “She trained him because she saw promise in him. She thought that they could rule side by side.”

Just like Adora, Catra thinks.

“She seeks power to steal it. She knew Micah was a powerful sorcerer. She sensed She-Ra in Adora, so why did she pick you?”

Catra’s eyes go wide, and she shrinks into herself just slightly.

Useless, she hears in her head, the voice sounding all too much like Shadow Weaver, Absolutely worthless.

She can’t help the tears that spring to her eyes, and she does everything possible to keep them in.

She may have turned herself in, and she plans to atone, but she will not cry in front of the Sorcerers’ Council and the entire Princess Alliance.

So, she deflects.

“I wish I could tell you,” Catra says, trying her hardest to sound unaffected, “To Shadow Weaver I was nothing. I was a nuisance, something she had to keep around because her star pupil had grown attached to it, and she treated me as much. She used me over and over again, no matter how many times I tried to gain her approval.”

That doesn’t seem to satisfy the head sorceress. She looks like she was expecting a different answer, something to show how this seemingly worthless girl almost became Etheria’s killer.

She wasn’t expecting me to just be me, Catra thinks, She was expecting me to be another one of Shadow Weaver’s proteges. She was expecting me to be something special.

And now, the floor is open to the princesses.

They don’t have to ask questions, but they can if they want to, and unsurprisingly, they want to.

Scorpia stands quickly, her chair rattling just slightly, and asks Catra why they couldn’t have run from the Horde when they had the chance.

Catra sighs.

“Because I was happy,” Catra smiles at Scorpia, her best friend, the person who somehow still has faith in her, which is a miracle, all things considered, “I can’t remember feeling so happy, but there was something missing.”

Catra’s glad that Scorpia can only ask that one question, because she knows that the follow-up would be to ask what was missing.

She doesn’t expect Glimmer to stand and ask that very question.

Catra fights the truth spell, she tries to lie, but she can’t.

Of course she can’t.

“Adora,” Catra says, her voice strangled from trying to keep it in, “Adora was missing.”

A few of the princesses turn and look at She-Ra, but She-Ra finally looks at Catra.

To Catra, She-Ra is a completely different person, but those eyes, so clear and blue and tied to so many of Catra’s happy memories, those are all Adora.

The head sorceress commands Catra to elaborate, and Catra doesn’t even know that’s allowed, but she’s compelled to.

“All my life, I thought Adora and I were going to rule Etheria together.” Catra doesn’t even fight it anymore. She just lets it all spill out. “Adora would lead the Horde, and I’d be her second-in-command, and nothing could stop us. And then she became She-Ra, and she left without thinking. She left me with only a half-assed plea to come with her.”

Spinerella stands, and she’s kind as she asks why Catra didn’t go.

“She explained to me how she finally saw that what the Horde was doing was evil, how she couldn’t come back after what she saw in Thaymor.” Catra wants to look up, to say this to She-Ra, to Adora, but she can’t.

She says it to the ground.

“She saw strangers suffering and decided to go. She saw what happened to me for years and never suggested leaving.”

She doesn’t have to elaborate. Apparently that answer is good enough for the truth spell.

Nobody asks what happened to Catra growing up.

She doesn’t know if she would be able to keep it together if they did.

She-Ra stands, and the room goes silent.

And then she’s not She-Ra anymore. She’s Adora.

“Before you came to Bright Moon, you said you went to Half Moon and Madame Razz was there,” Adora says, her voice echoing off the high ceilings in the silence of the room, “What did she say to you to get you to come here?”

“She needs you now more than ever, C’yra.”

“She told me about the Magicats,” Catra says, hoping that it’s good enough so that she can hide the rest, “She told me that they were the first Etherian species the First Ones built a bond with, and because of that, the Magicats were highly advanced, far more than many of the other kingdoms.”

Apparently, it’s not enough, because Catra continues talking.

“She-Ra has always had some sort of connection with the queens of Half Moon. They were always allies, but more often than not, they would form strong friendships.”

“You mentioned that she called you C’yra,” Adora continues, and Catra knows that they are officially breaking custom, because Adora asks, “Who is C’yra?”

“The queen of Half Moon during Mara’s time as She-Ra,” Catra answers, though she wonders whether the truth spell has worn off, because she doesn’t feel obligated to answer.

She wants to.

“And her and Mara were allies.” It's not really a question.

“Adora—” Glimmer says, looking worriedly up at the Sorcerers’ Council, but Adora puts her hand up, cutting Glimmer off from whatever warning she was about to voice.

“Close friends, actually,” Catra says, “Madame Razz mentioned that Mara was often the voice of reason in their friendship while C’yra tended to be pretty hot-headed.”

“And the rest of the Magicats?”

Catra knows that Adora already knew the answer. Catra told her as much when Adora questioned her in the cell at Bright Moon.

“Destroyed by the Horde to gain territory,” Catra explains without emotion, trying not to think of the people she could have had, the life she could have had, “From what Hordak told me, they slaughtered everyone and took me for some reason.”

Adora sits, seemingly out of questions, and Catra breathes a sigh of relief that she didn’t have to talk about the other half of her and Razz’s conversation.

“Yes, She-Ra needs her Magicat queen, but more importantly, Mara needs you, C’yra.”

The head sorceress asks if anyone has any final questions, and when there is nothing more to be asked, Catra is taken out of the chambers and back to her cell deep in Mystacor’s cellars.

~*~

Catra sits in her cell waiting for the Princess Alliance and Sorcerers’ Council to come to a decision. She doesn’t have much to do, so she imagines them all in a room coming up with punishments for all of her crimes, each thing worse than the last. She imagines them saying,

No, no, that’s not good enough,

and coming up with something better, something more fitting for every awful thing Catra has ever done.

At some point, without meaning to, she falls asleep.

Catra is back in the Fright Zone.

She’s curled up at the foot of Adora’s bed, and everything is fine until she hears a scream.

It’s Adora.

She shoots up in bed and looks around herself, ready to defend her and Adora if she needs to.

The thing is, Adora is looking at her with fear in her eyes.

Adora has never been afraid of her.

“What?” Catra asks,“What is it?”

“Catra,” Adora shakes as she reaches out for Catra, “What happened to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

It’s then that Catra hears it.

Her voice.

It sounds distorted and almost electronic.

It sounds like it did when Catra came back from the portal corrupted.

She runs to the locker room connected to the barracks and looks in the mirror.

She flinches back.

It’s not just part of her face and her arm. The black engulfs most of Catra’s body. Her normally-mismatched eyes were deep pits, and only bits and pieces of orange fur and her mane stuck out.

“No,” she says, reaching up to run her hands over her face, “No, this can’t be right. This went away when the portal closed.”

The Catra in the mirror smiled maliciously. “This will never go away” she says, her voice even more distorted than Catra’s own, “The portal didn’t do this to us. This has always been inside of you.”

Catra sinks to her knees and starts clawing at her face, whispering, “No,” over and over again to herself.

“We’re a monster, you know,” Mirror Catra says, and Catra looks up to see that her mirror version no longer just exists in the mirror. She walks up to Catra. “We will always be a monster.”

“I’m not,” Catra breathes out desperately, “I’m not a monster.”

“You are,” Mirror Catra says like it’s simple, “There’s no point in fighting it anymore.”

Mirror Catra looks past her, and when Catra turns around, there’s She-Ra looking at her with regret and anger.

“One day She-Ra will have to kill us,” Mirror Catra says from behind her, “She won’t have any other choice.”

She-Ra pulls her sword from her back, “I’m so sorry, Catra.”

“Adora, no—”

She-Ra’s sword slices through the air and—

A loud noise against the bars of Catra’s cell startles her awake. Her hands immediately go to her face, her nightmare still playing over and over again in her head.

Someone clears their throat.

It’s Adora, and Catra doesn’t need to know Adora well to know the look on her face.

Well, this can’t be good.

“So,” Catra says, curling up in the bed, “They sent you down to give the verdict?”

“Not exactly,” Adora looks anywhere but at Catra, “Sending me wouldn’t follow Mystacor’s trial protocol.”

“Just like asking all those questions.”

Adora looks at Catra then, and she just nods.

“So, why are you down here then?”

Adora sighs, and to Catra’s surprise, she sits down on the other side of the bars.

“I don’t know.”

Catra thinks about going to sit across from her, but the bed feels safe. The bed isn’t right across from her best friend growing up, the person she told everything to, the person she thought she would always have.

The person who asked her to run away.

The person she felt she had to best for the longest time.

So, Catra stays on the bed and doesn’t say anything else.

She knows Adora will fill the quiet.

“They finally let us out, and everyone went back to their rooms, but for some reason, I felt like I needed to come here," Adora tries to explain.

“The guards just let you in?” Catra asks, wondering just how strict security is here.

“Well, yeah,” Adora smiles, and Catra’s heart breaks just a bit, because this is the first time that Adora has smiled at her since Adora left the Horde, “I’m She-Ra.”

Catra laughs softly, “That must get you anything you want.”

“Within reason, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Catra repeats softly.

There are a few beats of silence before Catra notices Adora watching her carefully, like she’s trying to figure something out.

“Are you okay?” Adora asks, “When I came in, you were thrashing in your sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“Catra—”

“You don’t have to care about me,” Catra cuts Adora off and looks away from her, “Not after everything I’ve done.”

“I’ve always cared about you, Catra,” Adora says, “Even when you stayed with the Horde, or when you attacked Bright Moon, or pulled the lever to open the portal.”

“Why?” Catra asks, the word barely coming out around tears threatening to spill over.

“Because you’re my best friend,” Adora says earnestly, “Even if you don’t see me that way anymore, I never stopped thinking of you as mine.”

“But Glimmer,” Catra whispers, “And Bow.”

“I love them,” Adora says, “And they’ve helped me through so much. I can’t imagine my life without them, but you?” Adora smiles again, this time smaller, like Adora is remembering nights in the Fright Zone whispering to one another and pranks pulled on their instructors. “I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Catra understands. No matter how close she got to Scorpia, how content she felt with the people surrounding her, being around them never felt the same way as being around Adora.

“How can you still care after everything I’ve done?” Catra looks down and squeezes her eyes shut, “After everything I’ve put you through?”

Adora doesn’t say anything right away, and Catra doesn’t look up.

“Yes, you’ve done some awful things,” Adora finally says, “You won’t be gaining the favor of anyone in the Rebellion anytime soon, but I don’t think you’re irredeemable, Catra. You’ve finally admitted that everything you did was your choice and nobody’s fault but yours. Now you just need to realize that there are people who want to see you be better, not for them, but for yourself.”

Catra thinks of Scorpia and her never-ending belief in Catra. She thinks of Entrapta saving her life.

And then there’s Adora right in front of her, telling her she never lost faith in Catra, even if Catra did.

Catra doesn’t look up, though. She doesn’t know what to say.

Adora leaves after a few moments of silence, and only then does Catra let herself cry.

She cries because of the things she’s done.

The people she’s hurt.

And because somehow, Adora still cares.

~*~

It takes Mystacor’s Sorcerers’ Council and the Princess Alliance three days to determine Catra’s fate.

Three long days of Catra all alone in her cell after Adora’s visit.

She’s brought back into the trial chambers and stood before the sorcerers and princesses.

The head sorceress stands.

“Force Captain Catra,” the head sorceress says directly to her, and Catra is surprised that they even thought to refer to her as that title, “After deliberating your fate, the Sorcerers’ Council and the Princess Alliance have agreed on your sentence.”

Catra looks at She-Ra, this time sat right beside Glimmer, and She-Ra nods just enough that Catra notices.

“For your crimes, you’ll be banished to the Crimson Waste,” the head sorceress says, “You can never return to the Rebellion.”

They have to know, Catra thinks, They have to know that the Crimson Waste isn’t a wasteland. Someone in the Princess Alliance has to have mentioned it. How can they not know?

“Does anyone object to the sentence given?” the head sorceress asks the room.

No one objects.

She nods and looks back down to Catra. “You will leave immediately.”

The guards escort Catra out of the chambers, and she goes without a fight, but her thoughts are spiraling.

What if this is all just a trick? Are they just going to execute me out there where no one can see? What are they—

“Wait!” comes from behind them, cutting off Catra’s thoughts.

The guards turn, and Adora runs up to them.

“Can I have a moment?” she asks the guards.

They nod but don’t leave.

“Alone?”

They look at each other, and then down at Adora again.

Adora scoffs. “I can handle her if she tries to run.”

Then, somehow, the guards let go of Catra and move far enough away that they can still see Catra and Adora but they won’t be able to hear.

“Adora, how—”

“Mystacor still thinks the Crimson Waste is completely deserted,” Adora says quickly, “And I convinced the rest of the Alliance not to tell them otherwise. There was no other option.”

“But why?”

“Because Scorpia mentioned you could have been happy there,” Adora says, a small ghost of a smile on her lips, “She said within a day, you became the new leader of the Waste, so I think you’ll do just fine.”

“What was the other option?”

Catra sees something in Adora’s eyes for just a moment before she waves Catra’s question off and says, “That doesn’t matter now.”

Catra can guess what that means.

Execution.

It would’ve been the Rebellion’s first in many, many years.

“I just wanted to say goodbye,” Adora adds on quickly, “Before they take you to the Crimson Waste.”

Catra smiles just barely, “Bye, Adora.”

Adora smiles sadly, “Bye, Catra.”

~*~

A few Bright Moon guards escort Catra as far into the Waste as they’re willing to go before they leave her with nothing.

Red sand stretches for miles, and unlike the last time Catra was banished here, she feels hope instead of defeat.

This is the place she needs to be right now.

38 notes · View notes

p-artsypants · 5 years

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Nine Lives (18)- The Reunion

FF.net | Ao3

I want to thank everyone for the kind words and faves on this fic! It had been stewing in my mind for about four years, and when I decided to write it down, I honestly didn't know just how popular it was going to get! I'm so grateful to you all for sticking around on this journey and I hope you all enjoyed!

What was your favorite part?

Adrien and Marinette stood in the mansion lobby together, Adrien trembling in every limb. There was no authority left in this house. Gabriel was two cities away in prison, and the rest of the house staff had been laid off. Sheets covered the furniture to keep off the dust. Curtains covered the windows, and the main gate remained closed.

Nathalie was in the office, working on trying to keep the company afloat. Sales in Paris had dropped to almost non-existent, which was expected. But international sales had skyrocketed in the wake of the news. It was like free advertising. A super villain clothing designer? Too intriguing! Be that as it may, the Paris store location was being shut down, because the landlord refused to House the business any longer.

At this rate, Gabriel was set up to live his life comfortably after prison, as France’s most hated man.

Though prison was no walk in the park either. He’d been sent to the infirmary once already since his interment a week ago. And that was just from one guy. Who know how many other people held grudges against him?

Who knew if he’d survive the ten years?

Finally, Master Fu came out of the office. “Oh, you’re early.”

“Yeah...I’m kind of anxious.”

“Then we needn’t waste anymore time.” He beckoned them along, to the hidden corridor that Nathalie had unveiled for Fu.

Marinette watched in awe as they descended into an atrium. A garden grew at the far side of the dark room, and she could see a glass coffin resting among the plants.

Adrien swallowed hard and reached out to take her hand.

At first, Marinette had tried to stay out of this thing with his mother. It wasn’t her business, and didn’t think she was needed. But contrariwise, Adrien wanted her along every step of the way. She was his family now, and he needed her more than ever.

The coffin was open, and next to it was the miracle box, of all things. Madame Agreste had the peacock miraculous resting in her hands, while Dusuu sat just above it, on her stomach. It seemed like the little Kwami had passed her crying spell, as she looked a little hopeful.

“So...did you figure out how to save her?” Adrien asked, his voice just barely audible.

“Yes. I have.” Fu said, his voice strangely neutral. “Though, it is risky, and it will require the Black Cat and the Ladybug Miraculous.”

“But, if we bring back her soul, won’t one of us lose ours in return?”

“Yes, if you were to activate both and make a wish. But that’s not what we’re doing.”

The duo looked at each other in question. If they weren’t using a wish, then why would both be needed?

“Mme Agreste has not lost her soul…only been separated from it. From all that I’ve decoded from the Grimoire, the spell that Gabriel used puts Dusuu into a trance, at which point, she took Emilie’s soul and hid it where no one, not even herself, would find it.”

Adrien frowned. “Well, then how do we have any chance of finding it?”

“Simple. Kwami have a special world of their own, where they keep their treasures. If her soul is anywhere, it’s there.”

“So, do Tikki and Plagg go after it?” Marinette asked.

“You will be accompanying them.”

Marinette and Adrien looked at each other, and then back at Fu. “If…it’s a special kwami world, how are we supposed to get there?”

“The same way that Mme Agreste got there.”

“No.” Adrien said immediately. “My mother has been like this for four years, I’m not risking either of us being in the same state as her.”

“Of course,” Fu nodded, in understanding. “I thought you might feel that way. But I must warn you, this is the only way. And, if your mother’s body is to be here much longer without a soul…it will perish.”

Adrien closed his eyes, dreading the thought. They were so close…

Marinette tugged him to her and hugged him tightly. “Adrien, you have had so much hardship in the last year. You deserve happiness, and I want to help you get it.”

Biting his lip, he looked to Fu. “What does your plan entail?”

“You will both transform. Then, you will take hold of the Peacock, and speak the spell. From there, your souls will be separated from your bodies, but since you are transformed, an anchor will connect you to your kwami. Dusuu will take your souls to Mme. Agreste, while Tikki and Plagg will follow. When you can recover it, Tikki and Plagg will escort you back.”

Marinette smiled. “It sounds easy enough. Right kitty?”

Adrien was quiet, his mouth screwed up in thought. “Do we both have to go?”

“Yes. You and Marinette are the key to getting into the area where the soul will be. Plagg needs to go to wake Dusuu from her trance, and Tikki needs to go to make sure everyone stays focused.”

Everyone collectively looked at Plagg.

“What?! I can stay on track!”

“You asked for cheese in the middle of your testimony!”

“I was hungry!”

“Enough,” Fu cut through their bickering. “The four of you have very specific roles in this venture, and if you want to succeed, you all have to agree.”

“Come on kid!” Plagg nearly shouted. “If you think I’d let any harm come to my favorite kitten, you’re dead wrong!”

Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, you convinced me. If…if you guys are all sure.”

“After everything we’ve been through, this will be easy.”

“Come on then! Suit up!” Plagg chirped.

“What’s got you all excited all of a sudden?” Tikki asked.

“I can’t wait for Adrien to meet everyone!”

“This isn’t a reunion, Plagg! We can’t waste time in there!”

“Aww…you’re no fun!”

Adrien paused a moment. “Would it be too risky to activate all the Miraculous later? Just for like an hour?”

Fu frowned. “Miraculous are stones of incredible power. It would be irresponsible to activate them all at one time.” He stroked his beard. “But, perhaps it would be advantageous to activate them for once, if only for them to meet the new guardians.”

Oh, that’s right. He had forgotten about that. “See Plagg? You can introduce me later.”

“Fine fine. Let’s just go!”

“Plagg, Claws out!”

“Tikki, Spots on!”

With transformations in place, Ladybug and Chat Noir walked over to the coffin, where the Peacock laid.

“You may want to kneel when you say the spell. Your bodies will collapse and you could get hurt if you fell.” Fu reminded, gently.

They both knelt, taking hold of the Peacock, and interlocking their fingers with each other.

“Repeat after me.” Fu instructed. “Fresta sálina úr…”

“Fresta sálina úr…”

“Verða til að ewig.”

There was a flash of blinding bright light, and when it was gone, Marinette and Adrien lay draped on the sides of the coffin, while Tikki and Plagg hovered nervously nearby.

Dusuu raised up, two of her feathers glowing, and flitted over to the Miracle Box.

“There they go! Let’s hurry!”

They zoomed after, to keep up with her, and together disappeared into the other world.

On the other side, Tikki and Plagg were curious to find another side to their realm, one they weren’t immediately familiar with. It was dark, a faint blue glow coming from beneath them. The void was further illuminated by little white glowing orbs, all floating in the air like snow.

“Where are we?” Plagg asked Dusuu, though she remained silent.

Tikki answered, vaguely. “I guess this is Dusuu’s room. I feel like I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember when...”

Suddenly, Dusuu stopped. Tikki and Plagg watched as she fanned her feathers out, and two more orbs joined the cluster. Only these two were red and green instead.

“Oh!” Tikki exclaimed, collecting the orbs in her hands. “I know where we are!”

“Tikki? Is that you?” The red orb flashed as Marinette’s voice spoke.

“Marinette?” Adrien followed after, the green orb flashing as well. “Where are we?”

