#no matter how fleeting or insignificant they feel in the moment i appreciate them

[fantasyoverreality98]

Prince of Shadow

Pairing: Aerin x F! MC

Summary: Aerin reflects on why he chose a path of darkness and receives a visit while imprisoned in the dungeons.

Author’s Note: I’m back at it again with the clownery! Can’t help myself but write about some villains. I will not rest until I get redemption arcs. Anyway, this takes place after the finale of Blades Book 1, and the only warning I have is that it is angst and contains talk of abuse. Thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it, I really appreciate you.

Word Count: 2,671

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Water splashed against the hard stone, the sound echoing in the silent dungeon.

Prince Aerin Valleros sat in the corner, listening to the scurrying rats on the other side of his cell. One ventured closer and withdrew when it felt the dark energy radiating off him. His lips curved up in a smile as he watched the creature disappear into the shadows.

With a sigh, Aerin cast his gaze to the cell door.

“What are you looking at, prince?” the guard sneered.

The prince shook his head and looked away. Two weeks had passed since he woke up in this cell. Only once had his father bothered to visit; first to beg that his precious son come back to him, and then to curse him for killing Baldur. As if his father had ever cared about him.

No, he had never felt loved by his family.

They were weak. Pathetic. Worthless.

All his life, Aerin had been abused by his brother, while his father stood by and watched. Life as a prince meant nothing when he spent every moment wishing that someone, anyone would care for him. Love him.

He’d thought he may have found that in the adventurer. Raine had convinced him that she cared. But like everyone else, she had deceived him and let him down.

And now you are alone.

Foolishly, he briefly allowed himself to believe that she would visit him in the dungeons. Perhaps those feelings were mutual.

But she had never appeared.

“Have you heard word from my father?” Aerin asked, tired of spending his days wondering what came next.

The guard took a moment to respond, and even then, refused to look at the prince. “No. King Arlan has been trying to—”

“And just what do you think you’re doing? Our orders were to watch Prince Aerin. Not engage in a conversation with him.” Another guard sauntered up to the cell, sneering when he glanced at Aerin. “Ignore this traitor.”

Someday, he would make that guard pay for all the mistreatment he had faced in this cell.

Footsteps filled the air, and for a brief moment, hope flared in Aerin’s chest. The excitement vanished when he saw that it was simply another guard. Of course it wasn’t Raine. He was foolish to believe even for a moment it might be.

“But why, Aerin? Why would you do this?”

“What life did I have before? Forever trapped in the shadow of my fool of a brother, doomed to a life of pathetic obscurity? Bullied. Doubted. Mocked. I hated it here. My only reprieve was in my dreams.”

No one understood how it felt to live life as a constant afterthought. Baldur had spent every possible moment torturing him, making him feel insignificant, while their father stood by and encouraged it.

Aerin may regret some of his decisions now that the Dreadlord had been defeated, but he would never regret ending his brother’s life. Baldur got what he deserved. He had been the truly evil one.

“Have you heard word of the heroes?” Aerin’s voice echoed in the cell, and he tried to mask the desperation he felt.

If Raine would appear, just once, he might allow himself to believe that things could change. Despite all that happened, he still wanted her. He wanted to be with her. If she would have him.

“Who said you could speak?” The guard who had arrived last glanced at him with a look of disgust. “King Arlan has been inconsolable these past two weeks. The crown prince’s death has devastated the kingdom.”

Unable to help himself, Aerin snorted. “Of course.” Bitterness wrapped around his heart once more. “Poor, poor Baldur.”

Pain burned throughout his body, the Nerada Stone still fused to his chest. It had grown worse since he awoke here, in this dark cell, his only companions the rats that shrank back in fear whenever they wandered too close.

“How dare you speak his name. You tarnish the good reputation of Morella through your very existence.”

Those words may have hurt once, but Aerin no longer cared. Morella was not a great kingdom. Humans, elves, orcs, they were all weak. Any goodness that may have remained had long been corrupted, and the world didn’t need his help for that to happen.

“Please, do tell me more of how much of a traitor I am.” He was growing tired of this daily routine. It seemed many of the guards felt it necessary to remind Aerin of his sins, as if he wasn’t already aware.

The guards ignored him, chatting amongst themselves while Aerin stared at the wall across from him. It was damp, water gliding down the stones, staining them a dark gray. Outside, the sounds of life raged on.

This was the way things had always been. For as long as he could remember, he had been cast aside. Forgotten. Treated like a foolish child. No one pitied the younger prince.

Resentment bloomed inside his chest.

“Some of the heroes left, but others remain.” The whisper was so low, he believe he may have imagined it.

Aerin looked up, locking eyes with the one guard who often gave him snippets of information. To his surprise, the guard gave him a smile, even if it was a weak one.

Perhaps kindness wasn’t completely lost in this cursed world.

“Do you know who remains?” he whispered back, directing his attention on the two other guards, who were engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion.

The guard glanced at his companions briefly before turning back to Aerin. “The two siblings, I believe. And the priestess.”

The two siblings. Those were the only three words he needed to hear.

Raine was still here. She had not yet left. Maybe—

“Alright, let’s go! I doubt the little prince can do much anyway. Someone can stand guard nearby.” The rudest of the men walked past the cell, pounding a fist against the bars before he disappeared from sight.

Not much later, the other two followed, leaving Aerin in silence once more.

Tears started to well in his eyes, and he wiped them before they could fall. Crying wouldn’t fix anything. He had failed. The Shadow Court was in pieces. Now, he would spend the rest of whatever life he may have left trapped in this cell.

Alone. Hated. Abandoned.

Memories of his first encounter with Raine and her friends in the Deadwood haunted him. He remembered their first kiss. In those fleeting moments, he had allowed himself to believe that people might value him more than Baldur. For the first time in his life, he had been shown kindness.

---

Everything about the situation felt like magic. The air came alive, and Aerin could forget for a moment about the pain that burned throughout his body when Raine looked at him.

She gave his hands a tight squeeze, shifting closer until her lips brushed against his.

Wow. He was sure he said something without realizing it, a flicker of joy igniting deep within as she kissed him again. Aerin never wanted it to end.

When Raine said that she was glad they understood each other, even more hope worked its way into his heart. Perhaps he was not as alone as he had thought. Perhaps someone truly could understand him. The thoughts stayed with him until they parted ways. Then, the pain returned.

Do not forget the objective. The words hissed inside his mind, and he glanced back at Raine’s tent, narrowing his eyes.

How was it that this young woman could cast doubt on him?

“Growing quite fond of the peasant, are you, pipsqueak?” Baldur’s voice induced rage that Aerin had to try his best to ignore. “Can’t say it surprises me. Of course you would associate with those scum.”

Aerin tried to walk away, but Baldur grabbed him by the back of his tunic and yanked him backward.

“When your future king speaks to you, you are expected to answer. Or shall we visit the good old days, brother?” Baldur stared into his eyes, malice reflected in them.

One day, Aerin would make Baldur pay. But today was not that day.

He tried not to retaliate when his brother shoved him so hard, he fell to the ground. Ever since childhood, things had always been this way. And no one cared.

No one cared that the younger prince was bullied by the crown prince. King Arlan even encouraged Baldur at times, brushing the abuse off as child’s play. No one could see him for what he truly was. A coward. An imbecile. A fool.

“They saved our lives,” Aerin said, brushing the dirt off his tunic as he rose to his feet. “How else should I treat them?”

Baldur started to approach, his face twisted into a sneer. “Just you wait until we return home. I—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Both princes turned their heads in the direction of the voice. The orc watched them, a scowl on her face when she looked at Baldur.

“N-no—” His brother fumbled over his words, his eyes wide.

Aerin hid a smirk when Baldur scurried away, the terror giving him amusement. “Thank you,” he said to Imtura, who grunted in response and focused her attention elsewhere.

Once he was alone, the smile dropped, and he leaned against a tree, trying to steady his breathing. The Stone fused to his chest caused constant pain. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, it would not go away.

But it was a price he was willing to pay to become the King of Shadow.

The Dreadlord was his one friend. Before this, Aerin had no purpose. He’d been little more than his older brother’s punching bag, forever ignored by the rest of the court.

Soon enough, he would have all he needed. The shards would help him to return the Shadow Court to glory. Finally, people would bow to him. He would no longer live in his brother’s shadow, forced to endure endless torment and abuse.

His time was coming.

---

The people above ground continued going on with their lives while Aerin sat in darkness.

Time lost all meaning in the dungeons. Sunlight could no longer reach him here.

“You have a visitor.”

Aerin looked up at the sound of the guard’s voice, trying to conceal the surprise he felt at that statement. “Who?”

Without answering the question, the guard craned his neck back and called out down the dark hallway. “He’s ready to see you!”

“What? You didn’t answer my question! I—” Aerin paused mid-sentence when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows, her lips set in a hard line. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, speaking her name in a breathy tone. “Raine.”

Her hair was in its usual low bun, parted down the middle. The last signs of her injuries from the fight were fading, the bruises just visible in the dim lighting.

“Aerin.” For a moment, emotion flickered across her face, but she composed herself so fast he may have imagined it. “How are you?”

He grinned, looking around the cell. “Well, I’m alive. How are you?”

“Listen, I—” There it was again. The conflict. Raine cleared her throat, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “It is not too late to change. The Dreadlord is gone. You don’t have to worry about your brother anymore. We—”

“You have five minutes. That is all we can give you.” Aerin focused his attention on the guard, sending him a glare that was enough to make the man retreat. “Ten minutes,” he said as he hurried down the hallway.

As soon as they were alone, he looked at Raine again. “You lied to me. You said you’d still have me, even as I am. And you lied.”

She uncrossed her arms, and the stony expression fell away. “I didn’t lie. Aerin, I do care about you. That moment we shared in the forest was real. But what you were doing was wrong. We couldn’t let you win.”

“You’re just like the rest of them. No one understands me.” He turned away, regretting that he had spent the past two weeks awaiting her visit.

Raine watched him without speaking a word. The water continued to drip onto the stone floor, creating a quiet melody.

“I know that the Aerin I fell for is still in there.”

The words made him inhale sharply, and he turned to look at her. Had they crossed paths sooner, perhaps everything would be different.

She made him forget about his terrible childhood, of the abuse he’d faced at the hands of Baldur. Only Raine had shown him true affection. She almost made him want to believe in the Light. That things could get better, if only he had the courage to fight off the fragments of corruption and evil that were intertwined with his soul.