“We made it!” Tikki assured them. “It’s been so long since I’ve been here, I forgot it existed.”

“Where is here?!” Plagg shouted, his voice echoing on and on.

“Well, now that’s a good question…how to describe it…it’s not quite a prison, or a graveyard, but it’s like that.”

Plagg just stared at her. “This is…Tartarus?”

“Tartarus?” Asked Adrien.

“Yes. The ancient Greeks called it that at least. ‘A dark cave as far below Hades as the Earth from the heavens.’ Though, it’s just another corner of the Miracle Box. It’s a realm where souls are kept.

“What kind of souls? Others that speak the spell?” Marinette asked.

Tikki and Plagg watched as Dusuu flitted around, tending to some of the other orbs, like a mother hen to her chicks. “Some, likely. Though, many are souls of those that have committed evil deeds with the Miraculous. When Gabriel dies, Dusuu will likely fetch his soul and bring it here.”

Marinette looked over the dozens of floating orbs surrounding them. “There’s been that many?”

“…a lot of these souls belonged to kwami, too.”

This time, Adrien questioned. “Kwami can die?”

“Kwami are abstract concepts. So when a concept is no longer true, the kwami dies.”

“I don’t think I can logically digest that.” The green orb twinkled.

“Of course not, because there are no dead concepts that you would know or understand. Though, you two have nothing to worry about. There will always be creation and destruction.”

Plagg reached over and took the green orb. “Any other questions? Or can we do what we came here to do?”

“The sooner this is over the better.” Marinette agreed.

So Plagg inhaled deeply and let out a cacophonous yowl, one that made the others cringe, and the little orbs immediately around them scatter.

Dusuu looked up, mildly surprised. “Oh Plagg! Tikki! It worked!”

“Now what?” Asked Adrien. “Do we need to split up to search?”

“No!” Dusuu protested. “You mustn’t separate far from your kwami.” Then she smiled. “But don’t worry, I can handle things from here.” She danced around, touching the orbs one at a time, just for a moment. “I’m very sorry to drag you all into this. I can’t believe creation and destruction have to help me solve my mistake! I’m integrity after all! If only I could remember how to get here on my own! Without that stupid spell!”

“Dusuu,” Tikki reprimanded. “This was not your mistake. This was Gabriel’s fault, don’t internalize it.”

“Yeah, don’t beat yourself up! I wiped the dinosaurs off the planet, and there was no fixin’ that! And does it bother me? Not really.”

Dusuu managed a smile at that. “I just wish this would stop happening. I have no control over that spell, and my holders keep interpreting it wrong.”

“Well…” thought Adrien aloud, “what if we were to scratch it out of the texts?”

“No.” Tikki said, “but we could write a warning next to it, so that it’s understood to be a punishment and not a chance to be immortal.”

“Ah-ha!” Dusuu chirped. “I found her!”

It was probably the brightest orb in the bunch, if that had been a clue.

“Mom?”

“She can’t hear you right now, Adrien. She’s in stasis.”

“Oh…”

“Alright,” Tikki smiled. “We found her! Now let’s get back!”

“And that is…how?” Asked Plagg.

—

Several hours later, Adrien and Marinette both woke with a start, on the floor.

“Mom!” Adrien cried out, immediately.

Fu startled from his place, having dozed off in their absence.

Adrien was standing, hand rested on her arm as he waited on bated breath. Marinette stood as well, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder for support.

Slowly, Emilie Agreste’s eyes opened, blinking owlishly against the still dim light. She seemed confused, as her brows furrowed, trying to recall what happened last.

Finally, she spoke. “Who…are you?”

Adrien deflated harshly, tears gathering from relief and heartbreak. “I’m your son.” He answered softly.

Her eyes widened as she stared at him. “Adrien…? You look—“ Her hand raised and caressed his scarred face. “…older.”

He exhaled shakily. “You’ve been asleep for a while…about five years.”

That prompted her to sit up, though the action was soon regretted as she held her head in her hands. “Ugh…I feel…sick. Where’s your father?”

Adrien helped her to sit comfortably, then admitted sheepishly. “Um…it’s a long story. But…he’s in prison.”

She stared at him again, as if he was speaking another language. “I…I don’t understand.”

Marinette touched her hand gently. “We’ll help you. We’ll explain everything.”

“Thank you, my dear…and you are?”

She smiled. “My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m the holder of the Ladybug Miraculous.”

“The Ladybug--!” Emilie gasped.

“She’s also my girlfriend.” Adrien beamed at her. “And it works since…I was given the Black Cat Miraculous.”

“And you’re the Black Cat…” There was some humor in her eyes as she took in this information. “And all this time, we had been looking for them, and now…” She shook her head, feeling weak. “I’m so tired, Pumpkin.”

“I wondered if you would be. We should probably get you to the hospital, don’t you think?”

She nodded. “I don’t even know if I can stand on my own.”

“I’ll get Gorilla,” Adrien suggested.

“Oh Arthur still works for us? That’s wonderful!”

Adrien nodded and headed out of the room.

“Um,” Marinette spoke, once he left. “When you said you were looking for our Miraculous, what did you mean?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about anymore.” The woman said wearily. “It was mostly Gabriel’s venture. The grimoire that came with our Miraculous said that the Ladybug and Black Cat could grant any wish, including immortality. Gabriel was terrified of losing Adrien and I and wanted to find a way to prevent that.” She shook her head. “But I knew it was foolish. If I was asleep for five years, then I was correct.”

“So, you aren’t going to try to take them?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t even want my own anymore…” Though she cast a tender glance at Dusuu. “Though it’s nothing against you, Sweet Pea.”

“I understand.”

Master Fu finally spoke, “Dusuu’s brooch is broken, and it is not safe to be worn in the first place. She will come with me, and you may come and visit when you like. My name is Master Wang Fu, the guardian of the Miraculous.”

“It’s a pleasure, M. Fu.”

—

2 weeks later

Marinette was snuggled into her boyfriend’s arms as they sat together on the couch. Likewise, her parents watched with rapt, nail biting attention as the news unfolded on television.

A press conference at Gabriel’s office, as led by Emilie Agreste. She looked a lot better, after several days of bedrest and hydration, she was back on her feet. Doctors had called it a miracle, considering she was in a coma for five years. She had not lost much weight, nor had her muscles atrophied.

But that was then end of her blessings in this waking nightmare.

“It has come to my attention that the Agreste family name has been popular in the media this year. First, with the dead of my son, then with the incarceration of my husband…and now I come forward and announce that I’m here in Paris and quite alive.”

Adrien clenched Marinette closer to him. He had wanted to be there for his mother, but after the several hours of explanation, she had suggested that he return to his new life.

That wasn’t to say she wouldn’t have anything to do with him anymore, only that he step out of the spotlight.

“All that to be said, I have been brought up to speed on my husband’s actions since my disappearance.” She swallowed thickly, as she glanced up at the camera, her eyes filled with tears. “My heart is absolutely broken. To know that the man I once loved committed such atrocities to save me is…it makes me angry and confused…I never asked that of him. On the behalf of myself of my son Adrien, we are so very sorry for all that has happened. If you can never forgive Hawkmoth, I hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive the two of us, for not stopping this sooner.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, keeping her composure a lot better than she had when she had initially been told of Gabriel’s deeds and plans.

A hand raised.

“Yes?”

“Mme. Agreste, what are your actions from here on out? Will you be returning to modeling and movies?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I…I would like to continue being in movies, though it’s not likely that I’ll be able to at this point. I will be selling my share in the Gabriel Brand, as well as our mansion. I plan to move from Paris, to my summer home in Nice.”

Another hand raised. “Mme. Agreste, are you planning to have contact with your husband?”

Emilie frowned hard, knowing it was important question, though it hurt all the same. “No. I have already started the divorce proceedings. I cannot in good conscience stay with him, after all I know.” She cleared her throat. “I will take one more question.”

“Mme. Agreste!” A hand called. “What about your son, Adrien?”

“My son has worked very hard to build a new life for himself under a new name. We agreed that he continue that path, though I will still be apart of life. I have plans to keep him in my will as well, even if Gabriel decides to disown him. He deserves that much after all of this.” Then she nodded and departed from the stage, while a chorus of ‘Madame Agreste!’s echoed over it all.

Tom turned off the Tv once the news went into another story.

“So,” Sabine said softly. “It’s all over?”

Adrien wiped his tears away with his knuckles. “It’s all over.”

“So, what’s next for Emilie Fu?” Tom sang, his eyebrows dancing, “University? Global Domination? Baker?”

Adrien attempted to laugh, but it was watery. “I’m not sure yet. But someone has to take over the family business if Marinette is going into fashion.”

“Yes!” Tom pumped his fist.

“But,” Marinette reminded gently. “You’ve still got time to figure it out.”

“Right.”

Sabine yawned delicately. “Well, it’s about time papa and I went to bed. Try not to stay up too late you two.”

“Yes, Maman!”

Once they were alone, Adrien reclined so that Marinette could more comfortably lay on him.

“You okay?”

“You’ve asked me that every day since…since we took down Hawkmoth.” He recalled.

“I just want to make sure you’re coping alright. I want you to know that we’re here, I’m here. And you’ve got your mom now too.”

He smiled wistfully. “Mom’s coming over for dinner tomorrow. That’ll be fun. She’ll get right along with your parents.”

“She will! She’s really nice.”

“She likes you! Which is a huge relief. You know, my dad actually liked you, too? He still might. Not that it matters.”

“Ten years isn’t as long as we think.” She reminded gently. “I’m not saying you have to see him again, but…maybe he’ll change.”

“I’m sure he will. For better or worse, he’ll change. Who knows what he’s going through right now.”

Marinette spoke softly. “You still love him, don’t you?”

Adrien was quiet, considering her words. “Yeah. A little. I think I always will. He…wasn’t always cold. I think about the days at the beach when he’d pick me up and toss me in the water. The Christmas Eve’s when we sit around the fire, and he’d sing ‘Sing We Now of Christmas’. The days when he treasured each and every one of my drawings. That’s the father I love. I like to think he’s still in there. Somewhere, maybe. But it’s more likely that he’s dead and gone. And all that’s left is Gabriel Agreste, human glacier.”

Marinette couldn’t help but snort. “I understand. And you know…hating someone isn’t good for the soul. So, I think…and I might be wrong…you’re better off forgiving and letting him go. You don’t have to bring him into your life, but don’t let him control you.”

“My lady is so wise.” He hummed. “Hey.”

“Hmm?” She leaned up slightly, from where she was laying on his chest.

He captured her lips in a kiss. One that lingered, and blossomed into tentative touches and fluttering hearts. Her hands combed through his hair as his travelled over her spine and down dangerously close to her rear.

He flicked his tongue out to tease her, as she parted her lips to tease him back.

Since they had left the hospital, and up to now, it seemed like there was never a quiet moment, for them to just indulge in each other. This was a first, and put off for too long.

“Marinette…” He whispered when they parted.

Her cheeks were flushed, but her smile was giddy. “Kitty.”

He put his arm behind his head, propping him up to get a better look at her. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What? Adrien Agreste isn’t your real name either?”

He snickered at her, and booped her on the nose. “It is, I swear. But…this is serious.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’m listening.”

He gazed into her eyes, as his brows furrowed slightly, showing pain, and a little bit of reverence in his eyes. “Thank you for jumping after me. It was a crazy thing to do, but it’s…” He pushed her bangs behind her ear. “It’s the most awe-inspiring thing I’ve ever seen. To think some…cute little girl jumped off the Eiffel Tower into a fireball to reach for a guy she wasn’t even dating…it floors me, Marinette. I can’t begin to explain how much love I felt for you in that moment. When I grabbed you, and you were Ladybug, and all you could think about was my safety…not your identity or the akuma…just poor lonely Adrien…that meant the world to me. You mean the world to me.”

“Adrien…” She whispered.

“I can’t believe I missed you all those years. You were just behind me, loving me…and I swore as Chat I would know you outside of the mask…pretty pathetic huh?”

“I missed you too,” she reasoned. “I had posters of your face everywhere, and yet I never put it together. I’m just as pathetic as you.” She smirked. Instinctively, she flicked at his collar, where his bell usually was, but just ended up thumping his throat. “Oh whoops.”

He only giggled. “And you’re hilarious.” He gazed at her with longing on his face. “Since I became Emile, there hasn’t been a lonely moment. If I was bored, or wanted company, you were here. I found a home with you. And I never want to be away from you ever again.”

“You don’t have to be.” She smiled back.

“Will you marry me?”

Marinette stared, slack jawed. “W-what?”

He grinned a little wider. “Will you marry me?”

She sat up, off of him. “Wha—Adrien, you can’t make jokes like that! You’ll kill me!”

“But I’m not joking!” He was quick to pull a little black box out of his pocket.

“Adrien, I swear to god, if there’s a ring in that box—!”

He flipped the lid, and showed the sparkling band to her. It was simple, a diamond set on white gold, with smaller diamond embellishments. “It was my grandmother’s. My mom gave it to me back before…you know. I already talked to your parents and Alya and Nino…and of course my mom—“ He stopped talking when he noticed she was bawling.

“Marinette? Is it…too soon? Is that a no?”

She threw her arms around him, hugging him so tightly, it hurt. “No you stupid cat! I mean—yes! Yes I will! I will marry you!”

“Then…why are you crying?”

She pulled back, holding his face. “Because I’m so incredibly happy. I had always imagined getting married to you, and then after Hotspot…and then with all that happened, I never thought—“ She hiccuped. “I love you so much.”

Now he was crying, “I love you too, My Lady.” He pressed another kiss to her lips, this one messy since they were just bursting with love.

“It’s appropriate, don’t you think?” He asked, nose to nose with her.

“What?”

“My partner in the streets, and my partner in the sheets.”

“Oh for the love of—!”

#miraculous ladybug #marinette cheng #adrien agreste #adrienette #ladybug #chat noir #LadyNoir #fanfiction #fanfic #Nine Lives

71 notes · View notes

dewittsend · 5 years

Text

‘The Defenders’ Review [Episodes 1-4] {REPOST}

So far, so okay.

As of this moment, The Defenders has pretty much met my expectations. That’s not to say it’s great, though. Not yet.

It’s difficult to pick where to begin, because there’s a lot to cover. And I may not talk about scenes in their exact chronological order, because I’m summarizing the important information. And since this series won’t stop shoving his importance down my throat, I guess we’ll start with Iron Fist aka Danny Rand, played by actor Finn Jones—which, while I am on the fence about this, may be the first issue. I was disappointed with Iron Fist’s own Netflix series. To me, it felt rushed. A last-minute collage of sloppy choreography, boring writing, and confusing character choices. I often found Jones’s acting to be cringe-inducing at best, and his is the first character we’re reintroduced to.

SPOILERS AHEAD! Do proceed at thy own caution.

We find Danny in Cambodia, hot on the heels of The Hand after the events of his series left him looking at an empty mountainside where K'un-Lun, the monasterial city he was raised in, used to be, with no trace of his mentors to be found. He is currently joined by friend with benefits and best-part-of-his-show Colleen Wing. Rand gets into a tussle with the revived Elektra [Elodie Yung reprising, and notably annoying me less], who is here hunting down an enemy of The Hand. Brainwashed and merciless, a la the Winter Soldier, she gives Danny a hard time, but he fights her off and she retreats temporarily. Our heroes have a vague conversation with the target of Elektra’s assassination, who tells them that the war they’re fighting will be finished in New York City before croaking.

We’re privileged (and I do mean that because Krysten Ritter is a delight) to catch up with Jessica Jones next, as she’s kicked out of a bar that’s closing at what appears to be 8:00 in the morning and runs into her friend Trish Walker. Jones is still recovering from the psychological toll of her battles with Kilgrave, and as such has indefinitely suspended her investigative services. She is approached by a woman whose husband, named John Raymond, is missing. Jessica initially blows her off, but is driven to take the case when someone calls her office and warns her against taking it. She’s stubborn like that.

Luke Cage is on his way out of a short stint in prison. His fellow inmates are cheering as he is walked out of his cell. We get a great moment where a fumbling rookie cop can’t find the right keys to remove Cage’s cuffs, so he just snaps the chain himself and drops the crumpled rings into the warden’s hand. The supporting cast of these individual series are turning up left and right, and doing so in smart, sensical ways that really make this world seem well-connected. For instance, it turns out that Franklin “Foggy” Nelson was Cage’s attorney, and is the reason he’s out so early.

Foggy, by the way, now works for rich-people lawyer Jeryn Hogarth after he and his best friend Matt Murdock chose to dissolve their law firm. But they’re still friends, sort of. It’s complicated.

And where IS Daredevil? The Man Without Fear and the man who started it all, Matthew is currently a man defeated. Although he now takes the majority of his cases pro bono, the fulfillment of that isn’t enough to stave away the dissatisfaction he feels since choosing to hang up the horns. Karen Page, now officially a reporter, catches up with him over a slightly awkward cuppa. They have a solid scene together, illustrating the romantic tension budding between them. Karen still believes in Daredevil’s ability to affect change, as she always has. Matt thinks those days need to stay behind him. Of course, it’s only so long he can do that.

Promises promises.

This may be a good time to talk about each character’s signature color and lighting palettes. They’ve been used as tonal gauges, and they may have something to tell us about who these people are. For Matt, it’s obviously red, which carries the instant connection to the Devil and brimstone, to rage and blood. Cage’s is yellow, which is well known to be a color invented by God for black people to wear. It also reflects the warmth with which Luke views his community. Danny’s is green {EDIT 2021: representative of his status and wealth as well as a nod toward the importance of jade in kung fu symbolism}, and we’re probably never going to see him rock the Iron Fist costume so just be happy he’s got loose-fitting green clothes that look nice when he’s punching people. Finally, Jessica’s ranges between blue and purple; harking back to the “Purple Man” who consumed so much of her life when she was under his control, and also reflecting her much colder dispotion towards people and their problems, despite being a P.I. There are times when this lighting technique gets kind of oppressive, like when Matt’s entire apartment is bathed in fire-tones, but it helps to create some truly memorable cinematography. Case in point: one of this first half’s best moments is Luke’s bus ride back into Harlem. Set to a silky D'Angelo track, we see the golden glow of the sunset filter in through the bus’s gritty and fingerprint smudged windows. And views of the Manhattan skyline, and of Harlem’s streets, through what looks like avintage film camera, all with a sepia tint. It’s breathtaking, soothing, and probably had a little extra impact because I’m a Harlem resident myself.

Cage reunites with his boo Claire Temple, Rosario Dawson’s nexus character through all of these shows, for a little bit of brown sugar. But before the two can settle into a routine together, Cage is pulled back into the sorrows of the streets by Detective Misty Knight. She informs him that several young men in the community have been getting involved in some seedy affairs, and some of them have gone missing. It seems they’re being used as expendable henchmen, pulling off whatever odd jobs they’re told to, whether it’s delivering drugs or making dead bodies disappear (which is what Danny Rand catches him doing later on). Cage takes it upon himself to investigate the affairs of one young man in particular named Cole.

In between all of this, we’re introduced to our Big Bad. National Treasure and sci-fi icon Sigourney Weaver portrays the enigmatic Alexandra, whose body is beginning to fail her after centuries of life. Weaver is doubtless a tremendous actor, but even she can’t escape some typical mustache-twirling clichés (a friend of mine put it better than I can: “It’s not innovative for the cream white villain to find beauty in Rachmaninov but not in the lives of others, like, we understand!!!”). That aside, she brings something fun to this show just by the virtue of who she is. And at six feet, the actress’ physical presence really makes an impact. Alexandra towers over characters like Madame Gao and is almost eye level with Luke Cage. Her presence feels like a legitimate threat, and Weaver does an excellent job of portraying someone with significantly more power than she lets on. Our first demonstration of this is in a scene between her and Madame Gao, who has been built up throughout these shows as a force to be reckoned with, who had Vincent D'Onofrio’s Kingpin shaking in his shoes. This scene between them ends when Alexandra literally tells Gao to “finish feeding the birds for me,” hands her a bag of seeds, and walks away like the CHIEF CHICK SHE IS GO ‘HEAD SIGOURNEY!!!

*ahem* So sorry.

It is eventually revealed that Alexandra is the person behind Elektra’s revival and reconditioning. Conveniently, Elektra doesn’t remember anything about her past life except how to fight. Thus, Alexandra has been using her to take out The Hand’s enemies and as a personal bodyguard. And after receiving the news that her body is reaching a terminal state of decline, Alexandra decides to accelerate her plans for the destruction of New York. As such, she has her people trigger a massive earthquake (the ramifications of which have not yet been fully uncovered) that affects everyone within the island of Manhattan. Nothing is exactly leveled yet, though. This seems to only be the beginning of her sinister plot.

This brings the first episode to an end, and over the course of the next three, our four vigilante heroes follow individual leads that start to bring them together, at first in pairs. Iron Fist has a confrontation with Luke Cage in an alleyway when Cage catches the Kung Fu kid beating up on Cole. They have an entertaining fight, as the petulant and bewildered Rand keeps striking Cage with no affect. He finally unleashes the iron fist right onto Luke’s jaw and knocks the big man off of his feet into a metal gate. It’s only later, when Luke recants the experience to Claire, that she sets up a meeting between the two, and they have a conversation that is another highlight of the show so far. Cage essentially privilege-checks Danny for being a rich white kid and taking out his frustration on the underprivileged with little regard for their lives, instead of trying to use his wealth and influence to take The Hand down from an administrative level. These two characters are famously friends in the source material, and I can see the direction the writers are trying to take them here, wherein the older Luke is mentoring Danny and opening his eyes to a side of life he’s never considered before, even with all the trauma of losing his parents and being tortured raised by monks. Danny has a tendency to fly off at the handle, so the more patient Luke is there to ground him. It’s more father and son than two good friends, but it’ll have to do for the versions of these characters we’ve been given.

Jessica Jones returns to her office at one point to find John Raymond with a gun to her friend Malcolm’s head. He’s panicked, telling her that there’s no future for him now that The Hand know he’s being investigated. On cue, Elektra crashes down the door to Jessica’s apartment and attacks. Raymond shoots himself before she can kill him, and she escapes before Jessica can catch her. But because of her rooting around in all of this, in addition to stealing evidence from a crime scene, Jessica’s put herself on Misty Knight’s radar. When she’s brought in for questioning, Matt Murdock steps in to defend (ha) her.

At one point, we see that Alexandra has a hostage—Stick, Matt Murdock’s blind mentor. They have an exchange that contains the phrase “old friend” and other related banter. Stick, rather unexpectedly, starts prophesying about the Iron Fist, which confused me because he’d never mentioned him in either season of Daredevil. You’d think he might have in season two, when the Hand presented a more imminent threat to the city. But nah, he just spent the majority of his screen time groaning that Matthew wasn’t joining “the war.” So it seems a bit ham-fisted for him to now have this hard-on for Iron Fist, even if it does make sense that he’d know who he is. I just think it required some more setup. Anywho, big surprise, Stick gets hold of a weapon and slices his own hand off to escape, continuing to cement himself as perhaps the most hardcore old man on television.

See? No biggie.

All our protagonists’ investigations lead them to one building: Midland Circle. Danny arrives there in suit and tie, ready to threaten them with financial and political action, as well as reveal himself to be “The Immortal Iron Fist,” which he says more often than “hello,” but since everyone in this series makes fun of him for it I can kind of excuse it. Alexandra, nonplussed as always, tells him that the only difference between him and the other Iron Fists she’s met over the years is that this time “I won’t kill you.” And GOD do I get chills.

What follows is the action highlight of the series’ first half. Iron Fist gets better choreography than anything we saw in his show. He spends about a minute fighting Alexandra’s security detail, and right when he gets overpowered, Luke Cage busts in. They do battle side-by-side for a while, all until Jessica and Murdock (wearing Jessica’s scarf over his face) arrive on the same floor. It may be this show’s “hallway sequence,” as these Marvel Netflix projects have become known for. It’s well-lit and gives everyone a good amount to do—except Jessica, who might be the most vulnerable of the four as she’s got no real fighting technique, and for all her strength lacks any indestructible skin to fall back on when confronted with weapons. Although for what it’s worth we finally get to see her reunite with Luke Cage. That reunion is built on in the next episode (not that way, pervert) and it’s great to see their chemistry ignite again.

There’s a point in the skirmish when Matt senses that “Someone’s coming. Something.” This something is Elektra, but he doesn’t realize it at first, and they fight for a good while. Matt takes a moment to listen to her breath, which causes him to stop fighting. But she doesn’t have a heartbeat. WHICH IS ACTUALLY SUPER SPOOKY AND COOL! She hesitates when he says her name, then raises her blade to strike Matt down, only to be knocked away yet again by Danny. What a guy, that guy.

The four of them escape together, and in the next episode commandeer a Chinese restaurant as a temporary hideout. This is the first time we get to see all four of them interact, and it’s pretty fun. Cage and Jones muse over how absurd this situation is, because oddly enough, they’re sort of the straight men in this situation. They may have powers, but their worlds have never been touched by the supernatural. Rand and Murdock, however, are well-versed in this field. Thusly, they spend a good deal of time trying to catch the others up. This is also the episode that has some of Charlie Cox’s best acting yet, as a paranoid and frustrated Matt who doesn’t want to give in to the idea that A. what he suspects to be happening is in fact happening and B. he needs to involve these people in his life in order to handle it. And to some extent, all of them feel that way. While Danny is keen to team up, Jessica is immediately against it, and Luke is reluctant as well. All of them are loners by nature, who’ve each experienced pain as a result of opening up to people.

When we’re done watching them bounce dialogue off each other, Stick shows up, sword in one hand, stump as the other, to do what he does best—exposit and tell the heroes what the stakes are. It’s not long before Alexandra ALSO sneaks into the restaurant (everyone can move like a ninja when this show wants them to) and tries to reason with her enemies, saying that if Iron Fist is willing to go with her, she’ll spare the lives of his friends. Which is almost definitely completely 105% a lie. The episode, and the first half of this series, ends with Elektra ready to square off against the four vigilantes + Stick.

To give my overall impression, I’m enjoying Defenders so far, and I think the actors are too. The problem to this point isn’t the actor’s level of chemistry, but that of the characters. I’m still hoping to see the bond between Danny and Luke expand into something more than just “shut up white kid,” even though that may well be what Danny needs to hear a few times. There needs to be a believable dependence between these four people. And although I know it’s a lot to juggle, I hope the supporting characters aren’t just dropped completely. They probably won’t be, though. I expect that as The Hand start getting closer to what they want, the ramifications will spread across the Defenders’ sphere of influence, from Turk to Claire Temple*.

Other expectations/hopes for the latter half include:

A cool introduction of the Hand’s remaining “Fingers”

Colleen v. Elektra!!!!

White Hat will be from, or have ties to Wakanda

Elektra will inevitably snap out of it. The hope here is to see her pick up her signature dual sai and stand with the Defenders

Alexandra could have some further connection to one of these heroes. Preliminarily, I thought it would be interesting if she was Matthew’s long-lost mother. Though, I guess that would really be pushing it

*Claire can’t survive this, right? I mean we all know Luke and Jessica have to end up together, and Claire’s not just going to give him up. I don’t want to see her go, but I also don’t know if there’s any way for her character to develop. Of course, there’s no guarantee Marvel will stick to the comics…but the Jess-Luke romance seems like too much of a fan favorite to pass on.

Stick’s gonna get stuck and tell Matt he’s proud of him

Whatever happened to Stone/maybe Lord Darkwind, the spooky dude Stick was talking to in season one of Daredevil? Let’s get him out here

Someone just say Tony Stark’s name. I mean, come on. The guy lives in the tallest building in New York and no one’s wondering what he’d think about all this? I know we can’t afford RDJ but is his character’s name gonna break the bank? (Yeah, it definitely would.)

Bullseye tease? Maybe? I dunno, man, they already robbed him of his big moment by killing Elektra without him

I already got THAT THING spoiled for me, THAT THING about THE OTHER GUY, but it would be on this list if I hadn’t

Oh and also Blade please

And so conclude my thoughts on the first half of The Defenders. There they are, lookin’ like Nirvana. Which I guess makes sense, given the marketing for this series. I’ll be writing a similarly long-winded and unnecessary reaction to the latter half. I hope you’ll check them both out.

THANK you for reading if indeed you did read! Keep on watching, friends. And as always: Blessings & Blexcellence!

-JKW

#marvel #netflix #superheroes #defenders #charliecox #krystenritter #mikecolter #finnjones #review #analysis

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daihell · 6 years

Text

Worth the Risk Chapter 7

Start at the beginning AO3

By some miracle no one had been seriously injured when Elden had blown a hole in the side of the mountain. He’d opened rifts before, but never this big or located inside a wall of stone and the destruction was impressive. For the most part, the camp wasn’t in chaos any longer, but that certainly didn’t mean it had calmed down.

Everyone was on edge, at a loss for what to do, the number of scouts keeping watch doubled in case the noise had drawn any unwanted attention. Everyone was either upset or angry or both. For his part, Dorian was focussing on the fury. It was easier than the fear and hopelessness or the way his hands shook. Dorian crossed his arms tightly over his chest, hoping no one would notice.

It was all impotent rage, of course. It’s not like he could do anything with it, no enemies to set fire to, no idea who he was even supposed to be fighting here as Elden deteriorated more and more with no obvious cause. The Inquisitor was asleep at the moment thanks to his magic, but there was no telling if he’d see them as enemies or not the next time he woke. That was the worst of it, really. Dorian would never forget the way he had looked at him; there was no recognition there, only terror and despair.

“Well, if it’s not magic, what else could it be?” Cassandra, frustration evident in her voice.

“If I knew that,” Dorian said, unable to stop himself from snapping. “Then we wouldn’t be in this situation, now would we? Regardless of whatever they did to him, he doesn’t seem to be under the influence of any spell at the moment.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Blackwall asked skeptically.

Dorian bristled at the comment but Vivienne cut in before he could come up with a suitably scathing reply. Probably for the best. As upset as Dorian was, as much as he wanted something to lash out against, his allies shouldn’t be it.

“Darling, we’re as sure as we can be, given the situation. Honestly it would be better if the Inquisitor were somehow under the control of this Ventori. Then at least we’d know what was happening and we might be able to use it against her.”

“Well, then, good talk,” Dorian said, unable to handle the atmosphere any longer. “Let me know when we actually have a plan. Until then--”

Cole, who had been lurking nearby, stepped forward suddenly, shoulders hunched as he spoke. “Fear of falling, fighting to keep back the darkness. But the darkness is inside.”

“Well, of course it’s on the inside,” Dorian said irritably. “That’s the problem, we don’t know how she’s getting in his head.”

“I’m not sure that’s what he means,” Varric said. He’d been quiet till now, presumably deep in thought. “There’s one thing that could be causing this. Red lyrium. It takes what people already are and twists it. My brother Bartrand, he was always a greedy bastard, but it drove him to try to kill his own blood. He locked Hawke and myself in a tomb and left us to die.” “Do you honestly expect any of us to believe Elden might turn on us for the promise of gold?” Dorian said with a humorless laugh. “Whatever’s happening, it certainly isn’t that. He didn’t even recognize me.” “No, but it’s different for each person. We’ve all seen the way the Inquisitor agonizes over every decision. He’s terrified he isn’t good enough and takes every failure, every death, personally. Dorian, you and I already witnessed him struggling with that. Maybe that had nothing to do with lyrium, it’s possible all of this is just getting to him, but hearing things? Seeing things? Hallucinations are the next step. If just being around it drove Bartrand to murder. I can’t imagine what it’s doing to Elden on the inside.”

They all fell silent then. Dorian desperately wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but what else could it be? There were no other options. And of course there was so much red lyrium in the area, they wouldn’t be able to sense it inside Elden himself. Dorian for his part had had a migraine ever since approaching the mountains and he imagined it was the same for Vivienne.

“When I found him,” Dorian said slowly. “A corrupted templar was standing over him. If one of those things had been the one to injure him, a piece of red lyrium could have broken off inside of him.”

He tried to hide the shudder that went through him at imagining it, at what Elden must be going through. It was ripping him apart from the inside, both body and mind alike. Lyrium poisoning at the best of times was deadly, but red lyrium? Could he even still be saved? Would there be anything left of the man Dorian knew when this was over, if he was even still alive? And if it had already taken root, would he become one of those abominations? He remembered that terrible future he and Elden had visited, how red lyrium had grown out and around Fiona and infected Leliana and the others. There had been no saving them.

“I’ve seen what this can do,” Varric said. “We need to get it out of him immediately.”

“And if it’s not that?” Cassandra asked. “What if there’s nothing to be found and we risk him bleeding out for nothing?”

“We need to get him back to Skyhold,” Blackwall said. “We can’t do anything for him here.”

“I fear we may not have the time,” Vivienne said. “If Varric is right, we must take the risk and remove it immediately.”

“Madame Vivienne, pardon me,” a scout said as she hurriedly approached. She looked grim but determined. “I have some experience training with the surgeon back at Skyhold, I’ve removed shrapnel before and I have medical supplies.” “Very well, then,” Vivienne said. “Once finished, we’ll need to get him back to Skyhold for proper treatment. We will need to be extremely careful, otherwise he might not make it.”

“I’ll take some scouts, see if I can find the best way down,” Blackwall said.

“Then let’s begin,” Vivienne said. “Dorian, my dear, we’ll need you to restrain him.” Dorian swallowed hard and nodded. Not that he didn’t want to participate; on the contrary, he’d force his way into the tent regardless, he just wasn’t looking forward to what needed to be done, no matter how necessary it was. Elden had been terrified, fearing for his life and the lives of his friends. If he wakes now, he might think he’s being tortured all over again. Dorian had told him he’d help him, that he would protect him, but there was nothing else for it.

Dorian entered the tent and took a seat behind Elden, lifting his head gently into his lap. He was still asleep and Dorian caressed his cheek, wishing there was more he could do, that he could have prevented all of this from happening. There was only so much Dorian could do to keep him asleep with magic and he had a feeling the pain Elden was about to experience would make it ineffective, so he took a strap from his robe, placing it between Elden’s teeth to bite down on. He then took Elden’s arms, raising them above his head and holding them securely so he couldn’t lash out as Vivienne and the scout took their places.

Dorian wasn’t squeamish in the least; honestly he usually found it all rather fascinating; he’d become a necromancer for a reason, after all. But seeing Elden in agony as they cut into him was too much, he had to look away. He leaned low over Elden at the first surprised gasp of pain, whispering praise and encouragement, telling him it would be over soon, not even sure he could understand. Elden struggled weakly at first, but the cries of pain finally quieted when he past out from it. Dorian wasn’t particularly experienced with healing magic, but he poured everything he had into Elden, assisting Vivienne in keeping him stable.

“Please stay with me,” he begged, voice barely a whisper, eyes stinging with tears.

“Got it!”

When the scout removed the shard of red lyrium, Dorian wasn’t sure what to feel. He was relieved it was out, of course, that they had some idea what was happening, but there was still so much irreparable harm it could have done over all this time. He shivered, imagining what Elden has been going through while they all simply sat by and let it happened. He’d seen what lyrium had done to templars, leaving them with failing memories and barely able to function, there was no telling how Elden would be or if he could fully recover.

Dorian was exhausted, no magic left in him, by the time they had Elden stitched up again. They were left alone and Dorian laid down beside him, wondering if this was where it would all end. He wasn’t sure if he could ever make any of this right, or if Elden would even want him at his side after everything that had happened between them, but one thing was certain; all of this had only reaffirmed how much Dorian cared for this man and, if there was no objection, he would be there for Elden no matter the state he was in. He wouldn’t abandon him again. However long was left, Elden would be comfortable and taken care of.

#dorian pavus #pavelyan #dorian x inquisitor #elden trevelyan #inquisitor #trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #fanfic #cal writes stuff #for the best #i should probably add a tag warning about discussions of surgery?#i don't go much into detail though

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kyubicled · 5 years

Link

Sample...

"Have you heard the news?" she asked Graham, who shook his head. "Apparently, the aurors found another two muggleborns yesterday – Ellis and Smithson, from the year below us. God, keeping up a cheerful act has been a bastard today." Jessica and Graham had both been in the same year at Hogwarts, and had planned the move to Oxford together; their relationship, the motive for this joint move, had quickly petered out into a much more comfortable friendship.

"Seriously? God, what a shame. Did you hear what happened to them? Actually, never mind - I really don't want to know." The horror of more muggleborn deaths had become more of a dull ache than any particular shock; the fact that Philip Smithson (and, given how close the two had been, probably Charles Ellis as well) had been so eager to work for Dumbledore's cause had effectively rendered it a question of how long they had before they ran out of luck; Death Eaters tended to injure or capture half-bloods and purebloods, and to leave just about enough muggleborn behind for reassembly with the help of a forensic expert. Given how small the wizarding population was, it was a sensible procedure; after all, any conqueror needed someone to rule, and, if they killed all wizards with the fervour they used to pursue muggleborns, that population would rapidly evaporate.

They walked in contemplative silence until they reached their flat; once they were inside, Graham drew his wand and gestured to summon a bottle of Firewhiskey and a pair of shot glasses; as she returned from checking the flat's wards, Jessica accepted the glass which had been eagerly poured for her by the animated bottle, and sank onto the sofa next to Graham. The two sat in silence for a moment as they sipped their drinks; another gesture from Graham lit an unfueled fire.

"It's just so disheartening." murmured Jessica. "I know that there's a good number of us that went into hiding, and there are a few muggleborns that've stuck around in the wizarding world, but – well, do you actually know anyone who's still able to live a proper life there?"

"Well, there's Evans," Graham offered. "She's still published in the charms column of the prophet now and then, isn't she?"

"And she's been the personal target of You-Know-Who twice, for Christ's sake! Not to mention the fact that she's probably working with Dumbledore behind the scenes along with Potter. At least she's standing up to him at all, I suppose."

It was an old argument, if it could even be called an argument. Both Jessica and Graham knew that their decision to go into hiding had probably saved their lives. There had been eleven muggleborns in their year, and they knew that four of them were dead; another one had "disappeared", as a brief notice in the Prophet had noted a few months earlier, and the remaining six, the two of them included, had sought out new lives. Graham had been able to get some support in transitioning back to the muggle world from his parents, who had moved to New Zealand in his third year; but for Jessica, who had been orphaned at the age of eight, the pain and frustration of being rejected from the new world she'd made her home to return to one which seemed to have rejected her long ago still resurfaced from time to time.

After a brief pause, Jessica spoke again. "The thing that really bothers me more than anything else about the Vol- sorry, about the You-Know-Who situation is that I can't imagine anything is really going to change, even if Dumbledore eventually manages to defeat him. Just look at Minchum; he was elected with sixty-five percent of the vote and he's hardly any less popular today!"

Harold Minchum had been appointed Minister for Magic in 1975 after running on a ticket which promised to restrict the occupations which muggleborns were allowed to occupy on the basis that certain institutions of magical life – chief among them the ministry, spell creation, and healthcare – could be irrevocably transformed by an influx of wizards not raised in the magical world. He had decried such 'barbaric' muggle inventions as operating theatres and IV drips to prove the destructive and terrifying effects which muggle influence could wreak. His campaign, carried out amid a time of rising anti-muggle tension and terrorist attacks, proved a resounding success: and, true to his word, in his first weeks in office he quickly passed legislation which included the banning of muggleborns from the profession of Healer. Just like that, as Madam Pomfrey had frankly, though kindly, informed him, his ambition to work as a healer had been scuppered; his decision to study muggle medicine was as a direct result of that disappointment.

There was another silence, which the bottle used to refill both their glasses.

"The problem's one of demographics, in the end." said Graham. "I mean, if you think about it for a minute, there were, what, seventy or eighty people in our year? And the average wizard can live to be a hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty. So you end up with perhaps a bit under ten thousand wizards in the UK. And there are probably seventy-odd muggleborns in Hogwarts at any one time, so perhaps one or two thousand in the whole country?"

"And that's not even counting the number of muggleborns that leave the magical world, emigrate, or get killed." Jessica interjected.

"Yeah, exactly. So you end up with this situation where the muggle-born population is small enough that they have very little political power, but significant enough that they're always ripe to be scapegoated. Even if Dumbledore were to win the war, it'll just mean that we'd be living in a state controlled by someone who doesn't mind sending muggleborns to their death instead of someone who actively wants to kill them."

Jessica snorted at that; she'd lost most of her sympathy for Dumbledore's resistance movement long ago, and it was eroded a little more every time she heard that another of her friends had "vanished". She took another sip of her Firewhiskey.

"Well, there's not much to be done to increase it, is there? I'm sure that you'd be a wonderful parent, Gray, but I've certainly not got any plans to pop out sprogs "for the cause" any time soon -" (Graham couldn't help but laugh at that) "- and even if I was, even if every muggle-born was – it's not like it'd be fast enough to make enough of a difference to the wizarding population at any real pace, let alone the fact that I have no interest in consigning my kids to life as second class citizens."