“That Aerin wasn’t real. I stopped believing in the goodness of the world a long time ago.” He wanted her to leave. To let him live out what little time he had left in silence.

Raine stepped closer, wrapping her hands around the cell bars. “Your father sent me here to try and talk some sense into you. He told me that none of what happened was your fault, that the Onyx Shard—”

“Do you have any idea how it felt to spend my entire childhood beaten by my brother as my father stood by and did nothing?” Aerin refused to look her in the eye. “All I ever dreamt about was having someone who loved me. I found that in the Dreadlord. He promised me power. He told me that I would no longer be weak, that I could find a family who cared about me when the people of Morella did not. How could you possibly understand how that feels?”

“I—” Raine shook her head, chewing on her bottom lip as she searched for the words to say. She remained just outside the cell, watching him. After some time had passed, she opened her mouth to answer. “I don’t understand how that feels, you’re right. But you’re wrong when you say no one loves you. Or that the Shadow Court was a family that cared about you. I’m here to help you. You don’t have to live in fear anymore.”

They both tensed when footsteps pounded on the stone toward them. Raine turned to look, frowning as the guard approached.

He spared Aerin a quick glance before returning his attention to Raine. “Time’s up. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Wait! Just—hey!” The guard grabbed her by the arm and started to drag her away, but she elbowed him in the side, flinging herself against the cell door. “Aerin, I believe in you, okay? I know that—”

The guard grabbed her again, and she once more fought him off.

“I’ll come back to see you again. You aren’t alone. I—”

This time, the guard grabbed her around the waist and heaved her back. Raine tried to fight him some more, but he called for backup. Together, three guards dragged her away from the cell, all the while she continued to yell promises.

“I’ll return!” Her final words echoed throughout the dungeon, followed by the sounds of a struggle as the guards carried her off.

Once silence rushed back in, Aerin struggled to his feet, crossing the cell to the door. He peeked outside, unsurprised to see the dungeon empty. If he listened close enough, he thought he might hear the sounds of a continuing fight overhead.

You aren’t alone.

It was too good to be true. Part of him didn’t believe her words. And yet, he wanted to take consolation in that statement. Perhaps Raine really did mean it when she said she cared.

Aerin shook his head and started to laugh. His laughter rang out in the cell, and for the first time in years, he felt hopeful.

#choices: stories you play #choices fanfiction #aerin valleros #aerin x mc #prince aerin #bolas #blades #blades of light and shadow #play choices #this is a mess but I kinda like it

[svt13roses]

Put A Little Love On Me

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Words: 4.6k

Summary: He was always looking out for you, even since that night. It just took a particularly bad night at the club to realize it.

Pairing: S.Coups x Reader

T/w: mentions of alcohol, swearing

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A/n: It’s Seungcheol day!!! This was originally supposed to be finished up and posted back in July but life got in the way. I hope Seungcheol has a good birthday and knows how much we really appreciate how great of a leader he really is. He deserves all the love ;u;

     The weekend scenes were starting to blend together into a mirage of too loud music, too many flashing lights, and too many bodies of people. It was a Friday, again. The weeks seem to fly by until Friday night, and in those few precious hours out, time seems to go by too fast while also being too slow. You can remember ordering some fancy drink to start the night, and you remember the stranger next to you saying the next round of drinks were on him. Somewhere in this mess, one round became two, and like a moment of realization you were out on the dance floor, lost in your own world. You didn’t care though, you knew all eyes were on you at this moment. This was your show, and you were the star every weekend.

     You didn’t know who you were performing for, you could put on the air of self-confidence and say you were doing this for yourself because you knew how good you looked and you knew you could probably have anyone you wanted tonight to bring home. However, there was a seed of thought being planted in your mind every time you partied the Friday night away. Could this be a show to prove that you weren’t hurt by him anymore? That you moved on from the shambles of what you could barely call a relationship? In the heat of the moment, none of those thoughts crossed your mind. 

     You broke out of your trance when you felt something cold dribble down your left shoulder. You could feel the sticky-sugary liquid slowly travel down your arm and onto your fingertips, the sensation made your skin crawl in the worst way. You whipped your head around trying to find who could have spilled the drink, but there were too many bodies pressed against each other making it nearly impossible to see who did or did not have a drink. Taking a breath, you maneuvered through the sea of people trying to get to the bathroom. You somehow managed to get to your destination without too much trouble, though walking took more concentration than it really should have. You made your way over to the sinks and grabbed a paper towel. You looked at yourself in the mirror, and you could finally see the stain along your arm. 

     “What the hell kind of drink could this have been?” You mumbled to yourself, seeing how it left a long purple streak down your arm. You managed to wipe off the streak, but you could still feel the stain it left behind, the stickiness making itself known with every movement of your arm. “Maybe this is just a sign that I should go home.. fuck. Whoever that asshole was should have at least apologized. If this happens again I swear this heel is going straight-” Your rant was interrupted by a group of girls who definitely were not aware of where they were at the current moment. The blinding fluorescent lights, the loud bass from the music outside, and the shrill cry of the girls became too much. It felt like all your senses were being attacked yet you couldn’t feel anything. You willed yourself to take a step, with each step feeling like you were chained to bricks. You thought you heard one of the girls cry “oh my god is she ok?” before you were met with the cold tile of the bathroom floor. 

      Pain shot through your right ankle and your head began to spin. Taking in your surroundings, you could see the group of girls beginning to crowd around you. You became overwhelmed by the lights and the scent of overpowering perfume. 

     “Should we like, get the bartender?”

     “Oh my god no! He’s a bartender, what good can a bartender do?”

     “Well, I dunno! I haven’t had some chick drop to the floor before!”

     “You can’t just call her some chick! She’s literally right in front of us!”

     “Well you guys are the ones talking like she’s not in front of us. Maybe I should call a… what’s it called again? The truck! The thing with the lights!! Weeoo weeoo!”

     “Oh my god you’re literally so dumb! It’s called an ambulance!”

     “Yeah!! That!! Should we call for one of those?”

     “Don’t call an ambulance, please. I’ll be ok.” You croaked out, beginning to stand. You knew that you probably should have just waited and asked for help. You knew that what you’re doing in the first place is irrational and probably stupid on your part. Coming out alone on the weekend was never a good idea, yet you did it anyway. Your friends had warned you to just stay home for once, a night in was never a bad idea. Of course, you didn’t listen. You craved the temporary escape from reality, where time was a fleeting illusion. This world, you were the star and he didn’t matter. Your past doesn’t matter; the petty arguments, the words that left incurable wounds in your heart, the actions that can’t be undone. It’s all in the past, and you need to accept the past. But instead of accepting, you only seemed to be running. 

     Little things reminded you of him everywhere you went. Little, insignificant details that really shouldn’t be a reminder but you couldn’t help seek them out. His favorite color on you was yellow, so you stopped wearing yellow. He always stopped by a coffee shop near your workplace in the mornings because he knew he would run into you there, you avoided that route entirely. He drank a certain kind of bottled water, you went out of your way to drink anything except that brand. He had told you, when things were still ok, that you would never be able to escape him. At the time, you had giggled thinking it was an endearing gesture, but now you couldn’t help but think that he had put a curse on you that day. 

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     It was a typical Friday night for Seungcheol: he had come home and relaxed for a while, began watching Netflix, and then the itching started. It wasn’t a physical itch, but an intuition of sorts that something was wrong, or something bad was going to happen eventually. He checked the time on his phone: 10:32. I wonder.. Ugh there really is no escaping you huh? Seungcheol chuckled to himself, making his way off the couch to get dressed up for the night ahead of him. Dressing up on a Friday night to head out and socialize wasn’t an unordinary occasion. However, no matter how nice he looked or how much he indulged in the flirtatious games of strangers, he always left just as he arrived. Not a hair out of place, not a button undone, no trace of alcohol to be found. He was a man of routine, and as such he always found himself at the same place every Friday. Seungcheol was very similar to you in that aspect, he did not like change. If things were fine the way they were, why fix it? You both were stubborn and were blindsighted to the small details around you. Small details, however, can build up. As Seungcheol put on the jacket that he wore that night, he was reminded of what truly happens when the small things get ignored for too long.

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A few months ago

     Seungcheol knew he messed up, but he knew that you were in the wrong too. However, you were both too stubborn to admit it. Tonight was supposed to be a date night, a rare event as of late. Seungcheol had gotten the notification on his calendar, but absentmindedly disregarded it while helping Jihoon in his studio. You also had a reminder go off, but your boss had you stay late at work. You could have gotten home in a timely manner for dinner, but one of your friends at work had also stayed late. You both had gotten caught up in a conversation and before you knew it, you both made your way to a fast food place for dinner to catch up. 

     Seuncheol had tried to rush home as soon as he could, not caring if some work was left to be completed tomorrow. When he arrived, you were at the kitchen table eating the remnants of whatever food you hadn’t finished at the restaurant. 

     “What the hell is this y/n?” He tossed his jacket onto the chair across from you. “Tonight was supposed to be a night for us two, why are you eating now? If you got hungry and couldn’t have waited, you could’ve at least texted me.”

     “Oh shit.. I completely forgot. I’m sorry Cheol, maybe next week?” You finished off your fries and put everything in the bag, making your way to the trash. Seungcheol grabbed your arm as you passed. 

     “No, we can’t do next week. Remember how busy I’m gonna be? And you even told me that you’re going on a business trip with your boss and a few coworkers to a conference next weekend. Did that suddenly change?” His voice began to rise. “Look I feel terrible for not being able to make it tonight but you’re acting like it’s no big deal. Don’t you care at all? Cause right now it seems like it’s some small thing that can be made up!” His grip on your arm began to tighten. The fast food bag dropped to the ground, long forgotten. 

     “Cheol your grip- please let go.”

     “We have to talk now or we’re never going to talk! I haven’t heard from you in days and we fucking live together y/n!” You could feel tears brimming, but you couldn’t tell if it was his tone, his grip, or both. 

     “Ok well communication’s a two-way street, isn’t it?” You slapped his hand with your free hand, effectively freeing you from his hold. “And don’t grab onto me like I’m some inanimate object, that fucking hurt! You act like I’m the problem when it’s you! I tried to reach out but I was always met with silence or some stupid two-word answer. This date night that we both forgot about? It was my idea because I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks. And guess what? I expected this to happen! Sure I got dinner but can I be the one to blame? You’re the one leaving me behind and coming back when you feel like it! I’m done being… whatever this is!” You screamed, tears falling freely. 

     “Oh don’t act like I’m the bad guy here. You’re not so saintly either when it comes to talking. I try to talk to you when I’m free but you’re always out with your friends-”

     “Because you’re not there for me!”