Once more, silence descended on the two; as it always seemed to do with wizarding politics, the conversation had come to a dead end. After some time, though, Graham had an odd thought.

"Jess," he said, "have you ever heard of BPAS?" Seeing her shake her head, he carried on. "Basically, they're a gynaecological organisation I learnt a bit about in my Ob/Gyn module – so they do birth control, and so on. But they also do, uh, sperm donation." This was, understandably, not a conversation that Jessica had expected.

"I'll have you know I've no problems in that regard, thank you so very much!" she retorted, but Graham was quick to mollify her. "No, no, it's not that, I didn't mean to – but just imagine if it was a wizard that donated to them. In fact, imagine if you were able to replace all of their donations with, ah, magical offerings. A bit less than a thousand children last year were born from donors; and I know that most children of muggleborns are magical themselves. The odds would be pretty good that most of them would have the spark! Or whatever selector it is that gives people magic, anyway. As far as I can tell, it's not as if there's a limited number of magic kids that a given wizard can have."

"Hah! I've got no idea how you'd even do that, but it'd be a shock to the magical system, wouldn't it? Imagine how long the Sorting would take with ten times as many pupils – or how high Flitwick'd have to pile his books so that the whole class could see him!" Both wizards found this a highly amusing concept, and, as the bottle decided that they'd had enough to drink and floated back to its shelf, they agreed that this was enough silliness for the night; after one final toast to the memory of Smithson and Ellis, they retired to bed.

#harry potter #fanfiction #muggle-born #fanfic

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marauderingbad-blog · 7 years

Text

Of Monsters and Marauders

PART 3/4

Read the Full Story on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11590044/chapters/26048535

After spending the remainder of the evening and early hours of the morning charging through the forbidden forest in dog form, Sirius had found his way back to the common room. He elected to eschew all of his classes for the day. Instead, he stayed in bed with his record player blasting while he drank whatever ale he had hidden away. His thoughts never left his fight with James. He fed the anger.

Remus, meanwhile, forewent his class as well, though that was typical following the full moon. He always spent the following day in the hospital wing, raising suspicion, no doubt, from his classmates, though most seemed content with the vague answer that he had some sort of chronic illness--which ultimately was true enough. Today, though, Remus had passed the morning in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office, pouring his guts to him. He expected Dumbledore to expel him--in more paranoid moments, he even anticipated that he might inform the Ministry of what had happened--but Dumbledore had done neither of those things. As Remus had left the office, he wasn’t sure which outcome he’d really been hoping for.

After Madame Pomfrey diligently examined him and virtually force fed him a sleeping potion to rest for a few hours, Remus was released from the hospital wing. For a moment, he did feel somewhat rested--dreamless sleep will do that to even the most guilty consciences--but the restfulness drained from him as soon as reality came crashing back in. He managed to hold it together as he passed through the corridors from the hospital wing to his dormitory, but in the bathroom, crash it did.

Examining himself in the mirror momentarily, Remus let himself come to pieces with a wrenching sob, fighting the urge to be sick. He gripped the edges of the sink, shoulders slumped, head bent over. He’d nearly murdered two people last night--Severus and James. James. One of his best friends. Remus gasped for air at the thought; though he’d lived with this since he was five, and, in fact, could scarcely remember a time when he wasn’t a werewolf, this was the first time in his life that he’d almost hurt someone, almost killed someone. Thanks to the tireless diligence of his parents and teachers and friends, Remus had never posed a threat to anyone but himself. Granted, he still saw his disease as something shameful, something disgusting, but the memory of Severus and James’ expressions was the first time he fully understood what he was capable of--that he truly was a monster.

Remus stumbled backwards, away from the sink, away from his reflection, and slammed into the wall, letting himself slump down it. Remus hugged his knees to his chest, shaking. He could have been expelled--after everything that his parents and Dumbledore had done for him, after all the risks they’d taken on his behalf, he’d nearly gotten himself expelled. Remus was disgusted at himself, at how selfish he could be. James said that Sirius had led Snape to him, but who had led Sirius, James, and Peter there? Who agreed to let them follow him, let them stay with him? He had. If it wasn’t for that decision, Sirius wouldn’t have known where to lead Severus. Remus ran his fingers through his hair, all the way to the back of his neck, digging his fingers into his skin. Part of him wished he’d been expelled, because he deserved it. He deserved it for his carelessness, for the threat he posed to his classmates, to his friends. Remus shifted his hands to cover his mouth, his nose, to stifle another rising sob.

Sirius eventually left his brooding to find his way dazedly into the bathroom to finally clean the dirt and muck caked all over his skin, hair and clothes. He stopped dead in his tracks when he found Remus in a heap on the floor, visibly upset. Moodiness fell away instantly. “What’s happened?” he asked, unable to suppress the alarm in his voice. “Remus…are you hurt?!”

Remus started at Sirius’ voice--he hadn’t noticed him when he walked into the dormitory, hadn’t noticed much of anything, really. Remus stared at him blankly for a moment, his eyes bloodshot. Sirius remembered just as well as he did what he’d done and what more he could have done, what more he wanted to do.

“I nearly killed two people last night,” he said, his voice low, haunted. “I almost killed James, Sirius, I--” he said, then choked again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Still covering his face, Remus shook his head. “But how am I? Me, I’m fine,” he answered, letting his arms fall at his hides. “I’m a monster, Sirius,” Remus said hollowly, giving voice to all the thoughts and realizations that had been tormenting him since this morning. “And I’ve been--I’ve been fooling myself and everyone else to believe otherwise, all these years. I’m not the one who gets hurt--I’m the one who does the hurting,” he said, because the worst of it was, it wasn’t just that Remus nearly killed Severus and James--he could also remember wanting to, he remembered wanting to maul them, to devour them, like all werewolves wanted to do, and it churned his stomach. Remus folded his arms into the space between his stomach and his knees.

The color drained from Sirius’ face as he listened to Remus, looking down at someone who had always been nothing but a true friend to him--to everyone. He was now forced to really see the consequences of his actions. “Remus...” he began breathlessly, his chest rising and falling heavily. “You’re not the monster… You weren’t yourself.. You didn’t have a choice, but I did.” Sirius began to back away towards the sink, becoming too overwhelmed. “I am the monster.”

Remus shook his head. "It doesn't matter that you told Severus," he said, then met Sirius with a wry expression. "Because who told you about the shack?" he asked. "I should never have told any of you where I go, but I did, because I was lonely and selfish and this is what comes of it," Remus said, wiping his eyes again. "God, I shouldn't even be around people at all," he said. "I used to not be allowed to play with other kids, did you know that?" Remus asked. "And what's really changed so that I should be allowed to now? Because I'm old enough to know better to keep my mouth shut?" Remus questioned. "Because if it's a question of the danger I pose to others, well, I'm more dangerous now than I was when I was younger, when I was small."

Sirius had been perfectly content with his friends being cross with him--his recent behaviours even suggested an intent to push those close to him away, but he could not tolerate Remus’ self-loathing and guilt. He ran his hands through his hair and gripped it.

“Remus...I don’t want you to do this to yourself…No one got hurt. You deserve to be here. You deserve it more than I do. Dumbledore’s always wanted you here. You told us about the shack because you trusted us, trusted me.” Sirius looked at Remus now with a deep sadness, one that he had been masking with anger all this time. “I will take the fall for this, not you.”

Remus shook his head, "I already came clean to Dumbledore. I didn't tell him about the rest of you," he explained. "Dumbledore’s not going to expel me, so it doesn't matter," Remus told Sirius, but there was no joy in his words. "He said that he was ultimately responsible for any security flaws in his plan," Remus scoffed. Everyone seemed to want to take blame for this, even the Headmaster. "But if Snape tells someone, and they tell their parents..." Remus shrugged, his expression empty. "They're not going to care about whatever role you played. You're not the werewolf."

Sirius’ eyes welled up with tears, understanding now that he left the fate of one of his best friends’ in the hands of their enemy. The next time they faced off, or the time after that or any other time within the next two years, would Snape truly be so keen on keeping Remus’ secret? And Remus was right--even though Sirius had been the one to cause this, no parent would care about the troubled kid with mummy and daddy issues; not when there was a werewolf. He couldn’t fix this.

What had he done?

“FUCKING DAMNIT--FUCK” he exploded suddenly, punching his reflection in the mirror violently with his fist until the glass shattered all over him. He then ripped the frame with impressive force from the wall and smashed it against the floor--kicking through it and screaming all the while. With tears burning down his face, Sirius--now covered in blood again--slid down against the wall and buried his head in his hands as he sobbed.

“Remus...You didn’t deserve this--You are ten times the person I will ever be.” he choked, too guilty now to even look at his friend. “I...don’t know what’s wrong with me...I never wanted any of this...I...”

Remus jumped, his body tensing at Sirius’ sudden outbreak. He watched him in a horrified sort of amazement as he ripped the mirror’s frame off the wall. It was enough to distract Remus momentarily from his more immediate problems. He knew Sirius had been going through a lot with his parents, but somehow this physical manifestation of it all still managed to shock him.

Was this why he told Snape? Out of a need to destroy things? The question, though, was who was Sirius trying to destroy. Snape, Remus--or himself? Biting his lip, Remus shook his head. “I don’t know,” Remus admitted, since it seemed fruitless with all the broken glass and blood and what had passed last night to deny that something was wrong. “Is it...what went on at home?” he asked hesitantly.

Surrounded by his own destruction, Sirius looked up slowly at Remus through his tears with his instinctive defenses creeping in. Despite his natural tendency to shut down, Sirius knew Remus deserved his honesty. He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his bloodied hands. “Home? HA.” he said with a hollow barking laugh. But then he continued, “...I know things have been different since I left. I haven’t been myself. I think I convinced myself a long time ago that I didn’t care about them, that I didn’t care what they thought of me. But then my mum...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “All she cares about is her mad pureblood dogma. And how well I represent her. She never cared for me. And she never will. Facing that...it hurt.” He explained slowly. “But there’s no excuse for what I’ve done to you, to us.” he said, looking at Remus with defeat.

Remus didn’t disagree--there were ways to handle these kinds of crises, and this wasn’t it. Still, it was hard to imagine how Sirius wouldn’t inevitably lash out in that situation--how anyone wouldn’t lash out. Remus wished that he hadn’t gotten pulled into it, though, but with or without Sirius’ intervention, there was the undeniable reality that he posed a constant threat to his classmates, and his presence was a threat that was no one’s fault but his own. Rubbing his eyes, Remus sighed, “You fucked up, but there were always so many different ways this whole situation could have taken a bad turn.”

“...I’m sorry, Remus,” Sirius offered weakly. He was an absolute mess--covered in blood, glass, muck and tears. “I know I can’t change what I did, but I’m going to tell Dumbledore that I was the one who told Snape. I betrayed you, put all of us at risk, and nearly got someone killed. I deserve to be expelled.”

At that moment, Peter burst into the bathroom completely covered in dirt, sticks, and several variations of herbs, shrubs and weeds--he basically had become a human shrubbery. Additionally, his shirt was so soaked in mud that it was barely a shirt anymore and his loosened tie was questionably singed.

Peter’s eyes were wide open and vacant with daze.

“...I got lost,” he murmured distantly to no one in particular.

Remus and Sirius exchanged confused glances.

“Hang on--Did you just get back from last night?” Sirius asked incredulously.

“...Yes.”

Sirius immediately erupted into roaring laughter and rested his forehead on his knees. Remus fought with everything he had to maintain his demeanor but with the combination of Peter’s pitiful appearance and Sirius’ infectious laughter, it was impossible. The corners of his mouth began to twitch, and then, he, too, burst into laughter.

To Be Continued

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jhameia · 7 years

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Fic: “The Ambassador”

the fic i mentioned 5 days ago, done at 19k words, maybe it will leave me alone now and I CAN GET BACK TO DISSERTATING. is it Strange Magic fanfic anymore? WHO KNOWS ITS DONE have an asexual romance between a spider woman and a fairy dude

1: The Mission

Sylvia of the Northern Spiders, loyal retainer and advisor to the Royal Family of the Dark Forest, glared at the Bog King, her childhood playmate and close cousin as she entered in response to a roared summons.

The atmosphere in the throne room was tense and ugly as he stared down at her from the dais. This wasn't the first time he had ignored her counsel, but this was the first time it had gotten so personal. Banning love from the Dark Forest! What ridiculousness! Banning love potion she could understand, cutting down the primroses, sure, but locking up the Sugar Plum Fairy, of all the--!! And Auntie Griselda was of no help, taking her precious son's side in his time of hurt.

Which she should be doing, except his head was so far up his ass on this matter, it would be illogical. Her job was to help him be a better King, not a worse one. Bad enough that he was surly to start with--just like his father, his father's father, and beyond--this recent affair had launched that surliness off the precipice into a pit of mean-hearted stupidity.

"You called, Your Majesty?" she asked coldly. The formality of her tone cut through the silence.

He didn't flinch, though he might have before; "Your Majesty" from her lips was usually soft and fond and warm. A change in that meant cutting disapproval.

"We received a message from the Fairy Kingdom," he drawled, tossing her a little scroll.

She frowned. The Fairy Kingdom and the Dark Forest had been isolated from each other for generations. With good reason. The fairies were not to be trifled with: dangerous, vicious creatures masquerading as light fragile butterflies. She unrolled the scroll, and raised her eyebrow at the uncharacteristically warm message written in tidy handwriting. "From... one of the Fairy Princesses? Aren't they still very young?" Princess Marianne couldn't be older than fourteen. Or sixteen?

"It is nonetheless a royal missive."

"Requesting friendship between the kingdoms," she murmured. "Not very sophisticated. No peace talks, no diplomatic relations, no trade, just... friendship?" She looked up. "This is the request of a child."

"Not just any child. The Crown Princess." A curl went up on the Bog King's face, and not a smile.

"You intend to... honour this?"

"You advise against it?"

"I..." She thought about it. "It would be good," she began slowly, "to have access to the Meadow again. The Swarm would benefit from an open border, and we wouldn't have to travel so out of our way to the Glen. We could rebuild an accord with the elves."

He leaned back with a satisfied smirk. "I am appointing you our ambassador to the Meadow."

Her jaw hung.

"I trust you will have our bests interests in mind," he continued blithely, his tone a bit too light. "You're the least likely in the kingdom to try to eat a fairy, too, so that's a plus."

Her heart raced. "And how long will this term last?"

His gaze was flinty as he replied, "until I recall you."

"I see." She went numb. Banishment, under a pretty name. She never thought--he would never--except he was doing it now. "And I cannot decline this appointment?"

"No."

"I didn't realize you hated me that much."

"I don't," he snarled. "But you will respect your king."

She stamped a foot. "You know why I disagree--"

"Silence!"

That was it. Her mind raced through the memories at her beck and call: of previous kings who were cruel like this, twisted by something deep inside, unwilling to take counsel, willing to hurt others in order to stay their path towards self-destruction.

The only remedy was time and waiting.

Could she wait? She clutched her hands to her chest. He was her best friend, her only family left in the Forest. He was also hurting deep inside from something he refused to talk to her about and there was nothing she could do. He was her King, and he was sending her away from home into a nest of something more vicious than wasps.

She bowed her head, so he wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing her tears. "I honour and obey my King," she intoned, words from an ancient memory.

"You leave with the dawn."

2: The Path To Good Revenge

Ambassador Sylvia arrived on a leaf drawn by four dragonflies, her grip on the reins tighter than necessary because she was so furious... and nervous. There was so much open air on the Meadow, and the wind threatened to knock her over a few times. The good thing about having eight legs was a solid sense of balance.

A company of guards came to meet with her, demanded her to halt. Fliers, she grumbled internally. Most goblins were grounded, but Bog did take his wings for granted regularly.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but if I stop, I will fall," she said politely. "My intentions are peaceful, and my business is with the Royal Family."

"What is that business?" the leader of them demanded.

Friendship, apparently, she thought, but it sounded stupid to say, so she smiled sweetly instead. "That is for the Royal Family to hear. Will you escort me to an audience with King Dagda?"

"Madam, the King does not take to goblin interlopers lightly!"

"Good, that makes him a wise man. Also a good thing that I'm not an interloper."

That seemed to flabbergast the lead fairy. Finally, he nodded. "We'll take you there. But if you try anything..."

"You would be doing your job. Yes, I'm sure." She tossed her hair out of her face and lifted her chin. She would keep her dignity here.

The palace loomed ahead, and the lead fairy guard gestured for her to land on a platform, clearly built for fliers. She leapt out of her makeshift chariot, and the fairy guards stepped down to surround her.

"What is your name?" she asked the leader.

He blinked at her. "Captain Nathaniel."

A ranked officer, then. "Captain Nathaniel, thank you for your company's service."

He was definitely not expecting that. She refrained from smirking. She knew how these folks pretended to be civilized. She had never enjoyed the advantages of having foremother memory so much before. Here, in the Fairy realm, where they obviously did not remember a damn thing, she had something to help.

The Fairy King was obviously not expecting to see anyone that day, since the throne room was devoid of courtiers. But maybe these days the throne room was always this empty? Foremother memory was definitely not helping with regards to the niceties of the Fairy Court.

The King himself was on his throne. A large, round man, he, with wide green eyes, and green armour. The crown, she recognized. Most everything else, no. She curtsied as low as she could. "Salutations, Your Majesty, I, Sylvia of the Dark Forest, come as ambassador to open lines of communication between our lands, upon orders of the Bog King." Let him think the Bog King actually wanted this.

Hurried footsteps echoed in a hallway outside, and a slip of a girl burst in from a door to the side of the throne. "I heard-! I came as soon as-!" she huffed, and stopped, amber eyes widening.

Sylvia took a few steps back to look less threatening. She knew how she looked: the upper body that might look like a fairy's, save for the carapace on her torso, and the lower body of a spider. Even among goblins, her form was extreme. She had considered wearing clothes, but she had been a bit too furious to consider spinning something up. Besides, the Royal Family had the right to at least see her full form.

She curtsied again. "You must be Crown Princess Marianne." She held out the scroll. "The Bog King received your message."

"Oh! He did! Amazing!" the princess literally squeaked with delight, any fear melting from her in excitement. She gripped her father's arm and shook it a little, uncaring of protocol. "Father, a goblin in our court! The first in generations!"

"Marianne!" Dagda scolded. "What did you do??"

Marianne drew back a little, defensive. "I... I sent a message. I... I may have thrown it over the border and... hoped for the best?" She turned to Sylvia. "How does he respond?"

"He sent me. I'm to be Ambassador until relations have been established to our kingdoms' mutual benefit." She made the last part up easily. Bog had never said, just packed her off. She wrote to several goblin elders last night to request their cooperation in the foolish endeavour. She could pretend to be productive in exile.

Plus, this little princess seemed like a total treasure. She would drive Bog up the wall. He would deserve it.

The total treasure's hands were clasped in complete and utter delight. "Father, did you hear that? It worked!"

King Dagda was rubbing a hand over his face. "Marianne, you can't just--it's not that simple! You have to think about what the Kingdom wants! I can't--the Council will--"

"I'll talk to the Council," Marianne declared. "You've always wanted me to attend those meetings, anyway, and you're right, it's time I got started! Father, please, look--" she gestured at Sylvia--"she came all this way! Surely we're not going to turn her away."

"I hope not," Sylvia muttered, a bit too loudly. She saw the King narrow his eyes at her for speaking out of turn. "I am not allowed back, Your Majesty, until my task is complete," she said shame-facedly. "The Bog King is not known for his tolerance to failure."

"See? Father!" Marianne was back to shaking King Dagda's arm insistently. "Let her stay! Please?"

King Dagda looked between her and the goblin, clearly torn between wary apprehension and fatherly guilt. "But my dear, we know nothing about... about..." She could be dangerous, he wanted to say.

Sylvia nodded. "Your Majesty, Your Highness, if I may elucidate further on the current economy of the Dark Forest, perhaps we can find someplace to start."

Marianne beamed. "Yes! I'd love to learn more about the Dark Forest!"

She was going to unleash the princess on Bog, Sylvia decided. She was going to work so hard to make the impossible possible, because she liked little Marianne, and right now she hated Bog so much she was setting aside generations' worth of prejudice against fairies to spite her stupid, surly king. She would bend her foremothers' memory to helping Marianne be a good Queen, because the princess was going to kick Bog's ass, metaphorically or literally, it didn't matter. Bog was going to get killed with kindness. Served him right.

3: Weaving The Web

Ambassador Sylvia was housed in a set of apartments to the eastern wing of the castle. She had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a receiving room, which was all she needed, but also clearly all she would receive. Theoretically, she was allowed to roam the Kingdom. In practice, she couldn't go anywhere unless she had permission from her assigned bodyguard.

That would be Captain Nathaniel, who, she gathered, was considered experienced enough with Court protocol to know who she could speak to within the Palace and beyond, strong enough to take her down if she tried anything, and smart enough to know where she was allowed to go. He was also the only one who could tolerate her presence without gagging, if the faces of the people she passed was any indication.

To mitigate that effect, she spun herself a dress that covered her lower body completely. She looked like a wingless fairy wearing an extremely large skirt, if one didn't peer too closely at the feet under the hem. It was also long-sleeved and high-necked, giving the air of excessive modesty. Sylvia wasn't sure how immune the fairies were to her skin, which could be poisonous to some goblins but not others, and she frankly wasn't about to try to find out.

Captain Nathaniel's reaction to the dress was satisfying, at the very least.

The princesses were another matter. Sylvia had been surprised when they came to call on her almost as soon as she had settled in. They were both curious chatterboxes with bright happy laughter. Princess Dawn was very much what Sylvia had expected of a fairy girl: graceful and charming, if very young. Princess Marianne, however, was something else: opinionated, adventuresome, and surprisingly clumsy. The last, Sylvia would not have expected of a Fairy princess, much less the Crown Princess.

They were so sweet, though, those girls. As soon as they had seen Sylvia's dress, they immediately offered to send seamstresses to her, and gifted her with the petals the fairies used for their own dresses. Sylvia taught them old embroidery tricks in exchange. Dawn was thrilled; Marianne was curious, but such crafts were clearly not of interest.

As Ambassador, Sylvia was invited to some of the Council meetings that were considered relevant. They were generally ones that dealt with trade, although she had been invited to one or two specifically about border talks thus far. She accepted every invitation, and spent time in the archives otherwise, learning everything she could.

There was a lot of consternation at her first appearance. Angry councilors all but accusing her of spying, plotting evil, and destroying the kingdom. They demanded to know what the Dark Forest wanted, who she was really, what her true role at home was.

So far, she had only made gentle suggestions and made polite requests for more information, because she was to understand the lay of the land before she proposed anything radical, and she, too, understood the chaos and upset that changes could bring. She was rewarded with sneering lectures about the grand history of the Fairy Kingdom, to which she nodded and made notes of, and compared to what she knew, what she remembered.

She needed to do this. They had to get used to her at some point, and she needed all the ammunition she could garner. She could put up with all their aggressive posturing and interrogations.

What surprised her was Marianne, who, despite her father's admonishments, argued with the staid old councilors, oh how she argued-! They were worse than the Elders of the Forest, who at least respected protocol enough to capitulate to Bog when Bog had been young and similarly feisty towards them. Perhaps because they knew they were there to serve the Bog King and help him rule. They were old and cranky because they had to be, to push the King's decision-making integrity. (That stupid love ban was made without their input, which just went to show how wrong-headed it was.)

These fairy councilors just didn't seem to like a young spitfire. They muttered under their breaths about marrying her off as soon as possible, and prayed for a more... obliging king.

If anything, Sylvia determined that she should stick it out for Marianne's sake, at least. There didn't seem to be any other women on the council, and it was heartbreaking to watch the old men try to browbeat their princess down.

"You did well," Sylvia told Marianne during a recess, finally catching a moment alone with the princess.

"You think so?" Marianne asked, sounding a little fatigued. "It doesn't feel that way. Is it always supposed to be like this?"

"You will get better at this," Sylvia promised. "I don't know very much about your Fairy politics, but the Council will bend to you eventually. It's good you got started so early."

"Marianne!" King Dagda called from the other side of the room.

As the princess trotted off, Sylvia was accosted--she had no other word for how three old men were suddenly in front of her when she was trying to get more biscuits. She raised an eyebrow, looking around for Captain Nathaniel. "Gentlemen."

"Gobliness, you shouldn't be speaking to Princess Marianne."

Sylvia tilted her head inquiringly.

"We don't know what the Dark Forest is playing at, but know that we'll defend the Fairy Kingdom with our last breath."

"Don't you dare try to convert the princess to your filthy ways," another hissed at her.

She munched at her biscuit, saying nothing.

They glared at her, as if daring her to speak.

The recess was over. As they filed back into the room, Sylvia felt Captain Nathaniel beside her.

"Are you all right?" he asked in low tones.

She put a hand on his arm, and smiled. Still silent, she sashayed into the meeting, ready to take more notes.

She was descended of spiders, after all.

4: Family Secrets

It only took two months before Ambassador Sylvia was stir-crazy from being confined to the Palace. She picked a nice-looking afternoon when she felt reasonably sure very few people would be around to see her, and finally worked the courage to ask Captain Nathaniel if she was allowed out of the Palace, at least into some garden of some kind, because if she had to see more walls, she was going to build webs, and wouldn't that just terrify the staff, and she would actually do it.

To his credit, he didn't blanche, and laughed instead.

"I was wondering whether you were just a homebody," he admitted, still chuckling.

"I certainly am not," she huffed. "I just didn't know what I was allowed to do. I am practically a prisoner here, Captain. You forget that I am the only goblin on the premises."

He sobered a little. "I... I'm sorry, Madame Ambassador. I'll be a bit more forthright in the future in volunteering more information."

"That would be nice."

"There are some palace grounds. I'm afraid they're not that interesting on the ground--it has interesting rock formations for flying around."

"Ah, for fliers, then."

Nathaniel smiled crookedly. "Is that what you goblins call us?"

"No, it's what wingless goblins call those with wings. Surely you have people here without wings, Captain. Elves? Brownies? What do they call you?"

"Lords and ladies." Captain Nathaniel shrugged, his expression sardonic.

"Oh, you have a sharp tongue. I like that very much, Captain."

Captain Nathaniel had the grace to blush, and gestured gallantly for her to follow him. He politely refrained from flying off and showed her the appropriate staircases down.

The gardens were not much to look at, but they were green and colourful. Sylvia squinted at the sunny sky overhead. Without trees, the sunshine was rather strong. The rock formations, however, were very interesting. Not that Captain Nathaniel could tell her anything about them.

The sound of wood thwacking against rock caught her attention, and she approached it to see the Crown Princess, wielding a stick and attacking a rock piece. She put all her might into it, yelling every time she hit it.

"Your stance needs to be wider, Your Highness," Sylvia called.

Marianne yelped and fell backwards. "Madam Sylvia!" She got up hastily, running a hand through her tousled hair. "Uh... how long were you there for?"

"Not very long. Is this how you spend your lazy afternoons? I thought all you fairies napped in preparation for nighttime parties, or something."

"Well... it's the only time no one's around," Marianne muttered, kicking something. "Promise you won't tell my Dad?"

"Uhm." Sylvia turned to Nathaniel, eyebrow raised. "I feel I'm missing something here. Why wouldn't your father want you training?"

"Girls apparently don't belong in the army." Marianne made a face. "They don't fight."

"But that's... not... true? Even among Fairy Queens? Queen Eresdia fought with a spear in one hand and a broadsword in the other. Then there was the Army of Thorns which was comprised of all women. Also, Queen Melinda, also known as the May Fire Queen, was quite proficient with any blade from yea-short to yea-long." Sylvia used her hands to demonstrate the length. "I don't know what they were called, though. The memory gets fuzzy on that kind of detail." She noticed the two fairies staring at her, and put a hand to her mouth. "Oops."

"I... had heard of the May Fire Queen, and the other names are familiar, but never that they fought." Captain Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. "How would you know those things?"

"Ah, well." Sylvia scratched her head. "I suppose it had to come out eventually. A few, very few, species of goblins are born with the memories of the generations before. We call it foremother memory, though sometimes it is forefather memory." She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. "It isn't perfect, and some of us have completely different memories of the same events sometimes, because different people have different interpretations of the same thing, obviously! But I do have several foremothers who have battled the fairy queens in the past. Personally, even." She grinned at Marianne. "So you see, princess, whoever taught you that girls don't fight, are wrong. Even in goblin songs, the most fearsome foes have been fairy queens."

"A Living Memory. I thought your kind a myth." Captain Nathaniel pursed his lips, frowning. "This is information you should divulge to the King, Madam Ambassador."

"It just hasn't come up." Sylvia waved a hand. "Also it is never a good idea to tell kings this sort of thing. They usually try to kill you for it."

"Not fairy kings!" Marianne gasped.

"I assure you, Princess, fairy kings, and goblin kings. There are very few of us as a result." It was half the truth, but they didn't need to know that. Anyway, it made her sad to think about.

"So not all goblins are like you?" Marianne pressed further. "What other species of goblin can remember things?"

"Mostly us spiders, and the Swarm, of course. Bees have a collective consciousness, you know."

"Madam Ambassador," Captain Nathaniel firmly said. "You have to tell the King that you're a Living Memory."

"Or what," Sylvia scoffed.

"Or I will tell him myself."

Sylvia stiffened, taking in the grim line of her guard's mouth and the furrow of his brow.

He flushed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I understand that it's a--a family secret. But I have my duty to the King, too."

"I just told the Princess. Doesn't count?"

"Nice try. No."

"Ugh." Sylvia rolled her eyes. "Fine. Get me an audience with the King, and I'll tell him." She looked down at Princess Marianne. "Before that, though, perhaps, Princess, you need further instruction."

Sylvia relished the delight on Marianne's face, almost as much as she relished the long-suffering roll of Nathaniel's eyes as she browbeat him into teaching Marianne.

5: History Will Hurt You

It was inevitable, perhaps, that her lineage would spill out in Council meetings. Well, the King called it her lineage. She just called it a family thing. When she had told King Dagda, she had demanded political immunity.

A meeting about border talks, and just how much trade to let through. Sylvia had been focusing on deep breathing, because they were counting in terms of how many individual caravans should be allowed through per year, which was so asinine it was taking a lot of willpower to not scream, or get up and leave. Among her notes were goblin elders similarly grousing about trade and allowing fairies into the Dark Forest. Well, only two, because those were the only ones who cared enough to write her back. Captain Nathaniel vetted all her letters, so she couldn't even pour her frustrations out in paper to Auntie Griselda, or yell at Bog for not responding to her reports.

Perhaps she could have been more measured in her response, a bit more careful in how she replied, but hindsight was clearer than the moment.

"We must consider how this will affect our own economy," some windbag called Glaucus was pontificating. "In the height of King Samiel's reign, we allowed caravans to pass through, and that was enough to bring down the dynasty!"

Marianne had made a face. "But King Samiel was a peacekeeper, and the war following wasn't because of the trade caravans... it was a civil war between two noble houses-"

"Marianne." King Dagda had frowned.

Marianne, already worn down for the day, bowed her head. Sylvia wanted to smack the King. What was it with this generation of kings, she wondered. Why was she cursed with them?

"King Samiel's reign was the most prosperous in a ten-generation range. Nobody in the markets even cared about the petty civil war between House Nikel and House Reale, although there was a very good tragic play about it. I believe you call it Rome and Rosalind. The dynasty fell four generations after, because his great grandson was assassinated by a Duke. Big news. The Forest talked about the murder for weeks, because it involved a very interesting arsenic compound, or some such."

Sylvia stopped there, smiling at Marianne. "I think you have been a very good student, Your Highness."

"Hoo boy," she heard Captain Nathaniel, standing right behind her, mutter under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear.

The councillors, however, were aghast. "How would you know that?" Glaucus snapped.

"Madam Sylvia," King Dagda said, holding a hand up for silence. "While your Living Memory is useful, I don't believe what you've shared is relevant to this conversation, which is about the present time."

The hubbub flared up instead. A Living Memory -- right here? -- she's a Living Memory -- they're extinct! -- she must have read it somewhere -- can she even read? -- stupid thing to say anyway --

"Your Majesty, you may be right, but then, neither are Sir Glaucus' words, because he was the first one to bring up a king five hundred years dead." She took a moment to consult her notes on a more recent historical note. "Perhaps we should look to your grandfather's time, then, as a model? A single market, held every two years, right at the border. It lasted all the way until the Winter Famine of Three Seasons, and was simply never picked up again." Due to fairy resistance, she mentally added. Granted, the Forest Royals were never crazy about it either. Goblin commoners and elves liked it just fine.

"And you, what, remember that?" Glaucus sneered.

"I remember the festivals, yes, but not quite the dates, which I found in your archives." She folded her hands on the table to give him a serene smile. "I'm not stupid enough to think that you would take Living Memories seriously."

"Living Memories are extinct," he asserted.

She held her hands up. "Why, what a surprise. I must be some mass hallucination of this Council, then."

"Or you, Madam, are a fraud!"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and steepling her hands. What did she know about this one? Ah, yes. "House Erendl hired one of my ancestresses once. She was working as a mercenary, internecine war and all that, a little under a hundred years ago. A drop of poison into the goblet of the patriarch of House Fyrel. She was so smug, because no one knew how she did it."

"What?" someone shouted from down the table. "Lord Norrel died of a heart attack!"

"Which threw the whole house into a tizzy, destabilizing the household and allowing House Erendl to offer aid, in the form of assimilating House Fyrel, and all of its assets, into itself." She smiled brightly. "That's from your history books. Now, my ancestress had been in the rafters of the dining hall and spit a bit of venom into his drink. Here's the good bit: if the hall still stands, there's a little scratch on the top western corner of the room, reading 'Latish was here' in fairy script."

That someone down the table gasped. "That... how did you... but Latish was a joke! He's supposed to be an elf!"

"Latish is not an elf name, come on. It is a very spider name." She leaned back. "But let's be honest here, how should a northern spider know about such a specific family joke here in the Fairy Kingdom?"

"This meeting is adjourned. We will table the consideration of caravan trade until next fortnight," King Dagda declared. "Madam Sylvia, stay."

Sylvia stayed still as everyone else in the room filed out, outraged whispers abounding. Marianne insisted on staying too, but King Dagda shot her a quelling look.

Finally, it was just her, and maybe Nathaniel was behind her, she didn't care to check, and King Dagda.

"Madam Sylvia, we... appreciate... your support of our daughter."

Oh, the royal 'we'.

"However, we would rather not have her outbursts encouraged at meetings. Not to mention that flagrant display of your Living Memory." He frowned. "We are at peace now, Madam Sylvia, and we would like to keep it that way."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Sparking a feud anew would be... awkward."

The king nodded. "We will request your advice in the future. Be assured that your presence remains most welcome at the table."

He was a very bad liar, this king. "Your Majesty, if I may ask..."

"Yes?"

"What do you think of the goblins, and of the Dark Forest?"

He blinked at her now, blank-faced. "I, well..."

Dropping the royal 'we'. He must have been very surprised.

Sylvia watched as he fumbled through some platitudes about the two kingdoms co-existing in peace for the last several centuries with no trouble, and she wondered if he genuinely believed that. It was hard to know what the memory-less knew about the past. Did he genuinely think that the barely-contained disgust that his fairy council had for her and her kind was because goblins were truly less civilized, prone to violence, and hideous? Or was he willfully blind, purposefully ignoring the Purging Century, when fairies burned down the Forest to create the Kingdom they called the Bright Meadow, hunted down goblins to decimate them? The memories swirled in her mind's eye, unbidden. There had never been any healing for the foremothers.

When he was done, she nodded.

"Good day, Madam Ambassador," the King said, and rose from his seat to leave. She waited until he had closed the door behind her before she, too, rose (though not from a chair; the advantage to being a spider was that she didn't need a seat. She just rested on her belly).

Captain Nathaniel had been behind her all along. "That was the most exciting thing I've witnessed," he said, good humour playing at his lips. "I think I'm in the wrong line of work."

She gave him a wan smile, still overwhelmed by the whole thing. Shouldn't have asked the King that question, she thought. But she had to know. Had to find out, in order to decide how to best proceed.

The fairy guard held an arm out to her. She regarded it a moment, brow knitting in confusion, then relaxed. It was a peace offering, a gesture of solicitude. She took the arm, aware of how thin it was in her hand, how fragile, how easily her talons could cut through his skin. It was easy to forget he was a fairy sometimes, since he stood tall even among fairies. As he led her back to her rooms, passing by fairies who looked at them askance and greeted him with a question marks in their voices, she let herself be a little sad. For all her Living Memory--what a joke of a title--it didn't seem to make a bit of difference here.

He opened the door for her, and she brushed past him to get in, wanting more than anything to lie down.

"Madam Ambassador," he said suddenly as the door was closing.

She stopped, inquiringly.

He took a moment to find his words. "I thought... it was very kind of you to defend Her Highness the way you did."

"That is what we are supposed to do for the young, Captain."

"Of... of course." He snapped a salute. "Good afternoon, Madam Ambassador."

6: Letters

"To His Majesty, the Bog King of the Dark Forest, under whose shade we may ever find shelter,

"I respectfully request a response to my latest reports on the possibility of a market on the border between the Dark Forest and Bright Meadow. I am given to understand that Elder Abrax and Elder Johan have expressed their full support of the idea to you.

"I look forward to your answer.

"Your humble servant."

She hoped he choked on his guilt.

"Dear Aunt Griselda,

"I am so, so, so sorry that I have not written you all these months. The Fairy authorities have apparently been withholding your letters from me all this while! Also, I have a guard who reads all my letters, which is so embarrassing, and I was so mad so I didn't really want to write anyway.

"I am also sorry to hear that my dearest cousin, who I love with all my heart but who I am definitely still angry at, continues his 'ban on love.' I utterly agree that it is a singularly foolish idea, but what can be done, he's the King, or so he made clear to me before he sent me on this mission. I gather that he continues to ignore your admonitions, but I don't think any word from me is going to help any.

"The Fairy Kingdom is something else! There are all sorts of rules here that are obviously very new, or at least I don't remember them at all, nor even my foremothers. There are five different forks at the dinner table, and ten different colours to signal one's interest in the opposite sex. None of which I am allowed to wear, because I am a goblin, after all, and am not supposed to be interested in fairy men. I had a very snooty protocol minister tell me this, and you will be proud of me for my response: 'your ancestors had no problem mating with mine back in the day.' I am still very pleased with this answer, and I thought I would share.

"The princesses are adorable, and they make my stay worthwhile. Such open hearts. Their best friend is an elf, even, from a nearby village. He visits them often, and they play together on the palace grounds. It's quite the sight, and apparently a source of consternation. The elder girl is a fiesty one, so full of fire and big ideas for what she wants to do as Queen. The Councilors, who are all elderly men struggling to remain relevant in this day and age, are trying to snuff her out. I am going to support her the best I can, but I worry for the child. She has few fairy friends, and among her peers, she does stand out a bit strong, not because she's a princess.

"The winter was terrible. The fairies 'huddle' for warmth during the cold season, which means to say all the fairies pack themselves into the castle and live in extremely close quarters for several months. It was an awful experience and I am still recovering. They said they're the traumatized ones, having to deal with my spider-legs, ha! Thank goodness for spring! I am going to hibernate next year.

"I run out of parchment now, but I will try to keep writing. Is Bog really having the primroses cut down on his side of the border? People are talking about the fearsome Bog King who has imprisoned the Sugar Plum Fairy and banned love. I have had to bite my tongue more than once in the face of certain concerned queries.

"Do keep writing, auntie dearest! Your letters do my heart such good!"

She considered making a saucy remark about her bodyguard, because his usually-sallow face is so becoming with a blush. However, he had to maintain a professional distance, and he hadn't really done anything to deserve the discomfort of a goblin flirting with him.

"Dear cousin,

"Your reputation is making my job difficult for me this side of the border.

"Stop it already.

"Your loving cousin."

That was probably not the wisest note to send off, but it felt good.

"To her wonderful highness, Princess Marianne,

"What a lovely note you sent! I am so touched by your concern. Yes, it is indeed a cold, as I am unused to your weather here. Your architecture is so drafty! But the doors hold and I am not unlocking them until I have recovered fully. Even if you did break it down, you will not be able to get me out of my web, anyway.

"Do not worry for me! I am resting well, and we spiders can go for quite some time without food if we have eaten a great deal beforehand. Captain Nathaniel has done his job very well in this regard. I hope your father promotes him.

"I know council meetings are very hard on you, but they will get easier over time. Have courage, highness! Remember, you are their Crown Princess and your words carry a weight they can only dream of."

She slipped that under the door out, knocking for Captain Nathaniel to pick it up and deliver it. Then she crawled into the large cocoon-like web she made to completely encase her for the next few days. She would have to make something for Nathaniel, though, because he had walked in on her as she made it and she had been so frenzied in the process she almost ate him. That had not been her finest moment, and thank goodness it was Nathaniel and not anybody else. He was hard to throw off, that one. Sylvia respected that.