     “Let me finish. You got to talk without interruptions so now it’s my turn.” You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t act like that’s so hard to do. Or is it? Cause it seems like I can never get a word in these days! You knew I’ve been busy, and you knew I would be with Jihoon today so obviously things were going to go late. But honestly, at this point it seems like you would rather have me at work so you have an excuse to go out with your friends. Which, by the way, you never even update me on where you are so for all I know you could be hurt and I wouldn’t know-”

     “Of course you would know!”

     “How do you know that?” he shouted. “Do your friends even know my number? Hell, I don’t even know your friends! For all I know, you could be seeing someone behind my back and I wouldn’t even know! Maybe this ‘business conference’ is just a cover-up for some fancy trip between you and your boss, huh?”  You have never seen him so angry before, and the silence was the heaviest force you have ever felt.  Wiping your tears, you bit the inside of your cheek and let out a long sigh. 

     “I don’t even know what to say Cheol…” You whispered. “I thought you knew me better but I guess time apart can be a bitch. I won’t even question where those thoughts came from.” You chuckled bitterly and began to walk away.

     “Wait y/n no, that’s not what I meant-”

     “Clearly, Seungcheol, it is or else you wouldn’t have said it. When people are angry they say how they really feel. Guess I know now that my boyfriend thinks I’m some cheating whore or something.” You could feel yourself beginning to cry again. It didn’t help when he began to follow you, calling your name. You both ended up in your shared bedroom, you sitting down on the bed. He laid down and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. He secured you firmly into his hold, and you buried your face into his chest, letting out all the sobs that had been building up for months. Every insult you had wanted to call him came out in whimpers as your body shook from how hard you cried. You could feel Seungcheol begin to run his fingers through your hair, trying to calm you down in some way.  The two of you laid in bed for what seemed like hours, the tension still thick. Finally, he croaked out something you couldn’t hear. 

      “What was that?” you mumbled into his chest.

     “This isn’t us. This isn’t our relationship”

     “I don’t think I understand, Cheol.” You looked up at him. He let out a deep breath and sat up, you following suit. He gently cupped your cheeks and began wiping away the stray tears with his thumbs. 

     “Y/n, we’re not who we used to be. We’re not some love-struck couple stuck in our honeymoon phase. We’re not happy.” He gently kissed your forehead. “I think we need to end this here y/n. I hate seeing you hurt, and knowing I’m the one who caused you that pain.”

     “No, I understand. I feel the same way actually.” You moved his hands from your cheeks and held them. “I think we were both too scared to admit it. I mean, we were each other’s first loves, right? We didn’t want to lose something that precious. Besides, neither of us like change all that much.” Seungcheol smiled sadly. “But, I think you’re right. Let’s end this here before we hurt each other even more. I’m sorry for not being as open as I should have. I’ve felt unhappy for so long that I’ve tried to fill that void with my friends. Obviously you saw through that, but I should have known better. You can read me like an open book.” You hugged him tightly as if holding him close would make him stay any longer. 

     You both spent your final night together wrapped up in each other’s arms, pretending everything was okay for just those moments. And in those moments where everything was peaceful, with you and the rest of the world asleep, he felt a spark of love he hadn’t felt since he first fell in love with you. 

     “I guess this is goodbye isn’t it, sweetheart?”

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     Seungcheol could feel the vibrations from the bass from outside the club. He probably shouldn’t be as familiar with this place as he is, but he justified his reasons for coming to himself. The breakup was just as hard for him as it was for you. However, he hadn’t expected you to be coping the same way as him: with copious amounts of alcohol. It was a complete coincidence that he saw you at this particular club a few weeks after he had moved out of the apartment. He had made sure to stay out of your way, not wanting to cause a possible scene. He couldn’t help but be curious as to who you were here with. When he had said he barely knew your friends, he wasn’t lying. As far as he could tell you were alone, lost in your own world on the dance floor. That first night, he stuck around a little longer than he planned, his eyes never leaving you. 

     He found himself in front of the same club the next week. He told himself that he had a really good time the previous week and wanted to come back, this time actually planning on getting drunk. However, his plans were ruined once he saw you at the bar. From where he was standing, he could see how uncomfortable you were. Seated next to you was a man who, in his opinion, was way too old to be in a club like this. He was sitting a little too close to his liking next to you, and you couldn’t seem to shake him off no matter how long you talked to him. Seungcheol took it upon himself to try and at least try and drive the man’s attention elsewhere. When the bartender came to take Seungcheol’s order, he asked the bartender to strike up a conversation with the older man. He may have also slid the bartender some extra tip money to make sure he actually got the man away from you. Ten minutes later, the bartender was still talking to the man and you had managed to slip away to the dance floor. 

     It became a habit for Seungcheol now, coming to the same club every Friday. Every time he would tell himself that it would be different, but each time he found himself looking out for you. If you seemed to have a little too much to drink that night, he would tip the bartender a little extra to make sure you got some water before going home for the night. If he noticed someone was making you uncomfortable at the bar, the bartender already knew to go and try to distract whoever was talking to you. Seuncheol was also there to see you walking out with whichever stranger you deemed fit to spend the night with. Is this really how they’re choosing to move on? He had asked himself on more than one occasion. He knew that you both had further discussed the end of the relationship, and had ended it on mutual terms. However, he couldn’t help but feel a little mad at himself every time he saw you leave with someone new. What did these people have that he didn’t? What weren’t you telling him while you two were still together?

     As time moved on and the weeks passed by, he slowly felt himself becoming comfortable with this routine. If he knew you were safe, he was happy. Jihoon had called him a creep multiple times for his behavior, and Seungcheol would retort right away “just because we’re not in love doesn’t mean I don’t still love them.” With this new routine, Seuncheol could feel himself slowly moving on from the past. Sure, it still stung, but now he finds comfort in the fact that for at least one night he knows you’ll be okay. Tonight, however, felt different. When he felt like something bad was going to happen, nine times out of ten something bad almost did happen. There have been multiple times where he’s had to save you from going home with someone who definitely had malicious intentions. He was hoping that tonight would not be one of those nights as he kept his eyes on you on the dance floor. Before he could stop it, he watched as someone accidentally spilled their drink on your arm. 

     “What the hell is wrong with people?” He muttered, making his way down the bar closer to the bathrooms, making sure you arrived safely. As time passed, he grew more and more worried. No one had left the bathroom you entered since he saw a group of girls go inside. Had he had some liquid courage coursing through his veins, he would have just barged into the bathroom by himself. Before he was about to ask the bartender if there was something he could possibly do, god knows the bartender knows him by now,  he saw the bathroom door swing open from the corner of his eye. He turned towards your direction, and he saw you shuffle across to the bar with a hand on your head and the gaggle of girls stumble behind you. He didn’t care at this point if you saw him, he couldn’t leave knowing something was wrong. Before you could catch the bartender’s attention, Cheol had called them over. 

      “Hey I know you’re probably tired of seeing my ass hanging around here every Friday night without even ordering anything, totally understandable. I need you to do a favor… again. That girl I’m always here for? I think something’s wrong. Give her a bag of ice for her head will you? And maybe call an ambulance if it seems bad enough?” He slid the bartender a few bills and made his way to the club’s entrance, texting Jihoon to come pick him up. Before exiting he took one last look towards the bar, and he saw you sitting on a stool with a paper towel and a bag of ice sitting gingerly on your head. With a sigh of relief, he made his way outside, the crisp air hitting his face. 

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

     After a long and tiring battle of insisting that you did not, in fact, need an ambulance and that your head is fine, with a little help standing up and getting steady, you made your way out of the bathroom. Your head was pounding from the music, and you knew right away that you needed to sit down as your vision began to slightly blur. Somehow you ended up at a barstool safely, and waiting in front of you was a bag of ice and a paper towel. 

     “Excuse me, sir!” you called out, not knowing whether your hoarse voice would reach the bartender’s ears. Luckily enough, the bartender turned your direction and walked over. 

     “What can I do for you tonight, miss?”

     “Uhh this bag of ice was sitting here and I’m not sure if this was from someone previously sitting here or not.” You explained, carefully fiddling with the bad. The ice hadn’t melted yet so it couldn’t have been here long. Before you could question it any further, you heard the bartender let out a chuckle.

     “Ma’am that bag is definitely for you. Someone must be real worried about you, I’ll say that much.” You carefully put the bag of ice on top of where you hit your head. You flinched slightly at the sudden temperature difference between the cold ice cubes versus the hot and humid club. 

     “Someone knew what happened in the bathroom?”

     “What the hell happened in the bathroom? You know what, I don’t wanna know. You seem to be talking fine so you don’t need an ambulance.”

     “Ok wait how can you say I don’t need an ambulance but then not know what happened-”

     “Look”, the bartender looked you in the eyes, “I don’t know what happened. All I know is the same dude has been coming by my bar for a few weeks now every Friday night. He doesn’t buy anything though. He does, however, always seem to have his eye out for you. Not in the creepy way like I’ve seen in the past though.” You blinked a few times before fully comprehending what the bartender just told you. Someone was looking out for you? You didn’t know anyone who would do such a thing, since your friends didn’t always join you on weekends. Maybe you caught someone’s eye the first night you came here? You sighed, resting your open hand against your cheek. The bartender looked at your confused face and smiled to himself. “He just left when you were stumbling out here. You might be able to catch him, I know I would. He’s a handsome fella; captivating eyes, nice cheeks, pretty lips. He’s not my type, but maybe he’s yours?” The bartender began wiping out a few glasses, walking away. 

     “He definitely does…” you trailed off, a burst of realization hitting you. If it’s who I think it is I’m going to shit myself. No, it’s just some pretty guy looking out for you, stop this wishful thinking. You set down the bag of ice and wrapped the paper towel around it. “Thank you so much for the ice, and for looking out for me!” You called you, practically running towards the entrance of the club. 

     The outside air hit you harder than you expected, helping you sober up even more after having the ice on your head. You desperately looked left and right, looking for any sign of who could have been the person helping you. Your eyes caught sight of a familiar car slowing down, as if it was coming to pick someone up. That looks like Jihoon’s car if I’m remembering correctly. Granted, I only rode in it a handful of times. You looked at where the car was headed, and that’s when you caught sight of a very familiar person. 

     “No.. it can’t be..” you whispered to yourself. “Aw fuck it, what have I got to lose?” You walked a few steps towards him. With a deep breath, you called out as best as your voice would allow. “Seungcheol!” You felt something warm against your cheeks, and after quickly wiping whatever it was away, you realized you were crying. You sniffled and called out one last time. “Seungcheol!”

     He turned to look at you. You didn’t know what to expect, nothing had really changed about him since you last saw him except for his hair color. Your eyes met his, and you became just as mesmerized as you did in the past. You didn’t realize you were staring until you noticed him moving. Seungcheol slowly made his way over to you, shouting at you presumed whoever was driving the car that he would only take a minute. He stopped in front of you, and you looked up at him. Up close you could see the small details in his facial features that weren’t there previously. His eyes were still beautiful, but they weren’t as bright as you remembered. The lines under his eyes looked a little darker, and his lips were slightly chapped. You felt something warm being put around your shoulders. You looked down and it was his jacket that he was wearing previously. 

     “Cheol I-” You stuttered out as he gently grabbed your shoulders.

     “Hey, stay safe will you? Don’t worry me too much and get home alright.” He gently patted your head and began walking back to the car. You were well aware at this point of the tears freely falling down your cheeks. You couldn’t help but let out a sob as you saw him give you one last smile and a small wave as he got into the car. As the car began to drive off, you began wondering how long he had been looking out for you and why he never chose to approach you. You felt your phone vibrate from your pocket, and you pulled it out. You chuckled as you saw who the message was from. 

     “I’ll open it some day, Cheol. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but I will when I think we’re both ready” you mumbled to yourself, opening up your contacts to call your friend to come pick you up. Your friend picked up after two rings. “Hey, I know you told me not to but I went out again. Can you come get me? I.. I saw someone and I need to tell you about it.”

#seventeen #seventeen au #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #svt #scoups #scoups x reader #choi seungcheol #choi seungcheol x reader #svt au #svt imagines #svt scenarios #rose writes #put a little love on me

[purple-martin111]

The Sacrifices We Make

Read on Archive of Our Own

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: The Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor Characters: Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor, Arthur Maxson, Scribe Haylen Additional Tags: Post-Blind Betrayal, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Depression, Anxiety, Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Heavy Angst, Abuse, Mental Health Issues

Chapter 3 - The Road to Righteousness

"Well hold on, my darling This mess was yours, Now your mess is mine" -Mess is Mine, Vance Joy-

“I’ll see you on the other side…”

BANG!

Darkness exploded around her and Jackie shot up from her bedroll.

“Danse?!” She cried, feverishly groping for her rifle or her Pip-Boy, anything to help fend off whatever had jolted her awake.

“Soldier?”  It came out forceful and frantic as Danse clanked through the room, “What is it? What’s the matter?” 

“I-I don’t know... I can’t breathe!”  Jackie panted, her pounding heart threatening to strangle her. “Something’s wrong!” 

Unable to control her racing thoughts, Jackie trembled and clung to her bedroll. She was convinced she’d perish in a fit of hysteria or at the very least, die of embarrassment. In an attempt to conceal her shameful state and regain some semblance of control, she pressed her face into her hands,

“You’re alright.”  

She nearly leapt out of her skin at Danse’s hand on her shoulder and his voice in her ear. So consumed by her irrational fear, she hadn’t even heard him exit his power armor. It stood looming at the edge of the room and Danse... Danse was so near that Jackie was suddenly overwhelmed by all the emotions she’d been trying so hard to bury since leaving the vault. All the pain and heartache, her insurmountable grief, leaked from the little box she’d haphazardly stuffed them away in. 

“It’s not real, you’re safe. It’ll pass, just breathe.” 

Danse had taken a knee beside her and his grip, firm on her shoulder, moored her to reality. At least until she met his gaze and those heartbreakingly familiar brown eyes shattered her sanity. It took everything in her not to clamber into his arms and weep away her troubles. Instead Jackie clutched at his uniform and squeezed her eyes shut to block out the haunting reminder and hold back the tears caught just behind her lids. 

Nate, she missed him so goddamn much it hurt. But Danse...right now, Danse would have to do. She let his soft, calming words sooth her aching heart and slowly the panic subsided. Left with only an echo, Jackie’s hands fall into her lap. Broken and hollow, she grasped at the ghosts of her former life splintering in the parallels of her mind. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and pawed at her face, wiping at tears or the flush of shame she didn’t know. 

“This is common among soldiers.” His hand lingered on her shoulder, a gentle reminder that despite her madness, Danse still had her back. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Jackie just stared at her hands. There was sadness in Danse’s voice, a resonance of understanding that made her wonder about his own mental state. She wasn’t blind. She’d seen how he struggled. How he kept himself endlessly busy, avoiding sleep or rest so he didn’t have to confront his own demons. Danse carried the weight of the wasteland on his shoulders and clearly he cared about her. He was a tough nut to crack, but underneath it all he was kind and a good man. 

All Jackie had done since enlisting was repay his kindness in cruelty. She had been insubordinate at best and nothing short of a cold-hearted bitch at worst. 

“I haven’t treated you fairly,” she admitted, “I’ve been angry and so caught up in myself. You...” she nervously wrung her hands together as she trailed off, “you were an easy target.” 

Danse shifted to lean his elbow on his knee. “Sometimes trauma makes us do things we aren’t proud of.” 

“Doesn’t give me the right to be nasty.” She glanced over at him and was met with the faintest of smiles. 

“Is that an apology I hear, soldier?”  

“I-ah…,” she tittered to herself, “yeah, I suppose it is.” 

Danse continued grinning and knocked his shoulder against hers, "I appreciate the sentiment.” 

She leaned into him, wishing he could give her so much more than just fleeting touches. “Thanks,” she muttered and pulled away before her emotions got the better of her again, “I can take watch if you want.” 

“Negative,” his fingers brushed against her shoulder as he stood to retreat back to his armor, waiting until he was safely encased inside before continuing, “but you can sit with me if you’d like.” 

Just breathe.

Jackie’s chest ached at the recollection of that moment. Danse…he was the only thing worth fighting for in this world, the only thing keeping her breathing. He was her lifeblood and if he died at the hands of the Brotherhood for her mistakes, they might as well kill her too. 

This was her fault. She should have done more, fought harder, told Maxson where he could shove it and walked away. Should have run and never looked back and taken Danse somewhere far away. Somewhere near the sea where they could watch the sunrise and hear the waves crashing upon the sand in the evening. Leave it all behind and allow the Commonwealth to fall to its own demises. Jackie, however, had been selfish and naive in thinking that she and Danse could live in peace without retribution.

Despite her shaking hands and pounding pulse, she refused to be consumed by panic. It rattled her bones, scratching at her skull like the parasite it was, but Jackie pushed herself forward. She forced her feet to carry her across the room to where she had dumped her duffle bag the night before. Hastily, she stripped of her night clothes and plucked a clean uniform from her pack, dressing with little regard to her personal appearance. 

Unkempt and unhinged, her hair was a rat’s nest of wheat colored straw and her face a dirty, tear stained mess, but it would have to do. She would have to do.

With a sigh and a final glance around the room, she jabbed the elevator call button. As she waited for its descent she paced, attempting to formulate a plan. A plan that didn’t involve her solo assault on the Brotherhood stronghold or the very real possibility that she would be forced to murder their Elder. 

Shit. 

Staggered by the consequences of Danse’s actions, she stumbled to a halt. If she intended to survive this, she was going to have to bring down the Brotherhood--alone. If by some stroke of dumb luck she was successful, then what? The Commonwealth would crumble at the sudden power vacuum. 

Dammit Danse! 

Jackie slammed her fist against the elevator door just as it clanged open and she was left standing there, messaging her forehead between her fingers. She didn’t know what the hell she was going to do but she slung her duffle bag over her shoulder and snatched up her rifle nonetheless.  She would make it up as she went and wished to whatever gods were still listening that they didn’t end up dead. 

The elevator made an agonizingly slow ascent to the surface and Jackie prayed that she was wrong. She prayed that Danse had just gone to patrol the perimeter or ventured to a nearby settlement for supplies and he would be waiting for her in the vestibule of the bunker. But, when the elevator finally rattled to the surface, Jackie was greeted with darkness and the stark absence of Danse. 

The bunker entrance was empty, and quiet midsummer twilight greeted her as she stepped out into the wasteland. Her heart skipped a stuttering beat at the sight. Perhaps luck was still on her side because in the cover of night and concealed in her armor, Danse might still be alive.

In the distance, the sun peeked over the horizon, painting the skyline in faint wisps of pink and orange. The sunrise lazily eclipsed the deep blues and black of night while she headed east to the unofficial extraction point. As she walked on, she rooted around in her bag, searching for the signal grenade she’d stashed away in case of emergency. 

It didn’t take long to reach the designated location, a vacant stretch of broken road behind the old ironworks factory. She threw down the signal grenade and watched as the plume of smoke circled up into the heavens. Not so patiently she waited for the distant hum of the vertibird’s engines to break the silence.

Minutes crept by and before long the sun breached the horizon. With it, came the feeling of failure. Not once had she bothered to check in with Danse last night to assess his own mental state. His deteriorating physical health had been an obvious sign of his instability, yet Jackie had failed to acknowledge it. Instead, she burdened him with her insignificant troubles and neglected to reciprocate his kindness. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn’t be in this situation.

She had promised to be there for him, help him heal, and secretly she had vowed to love him. Then in the face of hardship, she’d abandoned him. Jackie couldn’t breathe and before she could stop it, tears were tumbling down her cheeks. She had betrayed him when he had needed her the most. 

The crippling intensity of her guilt sliced at her ribs, threatening to tear her apart. It would have been better, easier for them both, if she had just endured the pain of letting Danse go. Allowed him to move on and live out his days in peace. After everything he’d been through, he at least deserved that much.

The ground groaned beneath her feet as she paced in an attempt to occupy her mind and halt the hemorrhaging of her spiraling thoughts. Her gut churned, bile rising in her throat and she commanded her body to be still. Her urge to vomit quelled just in time to hear the familiar whirl of a vertibird’s engines approaching. Earth and grass whipped about and dirt was violently kicked up with the aircraft’s impending landing. Jackie covered her face with her arms, attempting to shield herself from the dust storm. As soon as the vertibird’s landing gear made contact with the ground she hoisted herself up into the troop load, despite the sickening feeling that still lingered.

A familiar face, clad in aviators and arrogance, greeted her when she clambered inside. It was always the same Lancer who retrieved her. The same pilot who had run transport for Danse and his team and who had taken Maxson to the bunker. He was the only one authorized for extraction from this location and even though words had never been exchanged, Jackie knew he knew and she wondered what price he had paid to keep their secret. 