"Dear Auntie Griselda,

"So much has been going on! Princess Marianne finally made her official debut into fairy society and it was a very grand celebration. She still keeps her treasured talents a secret from her father, and there is something so awkward, so straining to watch. She needs a mother figure! I wish you were here. You would know just what to say. I have foremother memory, of course, but that is not the same as having raised my own child. I am doing my best. Channel me some of your spirit!

"However, why do you insist on inflicting Bog on these poor girls you keep mentioning to me? Any girl who'll willingly put up with that surly temper is not fitting Queen material, Auntie. That said, if you find a woman willing to challenge him to a real fight, let me know. I'll defy his edict to return and watch that.

"I do believe that over time, my presence in this Court has made something of a difference. The princesses are unafraid of me, and this is setting the tone for many of the people who see them regularly. There is talk of letting me leave the Palace grounds, even, to visit the nearby towns and villages. I will not lie: the idea does make me feel like an exhibit, but the princesses are such sweet girls, so curious about the Dark Forest. Do talk to Bog about a possible visitation from the Fairy princesses, Auntie, because they will not stop asking, and I promised them I would try.

"My former bodyguard, Captain Nathaniel, no longer watches over me. He has been replaced by a rotating company of protocol advisors. I even have an elf secretary, which is a strange feeling. All these years, I've always played secretary to Bog, and now here I am with my own secretary! I do believe this is Marianne's--Princess Marianne's--influence. She is small, but mighty.

"In your next letter, I wonder if you could slip me some herbs from the Dark Forest to cook with? Or at least make some tea? Fairy food is nice but it is nothing like food from home. I would say that I'd kill for a good meat jerky but that might alarm the person who vets my letters."

She didn't say she missed Captain Nathaniel, because the last thing she needed was for Aunt Griselda to take an interest in her nonexistant love life, even from afar.

But she missed his quiet presence a great deal. Incredible how calming he was, compared to the other fairies who nervously stuttered every time she answered the door.

"Dear Councilor Nathaniel,

"Thank you for the congratulations and well-wishes on my new house. It is strange to think of it as a home--it is still, in my mind, on the wrong side of the primroses. You are, of course, welcome to visit it anytime you like, so long as you give me prior notice.

"It is now my turn to tender you a hearty congratulations on being appointed to the legislative council. I am still trying to understand what it means, being from a foreign land with a very different form of government, but I am sure you are well-qualified for it.

"I look forward to your future accomplishments as councilor."

That was strangely awkward to write. She fiddled with the last line for a long time. Glancing at the wastebasket, she cringed at the drafts: ones where she accidentally still called him "Captain," ones she thought perhaps sounded too intimate (no one read her letters anymore but it was still embarrassing, though she wasn't sure why), ones that sounded too formal. What was the right balance of warm and professional?

The house, right on a brook between Sunny's village and the castle, was large, larger than the houses in the village, which made her feel awkward. These common folk, who have lived here longer than she ever did, living in much smaller, modest homes. She didn't deserve the house she got, she mused. But it was spacious enough for her needs, maybe too big, but that was filling up with the projects she was filling her time with. More weaving, more music, and more paperwork.

From her highest window, she could see the Dark Forest, the huddled trees beckoning to her. She tried not to look at it too often. The pang in her heart wasn't worth the view.

7: A Spring Ball

Councilor John was a portly fairy man who was from a merchant family that had bought its way up the ranks. He had recently been appointed to the trade council, and was one of the very few--well, maybe the only one--who openly supported trade with the Dark Forest.

He was also a bit of a windbag, which Sylvia politely tolerated even though she would like nothing more than to just go home. An hour in his company was quite enough to tire her out for the rest of the evening. But Sylvia had no other company at the ball, so she allowed him to monopolize her time. It wouldn't be the first time a social function like this one was occupied by business for her.

The Spring Ball was otherwise lively: Marianne was the life of the party, sweet and happy as she flew among the other young fairies in the upper half of the room. The older folks sedately mingled on the floor, talking shop, drinking wine.

"Good evening." They turned to see Nathaniel, standing ramrod straight as if he were still a soldier, though there was a slight relaxation to his stance.

Sylvia smiled, relieved to see him. "Councilor."

He nodded his head, returning the smile. "Madam Ambassador, it has been a while."

"Busy, busy."

"Councilor," he said to John. "Might I renew my acquaintance with Ambassador Sylvia? It has been a while since I saw her last, and you see her practically every week."

"Of course, Councilor," John said, looking vaguely amused. "Nothing like the company of an intelligent woman, eh?"

Nathaniel guided her away with a gentle hand on her elbow, towards a quieter corner of the ballroom. "You looked like you were about to faint there."

She laughed. "My hero. I might have." Then she softened, taking in his face. There were a few more lines than she had seen there before. "How have you been? I was... surprised to discover that you were no longer working with the castle guard." Disappointed, more like, and even moreso when she heard he had requested the transfer.

"Adapting to council life has been a little hard," he admitted. "But it was time for a career change, in no small part thanks to you." He grinned at her, which made him look years younger.

"Me?"

"I joined the guard to defend the Royal Family, as you know. Watching you at council, defending our princess, made me realize that that was where the true work is at."

"Why..." she was speechless, and put a hand to her mouth to hide her pleasure. "It, uhm... it must be a different world for you now."

"Oh yes, one with a few more freedoms, like this one."

"Like what?"

He glanced to the orchestra, then smiled at her. "A dance, Madam Ambassador?"

She blinked. She had seen the fairy dances, and Marianne and Dawn had taught her the steps, because of course they would, but no one had ever asked her before. "You realize I have eight feet, which raises your chances of getting your feet stepped on?"

"I also know your feet are set very far apart from mine, so I think we'll be fine."

"Also that you can't twirl me around?"

"Madam Ambassador, if you don't want to dance, I shan't take offense. We can take a mooonlit walk instead."

She drew a sharp breath. "Councilor." She held out her hand. "Let's see if you can lead as well as you flirt."

He could. It was a simple waltz, with no embellishing movement, quick enough that her skirts swished, slow enough that they fell into a comfortable rhythm and chatter.

"Are there no dances in the Dark Forest?" he asked.

"There are, but not quite so formal like this. The formal ones are often solo performances designed to attract mates." She grinned. "And thus only danced by men." She thought his grip on her hand got a little tighter, and amended. "There are some groups with their own dances. We spiders do fun things with webbing."

"It must be a sight to see."

"Oh, it's marvelous." She sighed, suddenly homesick. "On spring evenings, right after the rains, we challenge each other to dance on the webs without disturbing the dewdrops."

"No music?"

She laughed softly. "Councilor, our webs are also instruments." She didn't think about it often. Wearing skirts meant hiding access to her spinnarets. "Do you play?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid my physical skills are limited to combat. Are you still giving Princess Marianne secret lessons, by the way?"

"Occasionally. I try to meet with her once a week. She's easily distractable, which does terrible things for her footwork."

"A shame. She seems very capable. Perhaps I'll join you sometime."

She smiled. "I think Her Highness would appreciate that."

As the song ended, they walked off the floor, his hand on the small of her back as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Someone waved to him from the side of the room, and before she could say anything, he was leading her there, too.

"Donna," he greeted the waving fairy woman, one in a clump of four other fairy women. "Madam Ambassador, may I introduce my sister and her friends, Karen, May, Olivia, and Rain."

"Madam Ambassador," Donna said, her face unreadable. It was clear to Sylvia that the sister expected Nathaniel to not bring the goblin ambassador over. "Nathaniel, is this the goblin you were guarding last year?"

He nodded.

Sylvia stuck out a hand. "A pleasure."

Donna seemed to recover her sense of courtesy and took her hand, if hesitantly. Sylvia asked them all their houses, families, and took careful mental notes on who had which expressions.

They were all married, these women, no Spring debutantes. Sylvia felt she ought to be relieved to be around women her age, but their faint air of arrogance left much to be desired. They were friendly enough, and gossipy enough that when Nathaniel walked off to fetch a drink, they pressed in eagerly.

"Nathaniel hasn't danced with a woman in ten years," Donna said, much impressed. "We're all very shocked, because we were convinced he joined the castle guard to be around men."

Sylvia was caught very short by this sudden turn. "Councilor Nathaniel and I have only recently renewed our acquaintanceship. I haven't seen him in a year."

"Even during winter?"

"I hibernate in winter, Lady Donna." That wasn't strictly true, as winters in the Dark Forest weren't quite as bitingly cold. Still, Foresters got a lot of sleeping done in winter. Spring was a period of extended morning grouchiness as a result. "The first winter I joined the Huddle, but the second year I needed much needed time alone." She smiled faintly. "I'm sure everyone appreciated my absence."

"Oh no, Madam Ambassador!" This was Karen. "Some of us were actually quite worried for you! We had to have the elves check on your residence."

"Is it true that everyone goes naked in the Dark Forest?"

"Is it true that the Bog King has imprisoned the Sugar Plum Fairy? How did he do it?"

"Is it true that goblins have--"

"Is it true--"

Sylvia managed to stutter her way through some of the most awkward and possibly also most offensive questions she had ever fielded. So much for women being more genteel than men here. But her good grace must have done something, because eventually they moved onto her dress, and invited her to their embroidery circle.

When Nathaniel came to extricate her with ostensibly another dance, she almost fell into his arms in relief. "I'm leaving right after this," she gasped.

"That bad?"

"I mean, they are nice, but I'm not used to talking so much! And I thought the princesses were chatterboxes!"

"Oh no, don't you know, Madam Ambassador, chattering is the default mode of a fairy?"

She glowered at him. "Are you trying to make me hate my job, Councilor?"

8: Duo

Crown Princess Marianne of the Bright Meadow was in love. Dawn told Sylvia one day as they said embroidering together. "She met him at the Spring Ball, and he danced with her all night. Do you think I'll meet someone at the Spring Ball?"

It was hard to remember how small Dawn had been just a few scant years ago. "Life holds no such promises. Watch your lines."

Sylvia tried very hard to like him, but within a month, she decided she hated him.

She couldn't tell Marianne, who was so happy, beaming on the young man's arm at every function, nor Dawn, who would probably just tell her sister. So she ranted at Nathaniel instead.

"He is a blithering idiot! And dragging her to his level. She barely talks at council now, and everytime I look at her notes she's doodling his name somewhere. I get that it's young love, but come on. And he encourages this! Marianne doesn't need to go to council, because when he is King, he will handle it! Marianne doesn't need to worry her 'pretty little head' because when he is King, he'll take care of her! It makes me want to gag!"

Nathaniel, in turn, leaned back in his chair and looked up at her, because she was pacing on her ceiling. There was too much furniture on the floor. For a flier culture, there was a lot of floor furniture, she felt, so she paced on her walls and ceiling instead.

"I asked her to bring him to council meetings, and he apparently refused! And she sees nothing wrong with that! How can you claim to want to be King and then refuse to at least participate in the conversations which Kings are supposed to be in?"

"It's only been two months, Sylvia. Give them time." Nathaniel picked up his report again.

"It only takes a single blow to ruin a masterpiece," Sylvia lamented. "Look at my cousin. He used to be smarter, until one love affair ruined him, and possibly for life."

"I thought you said the Bog King was always recalcitrant, and surly, and uncooperative."

"Yes well, he at least used to be able to see past his own nose. And Marianne's form has gotten sloppy, just so you know. I'm no soldier, and even I can see that."

"You underestimate your skills."

Sylvia finished ranting and crossed her arms, taking a deep breath.

"How is your cousin, by the way?"

"Still an idiot."

By this she meant, and she knew Nathaniel understood, that the Bog King had not written her any letters beyond official responses to her reports, terse notes on what he agreed with and what he did not want to see. They were far and few in between, but given that fairy councils dragged business on forever and a half, Sylvia couldn't really blame him.

"What do you think of the young man, anyway?" She finally calmed down enough to walk down the wall and sit at the table, pouring herself a cup of tea.

"Well... I was surprised, honestly. Roland had never really struck me as anything but military. His talk about being King seems to be more about wanting to be a match for Marianne than actual qualification for the job." He sipped his own tea. "But then, love matches aren't really about qualifications, are they?"

"They are, for royals."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow over his teacup. "Then why aren't you married to the Bog King?"

"You're adorable. Are you implying I'm qualified to be a royal?"

"Implying? I feel I am outright stating."

"Ha!" Sylvia rested her elbows on the table. "Spiders aren't really suited to being royalty. There have been two spider queens in the past, but they abdicated. Too much dealing with people. Too much pressure."

"But advising the King is enough pressure? How is that much different from being Queen?"

"It's a different set of responsibilities. Being Queen would have required too much personal proximity that interferes with advising the King. This much we agreed upon."

Nathaniel blinked at her. "You, ah, were involved with the Bog King?"

"Of course I was," she snorted. "We were best friends growing up. It was inevitable that we'd be dating at some point. But we were... closer, when we weren't romantically involved." She smiled pensively. "One day he'll meet someone, and she's going to be a lucky girl. If he finally snaps out of his ridiculous broody mode of life."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, broken by a hesitant question. "And you? Do you ever hope to find someone?"

Sylvia took a moment. It wasn't as though she had never thought about it. It was just so complicated.

"You don't have to answer that." Nathaniel picked up his report again.

"No. I mean." She sighed. "It's difficult, for my people." She looked into her tea. "My people are called widows, you know?"

"As in... the spiders who eat their husbands?"

She nodded. "It has definitely happened. It was definitely a thing. But that's not the real problem. It's our skin. We're venomous, and our skin is sometimes poisonous to people. Not everyone, but some. And... and mating is a difficult thing for us. Because exchanging fluids is difficult. The more likely widows conceive from a mating, the more likely the mate wastes away and dies from poison."

After a moment, Nathaniel leaned over and poured her more tea. "Is that why there are so few of you?"

"Yes and no. There are fewer of us because... because of the Purging Century." She drank her tea, watching his reaction carefully. "Do you know of it?"

He shook his head.

"You call it the Clearing For the Field," she said quietly. "I... none of my foremothers... ever like to think of it. But we remember."

He held her gaze steadily, and the lines around his eyes deepened with sadness.

She took a deep breath. "That, and coupled with the fact that most of us don't want to be widows... we just end up... not having children." She laughed a little. "It's a little hard to do. It's no fun to have sex with someone who you'd want to kill anyway, but when it's someone you do want to be with, what can you say? 'I want to have your children but there is a fifty-fifty chance you'll die'? That probably isn't healthy for a relationship. And it's not good for the children either, who will remember."

"There are no memories of mates who loved and gave themselves up willingly?"

"Those are the worst memories. Ruined husbands. Wasting away. Why would anyone want to inflict that on a loved one willingly?"

"Another reason to not be with the Bog King, I imagine."

"Ha. No. His line is actually immune. Long line of kings and queens who survived poisoning by ingesting it and making it part of their blood. It would be my luck the one person I know to be safe would be someone I can't be with." She shrugged. "Luckily it's not a priority anyway. That was another thing Bog and I differed in."

He nodded.

It occurred to her, then, something someone else had said. "What's your story, Councilor Didn't-Dance-With-A-Woman-For-Ten-Years?" She lowered her head to rest it on an arm.

He mimicked her shrug. "Not a priority." At her interested stare, he gave a small laugh. "I'm not joking. I simply don't feel the need, nor the desire. I aesthetically appreciate beauty, I suppose, but even during spring, when we're supposed to be at our most frisky, I simply don't get the urge."

It was her turn to fill his cup with tea.

"It's not that I never want to, but it is not necessarily tied to specific persons. And of course, one cannot cultivate any kind of physical affection with another without the expectations of... well."

"Mm. It is nice to cuddle. That is one thing I miss."

"How do you know if you're venomous to a person, anyway?"

Sylvia thought for a moment. "It depends. Some people get a rash when they come in contact with us. Others feel sick afterwards. There have been cases of people just keeling over and dying. They don't call us the clan of poison kisses for no reason."

He reached across the table, and touched her teacup. "May I?"

Her gaze flicked between his face and her cup. "It'd be your funeral, but I'd rather you not die in my house. It would be terrible for foreign relations."

"I'll fly out if I start feeling ill. Deal?"

He didn't die that night. Nor the next. Nor the next. She didn't know why he insisted on taking that risk, but she appreciated it.

Sylvia was comforted by the fact that she had one person in her life who seemed to dislike Roland as much as she did, though they weren't the only ones in the court who didn't support the match. Nathaniel also winced as the knight burst into song publicly, frowned as the Crown Princess squirmed in embarrassment and delight, and sighed as everyone gushed about how adorable the romance was. Eventually, though, it was clear that Nathaniel also hated Roland, but for some other different reason.

A visit to a blacksmith, Nathaniel giving the excuse that he wanted to fetch something on the way to the palace. There was a training barracks nearby, and they spotted the princesses and some friends giggling as they hovered at the top of the fence, looking in.

"I thought I should keep my hand in. Council meetings make me feel so soft after," Nathaniel was saying as he walked in.

The blacksmith was an elf, large and robust for his people, who grinned as he saw the fairy and the goblin walk in. "Councilor! Madam Ambassador! Welcome!"

"Master Kor. Is it done?"

"Yes it is! For a while, actually. I wasn't sure when you wanted it, but, here." The blacksmith unwrapped something and handed it to Nathaniel. Sylvia, standing behind him at the door observing the girls, didn't notice at first, until he touched her shoulder.

"Here."

"Hm?" She registered that he was holding a weapon to her.

"You favour the staff. I thought you might want one of your own."

"Sorry, what?" she realized she was being very slow on the uptake, but the staff was a beautiful iron with filigree designs on both ends, twining around like wisps of mist.

Or spiderwebs.

She gingerly took the staff, weighing it in her hand, her mouth open in a silent "oh." She almost missed Kor handing a sword to Nathaniel.

"Does the weight suit you, Madam Ambassador?" Kor asked eagerly. "Councilor Nathaniel only gave me the one you used for practice, but it's not the same thing."

"Want to try it out?" Nathaniel nodded to the training barracks.

"You realize that we don't use swords in the Dark Forest for a reason?" she drawled, letting him drag her by the hand to the gate. Past the grate she could see young soldiers practicing with each other.

Dawn's voice pierced the air. "It's Sylvia!"

Sylvia waved the staff at them. "Your Highnesses. Girls."

"Are you duelling the Councilor, Sylvia?" Marianne called out enthusiastically. "Can we watch?" She climbed over the wall now, dropping in front of them. "Is that a new weapon? Can I see?"

"Of course you may. Hold that for me a moment, please." Sylvia dropped the staff into Marianne's eager hands. "Now be aware, Councilor Nathaniel," she said as she started undoing the front buttons of her dress, "that you are about to fight a goblin." She threw off the dress, and her rightmost leg kicked it to the corner. "In case you needed a reminder of what you're up against," she told him at the sight of his raised eyebrow. It had been a while since she'd gone about without a dress.

"Madam Sylvia!" Dawn almost shrieked. "It's going to get dirty!" She swooped down to rescue the dress.

The soldiers in the barracks had stopped, wide-eyed. Roland flitted over, flinty-eyed. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What're you up to here, Councilor? Goblins not allowed in the barracks! We're supposed to be keeping them out!"

"The Ambassador has political immunity, Lieutenant," Nathaniel said, shrugging off his coat. "And we shan't be long."

"I'll leave as soon as I kick his ass," Sylvia promised, and the girls behind her laughed. She held her hand out to Marianne, who gave her back her staff.

"Captain."

"Pardon?" Nathaniel asked.

"I'm Captain now."

"Oh, that's nice." He drew out a little hourglass from a breastpocket. "Your Highness? Would you mind very much timing us?"

"Oh, I'd love to!" Marianne held out her hands as Nathaniel tossed it to her.

"Marianne!" Roland pleaded.

"It'll be fine, Roland! It'll be fun! I've never seen them fight each other before!" She grinned up at him. "Ready?" she called, holding up the hourglass.

Nathaniel took his stance, and Sylvia checked her talons. "Anytime."

"Go!"

Despite Sylvia's relaxed opening stance, she met Nathaniel's sword easily. Twisting her body, she kicked at his legs with three of her own, almost throwing him off balance. He caught himself with his wings, landing blows. She jabbed and parried, he returned the blows with full force.

Propelling himself with his wings, he landed a solid kick to her front carapace. She slid backwards, her hind legs keeping her upright, swinging the staff wide to parry his next blow coming at her side, and kicked him back. He flew up, preparing even more momentum.

She flung a hand from her spinnarets and threw a thread up at his feet, snagging him and pulling.