He handed her a headset as she scooted by to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, the roar of the engines drowned out when she slipped it on. 

“Paladin,” His voice crackled through the earpiece, followed by a terse nod and salute. 

“Geers.” Jackie returned the gesture out of habit. 

For a moment Geers watched her, taking in her obviously disheveled state, but chose not to comment, “Ma’am, you’ve got orders to report to the Command Deck immediately upon arrival.” 

“Wonderful,” she scowled, “who did I piss on this time to be owed the pleasure?” 

A knowing look passed between them before he spoke, “The Elder knows where you go when you disappear.” 

Jackie said nothing and stared at her feet, the knots in her stomach twisting tighter. 

Geers allowed the void of conversation to stretch on before he added, “Maxson thought you weren’t coming back this time.” 

And there it was, the painful reminder of her violation. 

“Yeah, that was the plan, but...” She could feel his eyes on her, pitying her, questioning her. 

“...but what?” he dared to ask.

None of your goddamn business. 

Jackie wanted to snap at him. Put him in his place and maintain the distance held within the chain of command, but she bit her tongue because it was rude and Geers was one of the few people trusted. 

She twisted her hands together and mused her bottom lip. Should she tell him the truth? The truth would likely get him killed so Jackie decided on a half-truth. “There's been a recent development that requires my immediate attention back on the Prydwen.”  

Static hissed in the coms while Geers watched her with a frown hovering upon his brow. “You told him about Maxson...didn’t you?” he pressed her with the demand and sharp angel of his eyes when she didn’t immediately respond. “Jackie--” 

“Just take me back,” she snapped. It wasn’t a request, she was done playing games. Every second she spent dicking around with Geers put Danse at risk, they needed to leave--now.  

Geers cursed under his breath and Jackie could hear the eyeroll as he turned back to jab at the instrumentation panel. 

“Whiskey, golf, echo, seven, this is Lancer-Knight Geers en route to the Prywden.” 

Static droned in her ears, her stomach lurching when he abruptly jerked the stick to get them in the air. 

“Acknowledged, what’s your status Lancer?” the voice on the other end asked. 

“All’s quiet here.” Geers glanced over at Jackie, looking more smug than was appropriate for the situation. “But mission objective delta juliette is a go. Standby and I’ll brief you on our arrival.” 

More static and then finally air traffic control came back, “Roger that. You’ve been cleared for landing in bay two upon your arrival.”

“Roger out,” Geers responded and flipped a switch, cutting out the static.

Jackie regarded him with cinched brows, Geers wasn’t one for formalities. “What was that about?”

“Just…” he shrugged and peered over his sunglasses, “maybe you don’t have to do everything on your own.”

She shifted in her seat to fix him a hard glare. “I don’t think you comprehend the gravity of the situation.”

“And I think you underestimate my power of persuasion.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffed.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” he smirked and turned his attention back to the horizon, “that maybe you--and Danse--still have some friends in the Brotherhood.”

God, she wanted to smack that stupid little grin right off his face. Somehow though, she managed to restrain herself and not feed his ego with the dignity of a response. Instead, she closed her eyes and hoped that whatever half-baked plan Geers had cooked up didn’t get them all killed.

#fallout #fallout 4 #danse #paladin danse #sole survivor #fallout oc #fanfic #writing #jackie #jacqueline dixon #the sacrifices we make #rewrite #rewrite of my fic sacrifices #my wriitng #chapter 3 #the road to righteousness

[stardustjem]

The Meadow

First fanfic and first post so I have no idea if I’m doing any of this right. Please help.

Includes: Darkling, Alina, mentions of Mal

Set almost 60 years after Ruin and Rising.

It had been 58 years since the Shadow Fold fell and Ravka was free. It had been 56 years since the young man and the white-haired woman had moved to Keramzin and reopened the orphanage. In those years the couple was rarely seen apart. They could often be seen standing in the corner of a crowded room holding onto each other as if there wasn’t the chaos of a dozen children screaming around them. Often, the young man would steal soft kisses from the white-haired woman and in return she would quietly gaze at him in adoration and flush lightly through her cheeks. Time did not dull their devotion to one another, but slowly the young man’s hair turned gray and his strong back began to hunch. The white-haired woman’s skin began to leather from years of working out in the sun and slight feathered laugh lines formed around her eyes from years of smiling at the young children around her feet. But she did not age quite so drastically as the man. Eventually, she began to be very grateful for her thick white hair that hung around her shoulders. Otherwise, she would have begun to look like a daughter than the devoted wife she was.

Tonight, again, sleep was elusive. It had been 6 months since the white-hair woman felt the arms of her husband wrap around her lithe waist. 6 months since his lips pressed softly to her forehead. 6 months since she laid her head on his chest and listened to him breathe in the dark. The old familiar ache of loneliness had begun to creep into her bones. During the day, the shadows danced out of the corners of her eyes and she expected to feel her beloved sweep in next to her and shower her with kisses like he had for so many decades before.  At night, she lay cold and empty in the bed they once shared. After all these months his scent was finally fading from his pillow that she clutched to her and hers was once again wet with quiet tears.

She had been sickly and thin for most of her life, but now even she noticed the bones protruding from her rib cage and the hollow, sallowness of her face. She heard the whispers and couldn’t miss the looks of pity and concern from her staff, but she never acknowledged them with more than a weak smile when they offered to take on her duties for the day. Sighing deeply, the white-haired woman climbed out of bed and picked up a light shawl that she had carelessly dropped in the corner of her room days ago. Perhaps a walk in the meadow would be good for her?  

The night air was warm for late September. The white-haired woman slipped silently out of her room and down the stairs, careful to tip-toe around the boards she knew so well that would creak or moan and give her away. She carried a small lantern and a blanket with her, intent on sleeping in the meadow, their meadow, for a few minutes or hours.

When she was a child the darkness petrified her, but as a young woman she grew to appreciate the balance of the cool darkness to bright heat of the sun. Even still, a shiver ran through her despite the thick air as the shadows swirled around her and her lantern. She walked slowly into the field and spread her blanket on the sun-dried golden grass, listening to it crinkle under her slight frame as she laid down. At 75, she had no business stepping as lightly and easily as she did, or sleeping on the ground for that matter, but truth be told, she could pull her hair under a hat and be mistaken for a young 30-year-old. Her body only showed signed of neglect, of not eating or sleeping, not age. The scar on her shoulder, given to her in a different time, a different life, twinged lightly as she rolled onto her side to look at her surroundings.

She lay there listening to the songs of the crickets and the rustling of mice and owls. She had begun to doze off, enveloped in the symphony of night creatures when she felt a foreign, but familiar, tug in her gut. She pulled the threadbare shawl closer to her, pressed her eyes together tightly, and beseeched her body for just a few moments of rest, of forgetfulness. Again, she felt the tug and her body responded, opening her eyes and her chest before her mind could fully remember what that feeling could possibly mean.

As she opened her eyes, sitting in front of her on her blanket, a dark figure with pale skin surveyed her. His grey eyes studied her face and her tightly coiled body, knees to chest. He didn’t speak but slowly moved to tuck a stray strand of silvery white hair behind the woman’s ear. She stared at him in disbelief, blinking in the lantern-light until his cool fingers touched her cheek. At his touch, she gasped and scrambled to her feet, her whole body shaking in shock and more than a little fear. “I’m dreaming,” she finally whispered. “You’re dead. I watched your body burn. I killed you.”

“All of Ravka watched the Sankta’s lovely body burn as well. And yet, here you stand in front of me.” The man cocked his head and gave a wry smile. The shadows from the dying lantern swayed over his face. The woman could see thin white scars marring his otherwise perfect skin. Her shoulder burned in a way it hadn’t done in years.

When she found her voice in her dry and raspy throat she croaked out, “How are you here? Why are you here? I’m and old, powerless woman. What indignity can you possibly wish on me now?” Suddenly, she thought of the children innocently sleeping in their beds a few stones throw away. She glanced nervously up at the house and began to slowly move to put herself between the scar-faced man and the house.

As if reading her mind and sensing her concern, the man made a guttural noise. “I have never put children in danger. Do you really still think so lowly of me even now, my Alina?’

She sucked her lips to her teeth as if she’d been slapped. Only her husband used that name with her. No one else had used that name for her in over 50 years.

“Why…How…Are You Here?” She demanded, punctuating her question. Her voice had lost the edge of fear and was now low and hard. Her fists clenched tightly over her chest.

Groaning lightly, as if he was trying to mask a deep pain, he pushed himself to his feet to stand across from her, his eyes took in the woman in her entirety. He lingered on her frail arms, pulling her thin, golden shawl tighter in an attempt to cover her sheer shift, before moving on to her bare collarbone. Her chest rose and fell quickly and he was momentarily mesmerized by the hollow in her neck filling as she tried to control her breath.  Slowly he met her angry, fearful eyes.

“I would have hoped you’d be happier to see me,” he said coldly. “Living as an otkazat’sya has made you weaker” he spat the word. “You look so frail, Little Saint.”

The woman bristled at his words. Her eyes flashed and anyone watching would have sworn the dimming lantern flared.

“So, you’re here to insult me, Darkling?” her voice was strong and briming with hurt and anger. “Yes. I have lived a safe, happy life as an otkazat’sya. No war. No Lies. Not being used as a pawn. My husband and I have given love and a home to hundreds of children. You may have lived for centuries, but my “insignificant” and “weak” life has brought more into the world than you ever could.”

Ignoring her anger, the Darkling looked around, feigning concern, “Ah yes, where is the Tracker? It’s been so long since I’ve seen his scowling face. I would like to give my regards to the old man.”  

The woman’s sun-kissed face went pale. She clutched her chest as if the man in front of her had actually taken a dagger to her heart, mimicking what she had done to him so many years before. Her demeanor fell and her anger and fear were replaced with fresh grief and the empty pangs of new loneliness. Her shoulders slumped. She lowered her head and turned away so her aggressor wouldn’t see the diamond tears glimmering on her raw cheeks. In a flash of black and shadow, she was caught as she wavered and sunk to her knees.

“I’m sorry, Alina. That was cruel of me. Truly, I’m sorry for your pain. I warned you that their lives were fleeting. You deserve to be happy and shining.”

The woman called Alina stared at him incredulously as deep sobs bubbled up inside her chest. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I am a powerless old woman. If I’m lucky, I will die soon as well!”

The dark man shook his head and held her to his chest.  “My Sun Summoner, Grisha power cannot just disappear. It’s not magic, it’s science. It’s in your blood, bones, core. You have been powerless for all these years because your subconscious thinks it’s safer. Because you have suppressed it. Like when you first came to me all those years ago, you’ve blocked your own abilities to live this life. Haven’t you wondered why you barely age? If you had been using your powers all these years, you would not have aged at all.”

Alina suddenly felt dizzy and waves of nausea rolled over her. She pushed herself away from the man who had haunted her dreams for years after his supposed death. Her skin felt hot and cold all at once. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face, and finally choked out, “You think I didn’t try? You think I wanted to give them up? You think I wanted to live all these years … empty?!”

“I think your body and mind did what they had to do to protect you and give you the easy, uncomplicated life you had longed for.” The man sighed and brought his hand to his chest, absently rubbing the spot where the Sankta’s dagger struck.

Noticing the movement, Alina pulled herself up and attempted composure. Glaring at him through unshed tears she hoarsely whispered, “I’m going to ask you again. How are you alive? And why are you here?”

The Darkling sighed again, appearing more tired and ragged than she had ever seen him. He stared thoughtfully into her deep brown eyes.

“By all rights, I should be dead. Or should have stayed dead. I did die. But, like your…Mal…,” the Darkling said her husband’s name for the first time, out of respect for her pain, “the power tied to me from my grandfather, from Morozova, showed mercy. You’re not the only one with followers, Sankta Alina,” he jeered, “there are some powerful Grisha who did and still do support my cause of saving our people. I’m still healing. Or maybe I’m not, maybe the pain of your dagger will stay with me for eternity. At least I will always have something to remember you by.” He put his hand over his old wound and gave a grim smile, then put his head down to break her gaze. “I’m here because I’ve felt your sorrow for months and I couldn’t bear it any longer. I haven’t felt anything from you all this time, I truly believed you dead. But then I felt a deluge of raw pain and loneliness and I knew it must be you. I could only assume what had happened since you were closed to me. Tonight, I called and you opened the gate. So here I am, Alina. I’ve waited so long for you. You are my forever, after all.”

He looked up again, his grey eyes shimmering in the moonlight. Alina sat back on her heels, trying to take everything in.

“So, I…called to you? I have my power to summon… you?” she sounded incredulous. She had lived a lifetime of feeling not-quite-right. While filled and fulfilled through the love she shared with her husband, there was an emptiness that couldn’t be explained. She thought her power had vanished. In her mind it had been a fair trade. Her power for Mal’s life. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t long to roll the balls of light between her fingertips or feel the power of the sun course through her.

Suddenly, without thinking, she flung out her hand and grabbed the bare skin of the Darkling’s wrist in one hand and held the other open. Her shawl fell off her frail shoulders to the ground next to her. She closed her eyes and willed her power back. To her shock, she felt the barriers that had stood for so long crack and crumble insider her. After a moment, she felt a hot flash of pain searing through her and she cried out to the night.

“Alina…” the Darkling whispered, almost reverently.

She looked down and in her palm she held a small sun.

“Alina, my Alina. You’re glowing.”

A soft but powerful light was pouring from the white-haired woman seated in the meadow. She glowed golden under the moonlight, as if every inch of her was on fire.

After half a century of separation, the Darkling leaned over her and gently kissed her cheek. Still glowing, and suddenly not empty or alone, Alina released his hand and met his lips with her own. She cupped his cheek with her hand gently. As their lips pressed together, her soft glow flared out, racing over the dry grass like the noonday sun. The Darkling shut his eyes tightly to keep from being blinded and called the shadows around them to keep the balance. The kiss was not hungry or needy, or with the heated passion of her youth. It was gentle and healing. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to him. She pulled herself away from his lips, but laid her head on his chest.

“Oh, Aleksander,” she breathed, “Thank you.”

Her light dimmed and extinguished. He pulled back his shadows and the two held each other silently in the moon bathed meadow.

“Alina, I’ve missed you.”

#darklinafic #darklina #darklinafics

[spectraspecs-writes]

Leviathan - Chapter 101

Link to the masterpost. Chapter 100. Chapter 102.

Tw - swearing, torture

@averruncusho @ceruleanrainblues @chubbsmomma @strangepostmiracle thank you for reading, you get a tag. @skelelexiunderlord thank you for support, you get a tag.

———–

I don’t get to see Mission being carried off. All I hear is a cry for reinforcements. The troopers move me, Carth, and Bastila off pretty quickly. Rather than simply search us, they have us strip down to our underclothes and force us into individual energy cells. At least the heating is decent.

We wait. For what feels like hours. There’s barely enough room to sit in the cell but I manage. Bastila is meditating. Carth is pacing in his cell. As much as he can anyway. It’s hard to feel him through the cell, but I don’t need the Force to know what’s going through his head. He’s calculating. This was never the scenario he imagined he’d face Saul in. At the very least, I imagine he planned to be wearing pants. He has every confidence in Mission to get us out, of course. He’s working ahead of that. What happens next. What happens after that, what happens after that. All the way up to Saul’s death. But he keeps getting stuck there. How do we get out. How do we get everyone on the Hawk and away from the Leviathan. And what is, from my perspective, the most important question - does he survive this? How?

When our interrogator comes, I know by the way he carries himself, it’s Saul. We all stand and face him, readying ourselves. He speaks to Carth first, with the words of a father but the tone of a scoundrel. “Carth, it has been far too long since we last spoke,” he says, “I see the recent months have not been kind in your case. I barely recognized you.”

Carth is cold. I haven’t seen him like this in a while. “But I recognized you, Saul. I see your face every night even as I promise myself I will kill you for what you did to my home world.”

Saul shakes his head. “Did you learn nothing in your time under me? As a soldier you should understand that casualties were unavoidable. This was an act of war.”

“It was a cowardly act of betrayal!” he exclaims, “Your fleet bombed a civilian target into oblivion without warning or provocation. And the blood of those innocent people is on your hands!”

“In war even the innocent must die.” Always a justification. “The Sith would not accept me until I proved I had truly turned my back on the Republic by bombing the planet.”

“My wife died in that attack, Saul,” Carth says softly, “And for that, I swear I'll kill you.”

Saul sighs. “You used to be a man of action, not of empty words,” he says, “Cling to your lust for revenge if you must, but spare me your tired threats. I've heard them all before.” He turns. Starts to pace a little. “You are an insignificant part of these events, anyway. Lord Malak is far more interested in your Jedi companions.” He crosses in front of me and Bastila and stops. “He has great plans for them.”

“We will never serve Malak or the Dark Side!” Bastila says firmly, “The Sith will be destroyed, Admiral Karath… as will you if you don't turn away from this path.”

Saul smiles. “Your words are brave, Bastila, but the lure of the Dark Side is hard to resist - or so I've been told.” He looks at me. “I wonder if your companion is as devoted to the light as you are?”

I scoff. “Seriously? You guys have sent Dark Jedi, a bounty hunter, and a Sith apprentice after me, and I’ve killed every single one of them, you think after that the Dark Side has any allure? I’m not exactly fond of working with people who’ve tried to kill me.”

“Your wit is as sharp as ever,” he says with a smirk. Which is a weird as hell remark to make given we’ve never met. “I’m certain Malak will find your loyalty to the Jedi amusing.” He runs his fingers along a control panel, while the Sith trooper who mans it watches him closely. Waiting for a command that hasn’t yet come. “The Dark Lord would probably reward me if I just killed you once and for all. But he may want to question you given the trouble you've caused him… and the history between you.”

History? “Unless Malak was a scout, you’ve got the wrong girl.”

Saul cocks his head. “You mean…” he says slowly. Calculating the same way Carth does. “… oh, this can't be true, can it? You really don't know what's going on here, do you?”

“Being questioned by a dickhead? I think I’ve got an idea what’s going on here.”

He laughs a bit. “Well, I won't be the one to deprive Malak of the pleasure of telling you himself.” I glance at Bastila and Carth, but neither of them show a flicker of awareness, either. Saul moves to the center of the room, facing us all. “The Dark Lord will no doubt torture you for information and for his own twisted pleasure. Eventually you will tell him everything. The Sith can be very persuasive. However,” he says, “Lord Malak is in another sector. It may be some time before he arrives, so I suppose I will have to fill in for him until then.” He turns to the trooper at the control panel. “Activate the torture fields.”

Oh fuck.

It starts with a small shock that intensifies over and over. It’s almost like my mind goes away, just to survive. I hear myself scream, but I don’t feel it. It’s surreal. Until the field turns off and I feel it all at once. My muscles collapse from under me. Worse than Force Lightning. But I have to stay strong. I can take it. He won’t kill me. Whatever the reason he’s far too interested in me. I can take the torture. I can take it. “I don't want them to pass out before I question them,” Saul says to the trooper, “Malak will appreciate any information I can give him when he arrives.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Saul!” Carth says, breathing heavily, “We won’t answer any of your questions!”

“I'm sure you won't,” Saul says with a grin, then he looks at me, “However, we both know your friend's loyalties have proven in the past to be somewhat… flexible.”

I manage to stand up, which is hard because I have nothing to push up against. “What are you talking about?”

Saul rolls his eyes. “I am interrogating you, not the other way around. You will answer questions, not ask them.” No need to be snippy. “It is time to put your loyalty to the test. I doubt torturing you will gain me your true cooperation. Your will is too strong to be broken that way.” So what? That torture earlier was just for fun? Definitely a dickhead. “However, even the strongest of heroes has trouble watching those they care about suffering.” I don’t like where this is going. “The interrogation will begin now. Each time you refuse to answer or give me a false answer, Carth will suffer.”

Oh God. It’s happening. Over and over again, I’ve thought, “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Carth.” And it was always a worst case, “this will probably never happen” scenario. But now it’s real. This is happening. I… I don’t know what to do. I can take it. But I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt him. What do I do? Carth sees me. Sees my frozen reaction. He knows my face like I know his. “My pain is meaningless!” he says, “Tell him nothing!” Okay. Okay. I’ll do my best. I’ll try.

“I tire of these games,” Saul says, “Now I want answers! On what planet is the Jedi Academy at which you were trained?” No. Don’t answer. I won’t answer. Don’t say a word, Rena. “Very well,” he says when I don’t answer, “This is the price of your resistance.” He nods at the trooper.

Carth screams, and my head screams with him. My heart, my chest, my whole body. I couldn’t feel it when he tortured me before, but it’s like… I feel what Carth feels. In this moment, every sensation that ripples across his nerves sends a signal to mine. And that… watching him in agony! I can’t do it! I can’t do it, I’m so sorry!