The girls gasped as she soared up while he fell, her legs wrapping around his front. She pulled the staff up to his neck, and he stopped it with his sword, uncomfortably close to his own nose. He spun higher and around, trying to throw her off, but her legs bit into him tighter. Too far above for anyone to see, she let one hand go of her staff, wrapping a hand around his neck.

"In the Dark Forest, you'd be dead," she whispered into his ear as she curled her fingers and dug her talons into his neck. "Should have worn some armour, Councilor."

"Time!" Marianne called from below.

"Well, if I die tonight, you will have sex with me, right? Something to remember me by," he breathed, not really winded.

"Ohhh, you, Councilor, are a true flirt!" She let go of his neck. "Can you get us down? I could let go, but the ground looks hard and I might sprain a foot."

He was laughing as he lowered them down. She jumped off his back, grinning as she took her dress from Dawn.

"A tie!" Marianne proclaimed.

"No, she won," Nathaniel said off-handedly, rubbing his neck. "Sharp claws."

"Really? We didn't see."

"That's the point, Your Highness." Sylvia buttoned up, Dawn helping her adjust her skirts over her back legs.

"Can you see it now, though?" Nathaniel pointed to his neck. "I might have to raise my collar." He touched the little red crescents. "That stings."

"Let me see." She brushed her fingertips over the scratchmarks. "Hm, I did get you good."

"Madam Sylvia, your dress has a splotch!" Dawn complained. Sometimes she was a bossy mother hen of a thing.

"That was the coolest thing!" The crown princess was clasping her hands together as she gushed. "Councilor, will you show me how that kick is done?"

"Now now, Marianne!" Roland exclaimed. "Why would you need to learn that for?"

"It looks cool!"

"Babycakes, I'll do it for you if it means so much to you."

"You'll teach me?" Marianne's excited squeal went up two octaves.

"Uh, no... no, I mean that--"

"Your Highness, if you'd like to stop by my house a week from now, Councilor Nathaniel can teach you that move." Sylvia fussed with Nathaniel's collar, helping him hide the clawmarks.

"Can I come too?" Dawn asked. "I finished a piece I'd really like to show you."

"You are always welcome, Your Highness," Sylvia said fondly.

Behind them Roland made an unhappy noise as he stalked off to his soldiers.

"That was really something!" one of them exclaimed.

"A whole new fight style! We gotta find some goblins to spar with sometime."

"That's disgusting," Roland sputtered. "I mean, yeah, it'd be interesting and make us better fighters, but still disgusting."

Sylvia watched Marianne draw in a sharp gasp, and even Dawn had gone still. Nathaniel started walking towards the soldiers. "Nathaniel, no-" She sighed. "It's not a big deal."

"It... it kinda is," Marianne muttered, embarrassed. She scratched the back of her head uncertainly. "Insulting a foreign dignitary can be grounds for arrest. I'll... I'll talk to him."

"Can you?" Sylvia asked, then paused to think of the implications of the question that the crown princess had definitely caught.

Nathaniel strode back, his gaze flinty, mouth set in a thin line.

"That really wasn't necessary. I've heard much worse."

He shook his head. "I know. From private citizens. But Roland is wearing his uniform, and saying that as a ranking officer. He needs to watch his mouth. He needs to learn," he continued, raising his voice, "especially if he wants to be King!"

"Enough," Sylvia said quietly. "Councilor, I don't need more gossip about me from your defense."

He frowned down at her. "It's a little late for that."

And that was how Ambassador Sylvia found out that apparently she and Councilor Nathaniel were, in fairy words, a thing.

9: Apology

"Roland says sorry."

Sylvia pulled the thread up, and made another knot. "For what?"

"For... for insulting you the other week."

"Captain Roland insulted me many times the other week. Which particular insult is he apologizing for?"

Marianne sighed, dropping her face into her arms on the table. "I am so sorry. It's just... I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Your Highness. You're not the one making the insults, are you?"

It was a rare afternoon that Sylvia got to spend time with just the Crown Princess. It wasn't for lack of trying. When she wasn't in meetings, or studying, or performing some public function, Marianne spent her free time with her intended, Roland. He was off on some border patrol right now, and Marianne followed Dawn down to the elf village to visit Sunny. The two of them were off pulling some prank, and Marianne called on Sylvia instead.

"Did he apologize to you, by the way, for insulting your sword?"

"What? He didn't--" Marianne frowned, then sighed. "He didn't insult my sword."

"He said, and I quote, 'what a cute little thing,' which I think implies that he doesn't take your weapon seriously. Which, I might add, you haven't been practicing with lately. You know you're naturally clumsy, Your Highness, that's why you need practice." Sylvia stopped and sighed herself. "Now it's my turn to apologize. I shouldn't be lecturing you like this. You know it better yourself."

"No! I mean, you're right, I should be practicing, it's just--Roland really doesn't like me swordfighting."

"But you love swordfighting!"

"But I love him too! Isn't loving a person worth more than loving something like swordfighting?"

"No," Sylvia said flatly, foremother memory gauging the situation and recognizing that this needed an intervention. "It's not worth it to stop doing something you love, many things you love in your case, just for a man." She ran a finger through her hair, trying to think of what she could say. "Especially when he's not giving up anything for you."

"He's going to be my King. That's got to be worth something." Marianne was pensive. "He's giving up an easy life to be my King."

"He's not exactly broken up about that," Sylvia replied dryly. "Marianne, I just... I dislike seeing you like this. You shouldn't have to apologize because the guy you love is screwing things up. You should be with someone who makes you feel proud."

"I am proud!" Marianne frowned. "I'm so, so unbelievably proud. I mean, look at him! He's so perfect!" She allowed herself a dreamy smile. "I can't believe how lucky I am to be with him sometimes. Don't you... don't you ever feel that way about Nathaniel?"

"Marianne, don't switch the subject." Sylvia put her sewing down. "You are the Crown Princess of the Bright Meadow. You are brilliant, visionary, and compassionate." She reached across the table to take Marianne's hands. "You wouldn't be the first woman in the world to be worn down by a man blinding you with his charm, but believe me when I say, he's lucky to have you, not the other way around. He will be elevated above his peers. What do you stand to get?"

Marianne gave her an uncertain look. "Love?"

Sylvia sighed. "I'm sorry. I just. I know you love him. It just burns me to see that he doesn't really support your ideas, and he's to be your king. And politically, that's a problem for me, because you know how hard it's been to even get the council to even consider trade with the Dark Forest. And personally, that's a problem for me, because Roland doesn't like goblins, and I'm not about to get some magic spell to make me something else." She decided to change tactics, and turn the topic to something that would pull Marianne out of her morose mood. "Speaking of Kings, I finally heard from the Bog King, and he's agreed to the border market."

"He did?" Mariane's face completely lit up.

That's more like it. Sylvia nodded. "As long as the Fairy Kingdom arranges it, that is. Remember, the last time it stopped was because the Fairy Kingdom refused to help put it up."

"That's so great! I'll ask Sunny if we can get the elves to help, too."

"They'll be more likely to benefit, so that would be nice."

"Could we have a festival of it, maybe? Like a party? That would be so much fun!"

They pored over a map, to determine the best spot for a market. Sylvia would have to write for permission for the exact spot, since it was supposed to spill over. Griselda could help spreading word about the market, too. Finally. Finally they were getting somewhere.

King Dagda's reaction, as Sylvia expected, was rather lukewarm. He recognized the benefits of the border market, but seemed less than concerned about organizing it.

"This will be Marianne's project, Ambassador. I trust you will help her with it?"

She nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"And notify Captain Roland, since it's his responsibility to secure the border."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tell Captain Roland," the King said again patiently, "because we'll want to make sure it's kept orderly."

"Is Your Majesty implying... that the border market will have increased crime rates because of its proximity to the Dark Forest?" Sylvia asked, eyes narrowing.

"That will be for Captain Roland to determine," King Dagda snapped. "It's his job as future King to judge what's best for the people!"

Sylvia drew herself up. "It is also Princess Marianne's duty and judgement, and she is the one inheriting the throne. When did the Fairy Kingdom start ignoring birthright over marital ties?"

"Do not presume your Living Memory trumps my decision, Madam Ambassador." King Dagda paused, and sighed wearily. "I... We apologize, Madam Ambassador. It has been a long day."

"Of course." It was mid-afternoon.

"And... I understand your... misgivings about Captain Roland. He is not as open to increased contact as my daughter is, I see that. But... he will be my son-in-law, and I have to support him."

King Dagda was lost to her. She recognized that immediately, even without the insight of foremother memory.

Nothing would stop her from celebrating this one small victory, though. Years after arriving in this weirdly stuffy kingdom, with its incomprehensible rules and systems, its distasteful caste system, its petty noble houses, and its bickering councils, something was finally happening.

There would be dancing, Marianne declared. Dawn was thrilled, even moreso when Sunny made arrangements for a concert.

For the first time in years, Sylvia met goblins again, and she wept.

"Sorry," she muttered later to Nathaniel as he spurred the dragonflies on. She knew she was saying it to his chest, since she was sitting on the leaf they were riding on, clinging to him, but she was so exhausted she couldn't stand anymore.

"For what?" he asked, keeping his voice light.

"Being a sobbing mess out of everything tonight. Taking up so much space on this leaf. Introducing you to goblin beer." She thought a moment. "Actually, not the last one. Your face was the best face."

He laughed. "You've nothing to be sorry for. You were so happy tonight. It's the happiest I've ever seen you, I think."

"What, am I usually a sad person?"

He nodded, staring straight ahead. "I don't know if you've noticed, but sometimes it looks like your Living Memory is weighing you down. If not, then your exile. Tonight was the first time I've ever seen you look like you had nothing on your shoulders."

"You must not be paying attention to me when I'm knitting."

"You know what I mean."

"Well, sorry anyway."

"For what, now?"

"I'm so tired I can hardly think straight. I might eat you when I get home."

He stroked her hair. "That's all right."

When they arrived at her house, she stumbled through her door while he let the dragonflies go. She was still fumbling her way--stupid furniture!--when she felt him grab her under her arms and carry her to her bedroom. They fell into her web with a soft oopf.

"Have I thanked you for your service, Councilor Nathaniel?"

"You may have."

"I shall do it properly tomorrow. Good night, Councilor."

"Good night, Madam Ambassador."

10: Aftermath

Ambassador Sylvia was dressed in red at the wedding of Crown Princess Marianne to Captain Roland of the border guard. She wore it out of spite, because spider widows wore red to signal that they had eaten a husband. (This had not been the case in three centuries, but she liked the detail.)

She stared straight ahead, because at one point Councilor Nathaniel had whispered to her that she was glaring at the groom in such a hostile manner it might be misconstrued. They were standing in a small cluster of people who decidedly also did not like Captain Roland, and had vocalized their disapproval for the gadfly guard more than once in public. Their criticisms were varied: he was an upstart; he was from a minor house; he was frivolous; he was a bad influence on the princess; he would be a disaster of a king.

Sylvia agreed with the last reason, although her main reason was more personal. Through careful inquiries and through watching Captain Roland's behaviour around Marianne when she and Nathaniel were present, she was thoroughly convinced that Roland was purposefully steering Marianne away from anyone who would talk some sense into her.

She had attempted to spend the last winter in the Fairy Huddle to try to stop this disaster of a wedding from moving forward. It did not go well, since everytime she had tried to approach Marianne, she would be stymied by Roland's warbling. She overheard him bragging about becoming King by snaring the Crown Princess and it took everything to not stomp him into the ground. Nathaniel spread his own careful whispers--such a subtle man--which almost got Roland into trouble with the King, but the satisfaction didn't last long.

It was especially hard to watch the couple interact. Watching him downplay her achievements unless it made him look good, watching him pay her backhanded compliments that reflected back onto him, listening to him declare public affection for her. And Marianne, so young, so dazzled by it all.

And here they were. She was going to watch, as so many foremothers had, a young woman give herself to an unworthy man.

Nathaniel had an arm around her waist, at her request because she didn't think she could stop herself from killing Roland if she had to go. But she was here nonetheless, because she wanted to support Marianne's decision--this was Marianne's decision, and she had to respect that. Foremother memory told her that trying to steer her away from it would only destroy any rapport she had built with the princess, and if this marriage had to happen, she needed all of it.

A kiss on her ear distracted her. She frowned up at Nathaniel. "What was that for?" she hissed.

"You looked like you could use a distraction."

She took a deep breath. "I suppose I do at that."

The wait seemed to take forever. The crowds started whispering.

"Is she all right?"

"Where is she?"

"What could be taking so long?"

Sylvia wondered if she should be feeling relief. Instead, something cold in her heart growled.

Dawn flew in then, overhead the crowd and straight to her royal father, standing at the altar with Roland. She glanced around nervously and whispered something.

"What?" King Dagda's soft gasp echoed throughout the hall.

"Just what I said, Daddy."

"But that's ridiculous! You can't just... cancel a wedding, on the day of!" At the collective gasp that went up in the room, he looked around, and went back to an angry whisper.

"No!" Dawn's whisper was insistent enough to be heard. "She said the wedding's off! I don't know why!"

King Dagda turned to Roland, as if the groom could give an accounting of his bride's sudden behaviour.

Roland gulped, and gave his best reassuring smile. "Your Majesty, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. Pre-wedding jitters."

"A misunderstanding that would lead to a cancelled wedding?" Dagda, at least, sounded suitably skeptical.

A series of images flashed through her face, then. "He has done something," Sylvia growled under her breath.

Nathaniel gave her a sharp look, and several members in their coterie also turned.

"Look at that face. The face of the guilty. He has done something to hurt her." She knew she wasn't being very loud, not loud enough to be heard at the front, but also that she shouldn't be saying anything.

Unfortunately, a nearby councilor who did not share her sentiments overheard, and turned to frown at whoever was saying that. "Don't be ridiculous. Princess Marianne has always been flighty--"

"You shut up. How dare you insult a princess of the realm." Sylvia took a step forward and felt Nathaniel's arm tighten around her waist, restraining her. The councilor had recognized the source of the voice, and was quickly paling. "How dare you insult your own princess, who is to be your sovereign. Have some respect."

"Patience, Madam Ambassador," Councilor John murmured. "It's not like you have any proof."

"I am Living Memory, Councilor. I know the face of guilt. I have seen it many, many times before, with enough hindsight to recognize it when it is right in front of me."

The whispers were already roaring into an upset hubbub. King Dagda raised his arms for quiet, to little avail. "Princess Marianne is unwell. We will postpone this wedding to a later date. Thank you for coming."

"Your Majesty, there's no need to cancel!" Roland tried to salvage the occasion. "Maybe I should just go talk to her? I'm sure it's just a minor thing! You know how Marianne gets." He turned to Dawn.

King Dagda also turned to Dawn.

Dawn was squinting at Roland with extreme prejudice. "She was crying really hard and doesn't want to see anyone." She didn't even bother whispering her reply.

"I'll talk to her--"

"She doesn't want to see anyone."

Sylvia took a step towards the altar, but Nathaniel gripped her waist harder. "Are you going to make a scene?"

"You heard Dawn. He made her cry. He hurt her."

"And we all bleed with her. But are you going to make a scene, and will it help?"

She stopped short. She did want to make a scene. It would be utterly satisfying. She ran through the possible scenarios in her head. Yell at Roland publicly, and incur King Dagda's wrath, with possible punishment. Marianne would still be hurt. Don't tell at Roland now, stew in silence, and maybe destroy something afterwards. Marianne would still be hurt.

She settled for fuming quietly at Nathaniel. "I hate it when you're smarter than me, you know that?"

"I'm sure you do," he said soothingly, carefully ushering her out. "Let's go get some tea and celebrate this cancellation, shall we?"

The wedding day was a holiday for the kingdom, and it was abuzz with news of the cancelled nuptials. Nathaniel's house was closer to the castle, and by the time they got there, there was a small gathering of gossips in the parlour.

"Sylvia!" Donna almost shrieked as soon as she sighted the couple. She practically ran over to them to drag them over. "Nathaniel! Did you know? What happened? Surely you must know, Sylvia, you were all but accusing Captain Roland in the hall!" She practically pushed Sylvia down to sit next in the most available space between the ladies' chairs.

Sylvia shrugged. "I have no proof, as was pointed out to me earlier."

"But you have an inkling? Do tell! What does your Living Memory suspect?" Donna shoved a cup of tea into her hands.

She sighed, feeling theatrical. Donna and her friends weren't her favourite people, and she suspected they talked about her behind her back. But they could be useful here... "Well, she probably found some proof he didn't love her. Could have been anything, really. Found some love letters, or saw another woman's things among his, or something equally dramatic."

This caused an outburst. "But he was always so affectionate!" "Couldn't stop singing about his love for her!" "They looked so happy together!"

"Ladies, you and I are old enough to know that sometimes lovers are not true to you, no matter how it looks." Sylvia took a sip of tea before she continued. "Besides, I thought this one was obvious, anyway. Surely you heard him bragging about becoming King? Why does a man in love need to do that?"

"Well, I never! What bad taste!" And the group descended into outrage.

"And he never supported her," Nathaniel added mournfully, placing a supporting hand on Sylvia's shoulder. "What kind of King doesn't support his Queen? Especially a King marrying into the throne? Always seemed to me he had his own agenda."

"You never trusted him, Nathaniel! Especially with your pro-goblin politics!"

A crowd of gasps, and the whole group turned to Sylvia, wide-eyed.

"Considering Princess Marianne's desires for diplomatic relations with the Dark Forest, a marriage to Captain Roland would have totally undermined her," Nathaniel said, sounding offended.

No one looked like they heard him, though. Sylvia didn't move, just looked around the room, wondering if she was supposed to do something in the sudden silence that descended. Were there such awkward moments in memory? She couldn't think of anyway.

"Uhm. I, uh, like Councilor Nathaniel's pro-goblin politics." As if to make her point, she patted his hand on her shoulder.

Nathaniel took her hand. "Donna, we'd love to stay and chat, but we came to pick up a few things and were going to call on some of the other councilors to discuss some matters. Hope you don't mind."

There was a rhubarb growing behind them as they left the room, but one question made them quicken their pace.

"Have they set a wedding date?"

A few more calls, a few well-placed words here and there with people sympathetic to the princess, respectful of Nathaniel's standing and well-aware of Sylvia's status--not just as a Living Memory, but also as occasional confidant of the princesses--and they ended their day at Sylvia's house, feeling pleased with their work.

They avoided talk about a wedding date and spent a marvelous night sleeping soundly. Sylvia had been convinced that two-legged creatures wouldn't be able to get in and out of her hammock web easily, but Nathaniel rolled in and out of it with ease, and he was warm and soft. He was also very vocally appreciative of it, favourably comparing it to the flower beds of the fairies regularly. Their sleeping arrangements were made all the more pleasant with the realization that neither of them were morning people.

So the knock on Sylvia's door at dawn was an unwelcome thing. For several moments, neither moved, though they were awake and knew it.

When the knocking got more insistent, Sylvia sighed and pushed herself up. "I'll get it."

"No, you're naked, I'll get it, who knows who's at the door."

"You're also naked."

"I have a robe." He used his wings to push himself off, which also had the effect of pushing her back down.

Sylvia considered the wisdom of letting him open the door when the whole neighbourhood knew whose house it was. While they didn't advertise their relationship, and they were not necessarily secretive, but it wasn't common knowledge that Nathaniel regularly slept over either.

"Councilor Nathaniel!" greeted a very unexpected voice. "I, uh, good morning!"

"Uhm. Your... Highness?"

Sylvia sat up with an oath. "Marianne?" She stumbled out of the bedroom and knocked over several pieces of furniture to get to the front door. "Marianne!"

The Crown Princess stood there wearing a white dress tattered at her knees. Her black boots were scuffed, and her hands gripped a training sword. "Uhm. Hi."

Her eyes... Sylvia was alarmed at the blue-black surrounding them. "Did someone hit you?" she exclaimed. "On both eyes?"

"What? No! No, I did this. It's... it's just berry juice. I was trying something new."

Both Sylvia and Nathaniel sighed in unison. "But what are you doing here? It's... so early! Don't tell me you want to train right now?"

Marianne bowed her head. "Uh. Not now, I was going to wait until Councilor Nathaniel got here, because I didn't realize that he was here."

"Is this a girl talk thing? Should I go?" Nathaniel asked.

Sylvia plucked at the sleeve of his robe. "Yes. Get back to bed or get dressed and leave us be. Come in, Your Highness, I'll put on some tea."

11: Outpouring

"You were right," Marianne said into her cup. "About Roland. About everything. I should have listened to you."

Sylvia made a sympathetic sound. "You were in love. It happens. You can't blame yourself for what he did wrong."