“Enough!” Saul says, and the pain stops. I can’t do it, I can’t bear to do that to him, not again, no matter what he says, I’m so sorry. “You see what happens when you try to defy me?” He shakes his head. “This first question was a test. Obviously Malak knew the Academy was on Dantooine, and it has since been destroyed by our fleet! Dantooine is an empty graveyard now. Nothing remains but a smoking ruin and the charred remains of your former Masters!”

“No!” Bastila exclaims, “You’re lying! It isn’t true!”

“It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not,” he says, “The fact remains that the Jedi on Dantooine have been eradicated, along with any hope of someone coming to rescue you!” He turns back to me. “Now… tell me your mission. How were the Jedi planning on using you to stop Lord Malak and our Sith armada?”

I look at Carth. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t do this. I can’t, I’m so sorry… “We were looking for the Star Forge.”

Bastila looks furious. I don’t give a shit. I don’t give a damn what she thinks. But Carth looks… a little disappointed. “Fascinating,” Saul says with a smug grin. I hate him. I hate him! “Tell me, how did you find out about the Star Forge?”

“Rena, for the sake of the Republic don't tell him anything!” Bastila shouts.

“Don't listen to her!” Saul snaps, “Tell me what I want to know or watch Carth suffer!”

I can’t. I can’t do it, I’m so sorry. “Bastila and I, we saw Revan and Malak searching for it in our dreams.”

“No!” Bastila exclaims, “How could you betray the Jedi like this?”

Saul grins his smug grin again. “I find your willingness to cooperate pleasing, though it seems your answers are quite upsetting to Bastila.” I hate you, I hate you so much. “Not to worry - we are almost finished here.” Then a communicator in his pocket beeps. He doesn’t look at it, but it changes his direction nevertheless. “The information you have given me has been most useful, but I fear our session is over,” he says, “Lord Malak will want to continue with this line of questioning himself.” He glances at the trooper. “I will leave you here in your cell with a small taste of the horrors you will suffer when Lord Malak arrives.” The trooper presses the control panel once again.

This is almost undoubtedly the worst day of my life.

---

I must have passed out at some point. When I come to, everything hurts. I almost feel like I’ve been burned, but worse than any burn I’ve had before.

Bastila stops me before I can sit up. “Don’t try to move too quickly, you might not be fully recovered yet.”

“I think I can handle sitting up,” I say, but I still go slowly. I feel a little dizzy. “What happened?”

“Admiral Karath had his guards continue to torture you even after you passed out,” she says.

“They tortured all of us,” Carth says, “though you got the worst of it by far. Saul wanted them to make us suffer. He's become some sort of sadistic monster.”

“The Dark Side has perverted him, Carth,” Bastila says, “Once you start down the tainted path it leads you ever further into the depths of evil. I fear he is forever lost.”

“Once a dickhead, always a dickhead,” I grunt, trying to stand up, “Dark Side, hell. I’ve never met anyone who stopped being a dickhead.”

“And Dantooine…” she says, clearly mourning, “To hear that it’s been destroyed…  First Taris, now the Academy... is there no end to the killing?” She sighs. “I'd like to believe that Saul was lying to us, but even as he said the words I knew they were true. The Academy is gone. We should have felt a disturbance in the Force when the attack came. The fact that we did not is a bad sign. I fear the Dark Side is growing stronger, casting shadows our vision cannot pierce. I can only hope that some of the Jedi escaped. Vrook, Vandar, Zhar… I cannot imagine all of them being gone.” She takes a deep breath. “In any case, we have lost our one place of refuge in the galaxy.”

“None of this will matter if we don't get out of this prison before Saul gets back!” Carth says.

On my feet now. Still a bit dizzy, but on my feet. “Where is he now? Do we know?” I ask.

“He mentioned that Lord Malak was on his way,” Carth says, “I think the Admiral left to prepare for his arrival… and to report the results of our interrogation.”

Bastila sighs at me. I hate it. “I only wish you had been able to resist the Admiral's questioning,” she says, “I hope the information you revealed does not bring the entire galaxy under the dominion of the Sith.”

I scoff. I can’t believe her. “So what? I just should have let him be tortured? That’s what you think I should have done?”

“I appreciate your… feelings… for Carth. But you can't let your feelings override your judgment. Remember the Jedi code: There is no emotion, there is peace.” 

Peace? Peace? I am so goddamn sick of her peace.  “How dare you judge me? How dare you? You have no idea what it’s like to be put in that kind of position! What if it was Canderous being tortured?”

“I know if I had been in that position I would not have betrayed the Order and the Republic!”

“So you would have left him screaming in agony, is that right? You have no idea! I felt it! That first question? I tried to stay strong, but when he tortured Carth I felt it! I decided I could never put another person through that again, and you’re telling me that your vaunted Jedi Order means more than an actual person? How can you ever presume to have the moral high ground if you would let even one person suffer and die for an idea?!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Carth shouts at us. For him. Only for him will I let this drop. “Bastila, you-you can't honestly say how you would have reacted in that situation - nobody can! Besides, Saul already had all the information. I could tell. The interrogation was a sham. Saul was toying with us. He didn't care what we told him. I think it was just an excuse to torture us before Malak arrived.”

Suddenly Bastila picks her head up. “Did you feel that?” she says, “A disturbance in the Force.” You’re a disturbance in the Force. “The Admiral has sent his message, the Dark Lord knows we are here now. Malak is coming.”

“Well, then we better hope Mission busts us out of here before he arrives.”

#star wars #knights of the old republic #kotor #autistic artist #fiction #swearing tw #torture tw #Specs writes stuff #kotor fic #rena visz #oc #fem!revan #ls!revan #carth onasi #bastila shan #saul karath #leviathan #chapter 101

[jack-andthestalk]

Our Son, Arc II, A Second Chance, Chapter 15.

I owe @balfeheughlywed and @notevenjokingfic for this chapter it would be a completely different vibe only for them, they are always on the money and I appreciate their input so much. @balfeheughlywed also went through it for me with a fine tooth comb because I was busy being an overtired toddler. She is amazballs. Its 4000 plus words so Happy Easter!

By the time Jamie descended the stairs from putting Willie to bed and reading him what seemed like the time equivalent of ten bedtime stories, one look at his face told me he was near desperation for answers.

  I had merely nodded my head in Willie’s direction earlier, asking him to wait until we were alone before discussing it. Now faced with the inevitable, my stomach churned over as I tried to gauge what Jamie’s reaction would be. 

  I stood at the window in the living room, my back to Jamie as I heard the door shut softly behind me. I rubbed my forearms up and down vigorously, goosebumps rising in the wake of the movement — the apprehension of what words would come next made my skin seem like ice.

There had been little in the way of conversation, but Jamie had watched me intently all evening, during dinner, while folding laundry, jumping to his feet at every opportunity to take something from me or take over a task. He was like a wound up bow ready for release.

   Hearing his footsteps approach hesitantly, I turned to face him. He was hovering behind me his hand reaching out and dropping again just as quickly. Eventually, he let out a long ragged breath.

Allowing his hand to linger in the air over my stomach, “Can I – touch ye?”

  I was slightly taken aback by his reverence; my mouth hung open awkwardly before I found the words to answer him.

  “Of course – you don’t need to ask Jamie.”

   His lips formed a crooked smile. “I ken – I just dinna feel like I have the right –“

  Quirking one eyebrow at him in question, I took his hovering hand to rest on my rounded tummy. “– eh you put it in there?”

  He beamed proudly for a moment before the creases of worry scattered across his forehead again. Blue narrowed eyes searched my face questioningly, after a moment he gave way to an instinct, his shoulders dropped in relief as he felt the little home I had created for our baby allowing the palm of his hand to slide across my belly and back again gently.

  “How far along?”

  “About 14 weeks.”

  He snorted in disbelief, “I canna believe it – all evening I canna take my eyes off ye –  .” A bright smile fleeted across his face briefly, struck by a thought he bowed his head suddenly looking down at the growing life between us.

  “- I feel I failed ye again.”

  I smoothed out his tensed jaw with my thumb and forefinger, the pain and worry of the past few months etched on my face, things had happened because of a single isolated decision Jamie had made, but he had chosen a path to see it through. A path that I didn’t join him on. I didn’t want him to feel he failed me, but pent up tears of frustration began to fall down my cheeks nonetheless.

      I shook my head trying to explain, but instead of words a low choked sob came out, and Jamie clutched me to his chest.

  “Oh God, I am so sorry Claire – Why did ye no tell me sooner – I woulda come to ye – I – .”

  “What Jamie – what could you have done sooner?” I challenged.

  He shook his head from side to side, “Claire ye ken I would – “

  “And I would be to blame for the end of Lallybroch or the Dunsany’s getting away with all they had done? That is a big weight to put on this baby Jamie, and on me.”

  Silence filled the gap between our bodies, Jamie didn’t release me. I think he knew that if we stopped touching at that moment, it would take us longer to mould back to one another again.

  “And when I came this morning – ye dinna want to tell me then?” there was a probing tone to his voice, but is still held softness,  willing me to be honest with him.

  “Jamie – when I found out –“I shook my head unable to form words, tears splatted down my cheeks and I rubbed them away quickly. “I just couldn’t.

  He took a sharp intake of breath and nodded his head, deciding not to press any further.

    “When I found out I was pregnant on Willie – I had no claim to you – no expectation of you wanting a relationship with me.”

  I sighed, and his hands fell from my back to rest loosely on my hips, still not breaking contact.

    “Aye - Claire for the second time – ye have found out ye were carrying our bairn – Alone.”

  The last word hung in the air between us.

  “Yes, but this time I really felt alone, it's easier when you don’t have expectations, I had none on Willie – for a time I felt so stupid, I couldn’t believe I was pregnant again with your child, only this time there was more than miles between us Jamie.

    I dropped my head, staring at something intently on the ground.

  “The only thing I could do,––”

  silence, a breath and the steady sound of a fast pulse in my ear before I found the will to conclude ––

  “––You did what you had to do – I know that now – but Jamie I did what I had to do too, and that was plan a future without you in it.”

    Completely out of character and a definite first for Jamie Fraser, he didn’t rush in with questions to my loaded statement. Instead, he let go of my hips and walked the two steps back to my couch, slumping down on it as if the breath and been stolen from his body. He was unnervingly silent.

  After a moment that felt like hours, he tilted his head back up to look at me. “And now?” he said simply “is it too late now?”