"But I should have seen it coming," the princess insisted. "And I... I knew. I knew something was wrong but I was just... so happy. He was like the sun, and I just... I got burned."

It was still too early in the morning, so Sylvia let sympathetic silence settle in.

Marianne burst into tears. Large tears ran down her face as her small body shook with such violence Sylvia stood up in alarm. Quickly, the goblin ran around the table to put an arm around the fairy princess. "It wasn't your fault, Marianne. It was never your fault. He chose to do whatever it is he did. He hurt you. You were in love. That's not a bad thing."

"If it wasn't bad," Marianne yelled, her voice piercing in its pain, "then why does it hurt so much?"

"Because... it was real for you."

"Why wasn't it real for him? Why wasn't I enough for him? What's wrong with me?" The wails were louder now, full of anguish.

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"There must have been! Why didn't he love me if there wasn't something wrong with me? Why did I fall in love with someone like him?"

"Because you, Your Highness, have an open and warm heart, which he chose to take advantage of. It has nothing to do with your wrongness."

"Of course it does," Marianne retorted, even through her tears. "I know what they say about me, Sylvia. I'm not a good princess. I'm too loud, too rough, too demanding. I'm not soft enough, I'm not sweet, I'm not gentle, I'm nothing a fairy princess should be. And I thought... I thought I found someone who thought I was."

"You found someone who pretended you were the fairy princess that you are not, Your Highness," Sylvia said softly. "Not someone who saw you for the fairy princess you are."

An oath from the back of the house distracted them. Something rolled on the floor of the kitchen and someone picked it up and fiddled with it.

"Nathaniel, aren't you supposed to be at a meeting?" Sylvia called.

"Running late. I'll take the backdoor out. You ladies carry on."

"There's a council meeting today? Why wasn't I told?" Marianne sat up.

"Because you were supposed to be on your honeymoon today," Sylvia said dryly.

"Guess that's not happening." Marianne fiercely wiped her face dry wth the back of her hands. She took a deep breath. "I'm going to it."

"Are you sure? Shouldn't you take a break?"

"No." Marianne frowned. "I'm going to be the fairy princess I should have been. I've wasted so much time already. Councilor Nathaniel!"

"Your Highness?" Nathaniel stuck his head into the dining room from the kitchen.

"Kindly escort me to the legislative council meeting."

Nathaniel threw a slightly-panicked look at Sylvia, who nodded seriously. "Uh. Okay. I mean! Of course, Your Highness."

Crown Princess Marianne threw herself into her work with a ferocity that made people nervous. Her supporters were pleased to see her new no-holds-barred approach, and if she got more unpopular with the elder councilmen, it didn't seem to matter, because she went toe-to-toe with them to push her new initiatives through. She hid her hurt under a mask of efficiency and wore off her angry energy through training.

When King Dagda summoned Sylvia, she had hoped it would be about finally opening talks with the Dark Forest. Unfortunately, she had probably hoped for too much.

"What has happened to my daughter?" he demanded as soon as the servants left them alone. "What made her into this?"

Sylvia stared at him, astonished. "I... why would I know that?"

"I know she went to see you after the day of the wedding. I need to know." His face was the pleading one of a broken father, desperately wanting to understand. "What could have done this to my little girl?"

"A broken heart."

"But that was a misunderstanding!" King Dagda burst out. "If she would just listen to Roland, let him talk to her--"

"That would not be wise," Sylvia cut him off. "When Captain Roland is likely the source of the hurt."

"But what did he do?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "I know you had no love for Roland. But you didn't have to poison my daughter against the man she loved to get what you wanted!"

Sylvia blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"What did you do? Why is she like this now?"

"I have done nothing. As for why she is like this now, perhaps you should be asking her."

"She won't tell me what happened! She won't tell me what's wrong!" He sighed. "I have never been that close to her, but... I am still her father. I don't understand why she won't talk to me." He glared at her. "But she speaks to you. So I can only surmise that you know."

"Ah." Sylvia sighed. "Actually, I don't know. She never told me."

"Never told you..."

"No. I never asked. If she wanted to tell, she would have said something. I only have my suspicions, but beyond that, the mind of Her Highness is beyond my ken."

"Then tell me... with your Living Memory, what you can know of my daughter's hurt. Tell me how I can restore her to what she was."

"You can't," she said bluntly. "She had her heart broken, and you can't make a heart un-broken again. That's not how it works. You give her time and space to heal, let her find her own way."

"I am asking you for help!"

"I am giving it to you."

"Is this how you served the Bog King? With inactionable advice and evasion?"

Sylvia rose to her full height, towering over the fairy man in his chair. He shrank back from her.

"Guards!" he cried.

She started walking to the door. "I'll see myself out," she said curtly.

She swept out the room in high dudgeon, stewing her way down the corridors of the wretched castle with its high ceilings and narrow hallways specifically designed for fliers.

"Sylvia!"

She stopped short at Nathaniel's voice. "Councilor," she bit out as he approached, his face full of concern.

He took her hands in his. "What happened? I was told that you were in an audience with the King."

She winced. "It didn't go well. I walked out on him."

"You what?"

"He wanted me to tell him what happened to Her Highness and didn't like what I had to say."

"Councilor Nathaniel!" a page flew to them. "His Majesty demands to see you. Now."

"Me...?"

They exchanged glances.

"Now, Councilor."

"What about?"

"He didn't say."

"I'm going home," Sylvia said softly. "I'll see you later."

Later did not happen. Ambassador Sylvia was under house arrest for conspiring against the Crown. People could come to see her, but were discouraged from doing so under threat of being accused of the same. No one could tell her what happened to Councilor Nathaniel. She was left to wring her hands as she paced her ceiling.

A shy knock from the back of the house caught her attention. She thought it was the back door, but it was the small delivery door instead in the corner of the kitchen. Made specifically for the elves who couldn't reach the door knobs of her main doors, it wasn't always locked, but she hadn't been expecting anything.

She opened it. "Master Sunny! What are you doing here? The perimeter is guarded!"

"Here to deliver some food and goods!" Sunny said with bright cheer. He held bags in his arms. "Princess Marianne insisted I come check and make sure you're okay. She would have come herself, but she couldn't get away from her schedule."

"Have you heard from Nathaniel?"

"Apparently also under house arrest." Sunny looked around, and then whispered, "Dawn says she spied on his meeting with her Dad. Said he wouldn't agree to testify against you."

"So there is to be a trial, then?"

"Don't know. Might not come to that. Marianne is arguing against it."

Sylvia shook her head. "There's only so much she can do."

"Keep your spirits up, Madam Sylvia! Like I always say, don't worry about a thing!"

She patted his head. "You're sweet. Best be on your way now."

There were letters. She sorted them into separate piles: official business from people who hadn't yet realized anything was wrong; letters of accusation, often unsigned; letters of support, sometimes also unsigned; personal correspondence with no political content whatsoever.

A fortnight passed with few visitors, no real news, until the sound of dragonflies buzzing over attracted her attention. There were too many for a company call, and elves didn't tend to travel in packs like that. She ran to a window to see a small army in the sky.

Ugh, no, an international incident. Where were they going? The palace? Ugh, of course... not like the goblins knew where she lived. And was that...? Her heart sank at the figure in the center of the formation.

She banged on her front door. "Send for Princess Marianne immediately!" she yelled. "The Bog King approaches!"

She saw him several hours later, after she was humiliatingly dragged to the castle by two fairy soldiers who picked her up by the upper arms and flew her overhead without a care for her person. As she was shoved into the throne room, she saw King Dagda, and the tall dark person of her cousin.

"What is the meaning of this?" Bog growled, and she wasn't sure at who.

She wrenched her arms free of the fairy soldiers' grips.

To his credit, the Bog King swung to King Dagda, fury in his face.

"Bog King," King Dagda began, "she is a prisoner of the Fairy Kingdom--"

"I know what you've told me. And I have told you, the Dark Forest is responsible for its own." Bog stamped his way to her, leveling a glare at the soldiers. They backed off. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"No," she snapped, because she had expected a better reunion than this. "No, I am not all right." She could feel her voice going higher, and she didn't care. "Five years. Five years I've been in this miserable field working myself to the bone to cultivate trade relations, being met with resistance at every juncture. Five years of insults, gossip, criticism from every corner, and complete silence from my king and only family, five years! Five years, and now I'm under house arrest, accused of a crime on the basis of rumours, against a sovereign to whom I have done my utmost to appease, I have no news about the man I love, and my own king and cousin is asking me if I'm all right! No! No, I am not all right!" She was full-on yelling straight into the Bog King's face, raising herself to her full height so she could go nose-to-nose with him, and practically spitting at him as she stabbed a finger at his chest. "You banished me! For a thing I did not do, may I add! And I am now under house arrest! Also for a thing I did not do! How dare you treat a widow of foremother memory this year!" She swung to King Dagda. "And you! How dare you disrespect Living Memory like this! I have done nothing against the Crown, and maybe you should be a better father to your child rather than throwing accusations at foreign dignitaries!"

Princess Marianne and Princess Dawn chose that moment to barge into the throne room. "Dad!" "What's going on!"

Dawn gasped. "Madam Sylvia! Are you all right?"

Marianne, however, stomped her way to her father, hands on her hips. "What in all the fields is this!"

"The Bog King is here to retrieve the ambassador," King Dagda said evasively.

"What?" Marianne spun around, finally noticing the dark monarch in the room. "But--Sylvia didn't do anything wrong!"

"I'll be taking her home regardless," Bog rumbled. "Given the hostile environment."

Marianne paused. "You're the Bog King, aren't you? Sylvia has done great work in the time she's been here! She can't leave now!" She swung around to her father. "Especially not on conspiracy charges! She's done nothing!"

"I have it on good authority that Sylvia has been undermining crown authority among the ranks of the noble houses," King Dagda said, face reddening. "She's dangerous, and I won't have a goblin bring down this kingdom."

The Bog King snarled as he took a step forward. "Are you accusing my cousin of being a liar?"

"Whose authority?" Marianne demanded.

King Dagda seemed to shift uncomfortable under Marianne's gaze. "Darling, it's for your own good."

"Who?" Marianne's voice was hard, grating, dark.

"Captain Roland has uncovered a conspiracy among the councilors. He is rounding up guilty parties as we speak."

"Captain Roland," Marianne said in a low voice, practically a growl that mimicked the Bog King's, "is a liar. You can't trust him."

"What am I to think, Marianne?" King Dagda asked, pained. "This goblin comes to our kingdom, and suddenly you're being difficult and you change and you end your engagement without reason. How can I believe that she hasn't done anything?"

"I had a reason!" she yelled. "You didn't need to bring anybody else into this! You didn't need to arrest anybody! If there was a conspiracy, that would be Roland's fault!" She drew back a little, hands at her mouth trembling and tears at her eyes. Then she visibly steeled herself. "He never loved me. He was just using me."

King Dagda sat forward on this throne. "Marianne...?"

"If you send Sylvia away now, because of something Roland said... I'll leave too."

"Marianne!" Dawn gasped, flitting to her sister's side.

"I don't understand," King Dagda gasped.

"You said it yourself. I'm difficult. I'm different. I'm unique." Marianne put her hands on her hips. "I'm not the perfect fairy princess you want me to be, and you'll round up my friends and supporters on the say-so of the cheating, chattering, power-hungry, pig-headed son of a--"

"Is this family drama usual here?" Bog asked Sylvia.

"You're one to talk," Sylvia snarled at him. "Is this the case then?" she asked King Dagda sharply. "You're allowing a soldier to arrest whoever he thinks is a conspirator... because you trust him over your own flesh and blood?"

"No! I am trying to protect my family!"

"How is it protecting us when you won't even listen to us, Daddy?" Dawn pointed out. "We've been trying to tell you that Sylvia's innocent for days now."

"EVERYBODY BE QUIET!"

Everyone gaped in the wake of the Bog King's roar.

"I don't know what is going on here. But your house is not in order, King Dagda," Bog rumbled. He turned to the princesses. "It would seem that you have a crisis of authority on your hands. I remember when my own father went mad, as kings must eventually do. That is when the heir must step up, to prove themselves worthy of the throne and unwilling to be pushed around."

"That's not how it's done here, but your, ah, solidarity is appreciated," Marianne said wryly. She straightened. "You're right, though. There is clearly a cadre of conspirators trying to undermine my authority before I even take the throne, and it's time for me to deal with it. Dad?"

"Yes, dear?" Dagda asked, sounding weaker than before.

"Do you trust me? Your own heir? To make decisions that best benefit the kingdom?"

King Dagda hesitated, clearly dreading her next actions. "Yes," he finally said. "I do."

"Then I call for Captain Roland to immediately stop his search for so-called conspirators. I order that all current conspirators under arrest be released."

"Oh thank goodness," Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes.

In short order, Crown Princess Marianne took over, not quite named Regent but close enough, with King Dagda pleading illness. Ambassador Sylvia was released. The Bog King agreed to stand down and take his army back to the Dark Forest. Together they were escorted back to Sylvia's house, and the goblin army buzzed around them, resting on the field by the brook.

"We have to return home, and in case civil war breaks out, I don't want you here," Bog told her as soon as they were inside.

Sylvia paused for a moment, then went back to boiling water for tea.

"I know this isn't the best time to recall you... you clearly have affection for the two princesses, but after all that happened, I don't feel safe with you staying."

"You felt perfectly safe with me being here before, back when I was practically the only goblin the entire Fairy Court had encountered in a hundred years."

Bog cricked his neck. She hoped guilt was giving him a neckache. "I know. But things change."

"That, they do, because some of us fight for it."

"And I see the results. You've done fine work. Consider your return your reward."

Sylvia smashed a cup on the floor. She swung to Bog, eyes narrowed as she prowled towards him. "Is that it? Five years, and I just--pick up my life and go home with you as if nothing happened? How dare you. How dare you! Damn you, where have you been?"

"Are you done?"

"No." And she slapped him.

He staggered back from the force, and touched the corner of his mouth. "I should--"

"What, punish me? You did that, for five years! You sent me away from home! And I have done just fine without you. Where will you exile me to next, Bog King?"

To his credit, his eyes softened. He sighed deeply, and took her trembling hands in his. "I did wrong, cousin, and I am sorry. I ignored your counsel, and rather than face up to what you had to say, I sent you away so I wouldn't have to listen. I sent you to a place I knew to be hostile to our kind for a task I myself deemed impossible. I had no excuse, and perhaps there'll be nothing to earn your forgiveness, but know that I am sorry. I am so, so sorry."

"Free the Sugar Plum Fairy."

"Of course."

"Permit trade delegations and royal visitations."

"Most assuredly."

"Open the borders."

"Well, we have to negotiate that, what with deciding--" He stopped when he saw her glaring at him. "Certainly."

"Overturn your ban on love. Let me have mine."

He opened his mouth, or maybe he dropped his jaw, she didn't know and didn't care. "Shouldn't that depend on my meeting him?"

"I'm not asking for your permission," she told him sourly.

He still grimaced.

"Just because you've sworn off love, Bog King, doesn't mean the rest of the world has. Life moves on. I don't actually need your blessing, just as you don't need my forgiveness. Suck on that, if you will."

A loud growling chorus outside drew their attention. Sylvia looked out the window to find the goblins surrounding the house snarling at the sky. She went outside, to see a fairy hovering above, taking in the scene. He didn't look too perturbed, more like scanning the area for something. She would recognize those mottled brown and grey wings anywhere.

As soon as he saw her, he flew down, alighting in her arms, gathering her in his. He rubbed his thumb between her shoulder blades, breathing in the scent of her hair, and she nuzzled the crook of his neck. For a moment, everything else faded away in a rush of relief.

"You're all right," she whispered. "What happened?"

"House arrest. Just like you. I'm fine. I suppose they released you as soon as they saw the goblin army approaching."

She huffed. "Not before my cousin got into a shouting match with the king. Princess Marianne is in charge now."

"Yes. It's going to be a few... very exciting days, if not weeks."

"I shall be sad to miss it."

He drew away from her. "What?"

"I have been recalled." Her voice was soft, and her fingers idly played with his collar.

He touched his forehead to hers. "You've been wanting it for a long time."

"Not like this though. What will I do without you?"

"You will carry on, as you always have."

She ran her hands over his face, memorizing its feel under her fingertips, on her palm, his breath on her skin.

"Surely foremother memory has given you that fortitude."

"Foremother memory doesn't define who I am or what I feel. I'm not my foremothers. This... this pain will be mine, because every such pain is unique, never felt before."

He captured her hand as it ran down his cheek, kissing it and keeping it there. "I will come visit as soon as I can, then."

"Even if you might get eaten?"

He shrugged. "You've tried before, and I like to think I survived that." He smiled. "Otherwise the last four years have been a good dream. It is not so hard an afterlife, falling in love with you."

"Such a flirt, Councilor," she retorted, but there was no bite.

"Madam Ambassador, you are the one with irresistable charms."

The Bog King snorted, and Sylvia turned to see him leaning on the doorjamb, arms and ankles crossed. He gestured to Nathaniel with his chin. "Is that the one?"

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Mind your business, cousin." And she went back to holding Nathaniel close, until it was untenable to ignore the crowd of curious goblins around them, and a joining crowd of equally curious elves in the further distance.

Fall passed. Sylvia spent a lot of it visiting friends and family. Many of her kind were solitary creatures in pockets of the Dark Forest, so not seeing each other for long periods of time was normal, but they had all heard of the unusual circumstances of her exile, and were unbearably curious as a result.

Winter came and went. Sylvia spent a lot of it brooding.

As soon as spring arrived, warm enough to leave the castle and her coccoons, she took to the highest tree and wove a web to sit in and wait for a pair of brown-grey wings.

He found her as though he caught her scent through the forest, grasping her tightly in his arms and swinging her around mid-air as she laughed, and then they breathlessly fell into her web, making wordless promises to each other.

12: A Wedding Party

It was a rapidly-changing fairy government that Sylvia returned to, not as ambassador, but as part of a royal visit. The fairy princesses had visited her a fair number of times over the year, and Sylvia had to keep Griselda busy to keep the queen mother out of the negotiation room where Princess Marianne and the Bog King conferred at length over terms and provisions.

It would not do for them to be intruded upon. Although once in a while Dawn would whisper that yes, the two had gone out to stretch their wings, and it was safe to not distract Griselda anymore. Sylvia pressed a finger to her lips if anyone seemed to want to comment on how the Bog King gazed overlong at Crown Princess Marianne, or remark on the smile that played at Crown Princess Marianne's lips sometimes as the Bog King made conversation that might have been utterly boring otherwise.

Her house in the Fairy Kingdom was kept neat and tidy by Nathaniel in her absence. They announced their engagement at a quiet dinner held at her house, which pleased everyone in attendance (and upset some others because they had not been in attendance for the momentous occasion). The wedding itself they held at the border market on a calm midsummer evening.

They dispensed with the usual officiant and elder, calmly reciting promises to each other in front of an audience. But the Bog King surprised them when he approached, tokens in his hands.

"I bring you blessings," he said softly, only for them to hear. "I bring you the benediction of the Northern Spiders, and I bring you the benediction of the Southern Scorpions. I bring you the benediction of the Swarm." He let each token fall at their feet as he recited the names of the clans and goblin families that delivered their private blessings through the King. "And I gift you my blessing, blood kin, recognition of the royal line, and promises of loyalty to yours."

She hadn't quite forgiven him just yet, but she gave him a small nod in acknowledgement, and leaned forward a little for the kiss he laid on her forehead.

Their first dance was with each other. Bog claimed the second dance with Sylvia, to the oohs-and-aahs of several goblins. Dawn took to the floor with her best friend, Sunny.

"Who would have thought that the almighty Bog King could dance so well?" Marianne laughed at the edge of the dance floor to Nathaniel.

"Surely Your Highness must realized by now not to underestimate him." Nathaniel grinned. "May I have the honour? Since my bride seems to be occupied at the moment."

Marianne gladly took his hand, and they chatted about a council motion as they swirled about the dance floor, until they almost bumped into Sylvia and Bog.

"I'd like to dance with my new husband again," Sylvia declared loudly as soon as she was within earshot of Nathaniel. "Swap partners?"

Griselda cackled--loudly--and almost ruined the moment as the Bog King shyly took Princess Marianne's hands. The nervous tension in his body bled out within a few moments, though, as they kept on dancing and conversing as if they did such a thing every day. If they seemed to dance much closer than was perhaps appropriate, no one said a thing.

"Think they'll have a happy ending, too?" Nathaniel asked softly.

Sylvia kissed his clever mouth. "Oh, love, there are no happy endings, just happy transformations."

#fanfic?#strange magic #maybe #idk anymore #fun though

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