  I didn’t know how to respond, I would be lying if I pretended I cursed the ground he walked on when I first found out, but there were things I didn’t know then, things that had kept us apart

  Did I want him? There was no question in my mind that I did. But it was clear from his crumbled expression that he wasn’t so confident.

    Before I could answer him, he began speaking haltingly again. “Ya ken, – I showed up here, and that was one of my biggest fears – the whole time I was apart from ye – that it would be too late.”

  “I dared not even ask if ye still wanted me, wanted us when I met ye on the doorstep this morning because I was afraid of the answer.” He huffed an incredulous breath.

    “Christ” he trailed of face suddenly alight. “Claire, do ye ken how proud and happy I am that ye are carrying my bairn, again. That I am lucky enough for ye to do this and carry on when I was no even here to care for ye – or protect ye – ”

  I put up a hand to stop him. “You didn’t know.” My voice was shaky; I was struggling to keep my composure in the face of his regret.

  “tis not the point –“ he replied firmly. He gestured towards my stomach with one hand and rucked his other hand through his hair at the same time.

   “how long have ye known?”

  I took a long, steadying breath before meeting his eye.

  “The morning after Geneva answered your phone.” I kept one eye half closed in trepidation knowing how he would take that piece of information.”

   “Christ”, his voice was a low growl; he pressed the back of his fist up to his mouth.

    “Hellwater was enough on its own merit to break us, to make ye lose faith in me  –fucking up in business was enough – I can’t even imagine what ye must have thought that night or after it.”

  He exhaled loudly and scrubbed a hand over his face, “I went there to try and save Lallybroch to redeem myself in some way not just for Da, but so that you could look at me as someone who wasn’t a complete disaster – “

  Colour flooded his cheeks as his chin dipped into his chest, “I wanted to make ye believe in me again -.”

  My breath caught, and I fought the urge to rush to him and wrap my arms around his neck and tell him that I did.

  “- the and as selfish as it sounds I dinna want my legacy to Willie to be the Fraser that burned the whole place to the ground with his stupid mistake – it would stay with me and him for a long time.”

  “Jamie, I – “

  His hand waved in the air, determination on his face when he locked his eyes with mine, he cleared his throat in an effort to hide the tremble when he spoke, it was no use his voice still shook, heavy with vulnerability.

  “But all those things seem insignificant now if I don’t have you Claire – if you don’t want me anymore? What is the point in preserving my reputation, if not for you. You’re the only one that truly matters.”

  I stared at him dumbly for a minute before I realised, somewhere in what he just said,  was a question, not a statement. I wiped the tear from my cheeks with the back of my hands and went to sit on the coffee table in front of him.

  “I didn’t plan on you being a part of this – because I couldn’t.”

  I pressed my lips into a thin line, “I tried to see past the distance in your voice when you called me, then Geneva – “ I said sighing. I put my hand down and touched my stomach, “but when I found out about the baby – I had to stop wondering if you were going to come back, or if you had fucked her, or if you still loved me.” I had to stop all that noise in my head and focus on this.

  Jamie reached out a hand and rested it over mine on my tummy.

  “But then the book came – and I knew whatever had kept you from me was bigger than I had imagined  - I was so worried for you.”

  I ran a hand down over his cheek “just because I couldn’t let myself plan a future with you in it, doesn’t mean I didn’t want to – it was self-preservation.”

  Jamie’s eyes held something in them when he looked up at me, fear of what I would say next.

  “But you’re here now -  and I do want you, I don’t want you to miss anything else.”

  His whole face lit up – he blinked back tears, and he pulled me to him.

  “Are ye sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure.” I managed to squeak out before Jamie pulled me onto his lap. Kissing the breath from my lungs.

  He broke our kiss suddenly looking down at my stomach, brow creased in confusion.

  “How did ye -  I mean yer IUD?”

   I quirked one eyebrow at him, slightly impressed he had remembered.

  The information had been given to him in a rushed string of words during a heady encounter the week of  Jenny’s wedding, we hadn’t dwelt on the topic, I had confirmed it was there, he had heaved a sigh of relief and continued what we both had on our minds.

  “Well yes” – I agreed “it was a shock – I barely wanted to do the test, was sure all the symptoms were stress.”

  I didn’t mean it accusingly – yet there could be no denying the past few months and the first of our child’s existence had been hell.

  “God Claire –“ Jamie’s threw his head back, staring at something on the ceiling. “I canna begin to tell ye how sorry I am.”

  I felt the need to continue, ignoring his apology.

  “After Dougal told me that you and Geneva were a ‘thing’” I was barely able to close the cottage door behind me before I was throwing up.”

  Jamie rucked a hand over his jaw, muttering Gaelic under his breath, most of the Gaelic I knew was from when Jamie took me to bed, they were words of endearment or praise and usually came in a string of incoherent sentences as we neared climax.

   These Gaelic words were angry, spiteful and the red seeping up Jamie’s neck in temper did little to disguise their meaning.

  He gently manoeuvred me off his knee, temper fuelling his need to move, he stood looming over me, “he could have harmed the bairn with his lies.” He said through gritted teeth, “I will not let this lie Claire – I am no done with Dougal Mc Kenzie.”

  I didn’t argue; instead I watched Jamie pace over and back in front of me, his head snapped around in my direction, eyes squinting.

    “But – with the IUD – and the bairn what does that mean?”

  I patted the space beside me and beckoned him to sit.

  He sat down quickly, taking my hand within his own, eyes creased with worry. “I mean will the bairn be – ok?”

  I managed a nod, and quickly swallowed the lump in my throat remembering the fear the first few weeks of my pregnancy had brought. The overwhelming need to get back to Boston, to doctors I knew and trusted.

  “I had to have it taken out – a procedure – it can increase the risk of miscarriage.” Jamie’s mouth opened and snapped closed again, he pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

  I squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I am over the most dangerous stage now.”

  “and this procedure – who went with ye or–,”

  “I went on my own Jamie – I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else-“

  “Asides me?” He said accusingly “ye would have let me come and yet I was playing silly beggars at Hellwater when you were trying to see to the safety of our child Claire –“

  His anger was directed at himself. I knew that, and although I had reassured him that I wanted him, us a family. I knew there would be more of this to come. Jamie was not done in punishing himself over what had transpired since he left me.

  “the baby will be ok Jamie.”

He nodded his head again and allowed his eyes to resume their watch over my stomach.

  “Christ Claire the chances of ye getting pregnant” it came out as an incredulous snort. “

  “I think it was less than a one percent chance – “ I replied dubiously “Seemingly all you have to do is look at me and I get knocked up.”

  Jamie chuckled nervously. “Aye – well it will save us blaming the other for not remembering contraception – at least this was out of our hands.”

  “hmm, I s’pose.”

  “fourteen weeks- “ he said to himself wistfully, he pressed his bottom lip between his tumb and forefinger, mumbling months and dates under his breath.

  “If you are trying to work out the when – “I interjected wryly , “I can probably tell you because they had to work it out when they removed the IUD.”

    Jamie’s eyes went as wide as stalks, he resembled Willie when on Christmas morning, slack eyed and full of curiosity, “Tell me?”

  “The night of our engagement party.” I left the rest unsaid. Watching Jamie puzzle it out before his eyes grew wide again.

  “The stables?” he asked in disbelief.

  I made a sound of agreement in my throat and ran my palm across the rounding of my stomach.

  “Yes – our baby was conceived in a fit of rage.” I bit my lip, trying to still the nervous giggle that was threatened to unwind me into a hysterical state.  I was growing giddy with all the weights lifting from my shoulders from just telling him what the past few months had held.

  “Jesus Claire.” He whispered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly “I dinna ken what to say to that.”

  My knowing smile grew wider as I saw him slump back against the couch, huffing an incredulous breath as he went.

  I let him be, allowing him to observe how our lives were about to change. I was gazing out the window from the comfort of my seat when I felt a tug on my arm.

  Jamie raised one ruddy eyebrow at me questioningly, “Come here?” the apprehensive look in his eye made my stomach lurch a little. He thought I would refuse him.

  I scooted down the couch, and he lifted me onto his lap, my thighs straddling him. His hands roamed up and down my back, relearning the contours of my body.

  “I feel like I am walking on air – and I dinna ken if that is alright because I don’t know if ye are happy or – if ye feel like killing me – but I canna stop myself from smiling like a loon.”

His face was beaming, eyes cautiously meeting mine. Hope foremost in them. Was I happy too?

  “It was a shock,” I said firmly. “Not something we had really talked about or something I had planned on.”

   “ – and now?” Jamie nodded his head urging me to continue.

  “It was hard at first – that day in Scotland – it did feel like dejavu with Willie, I was alone, I had no idea what was going on with you and you were so distant when you were in Hellwater – I began to think that maybe you mightn’t be in love with me anymore or that you changed your mind about us –“

  “Claire –“Jamie interrupted in a whispered plea “how could ye ever think I dinna love ye – ye are my whole life.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking back tears I ran my hand up over his chest resting it over the fast beating of his heart.

  “I do know that – there was so much thrown at me once you left – I didn’t know which way to turn.”

  I bowed my head, taking a deep steadying breath “or what to believe.” I said flatly.

  “I ken – I do, but never doubt how I feel about ye Claire – .” his tone brokered no argument “that will never change.” Clutching my hand over his heart, “ye have owned my heart since that day I met ye, aye?”

  I nodded slowly allowing his words to wash over me, soothe the ache of worry over these past few months. Jamie watched me with a concerned look.

  “Have ye any idea, how often I thought –“ he stopped and ran a hand through his dishevelled

head. “Nay not thought.” He clarified, “I dreamed – “ he rolled his R’s dramatically making me smile.

  “ – of having another bairn with ye?”

  I shook my head weakly, and he snorted. “Aye, I dinna think so.”

  He bit down hard on his bottom lip-locking his gaze with mine, daring me to look away.

   “Long before ye came for Jenny’s wedding Sassenach – and probably as soon as I watched ye hold Willie to yer breast.”

  My tongue darted out to wet my lips, Jamie’s eyes followed the movement before resting on my eyes again.

  “That day in the hospital when he was born, I regretted very little asides the fact ye werena mine properly -  I couldna say if we would have another bairn together.”

    “I meant what I said in Inverness – I never craved them with anyone else but you.” I traced the pout on Willie’s lips, and seen the auburn wisps of hair on his head – he was only a few hours old, and I was already imagining what our next bairn would look like – would they favour you more – yer curly head mo nigheann donn, or yer wee bitty ears?”

  Jamie suddenly broke into laughter, colour creeping up his face. He shook his head from side to side his hand coming up to cover his eyes.

  “What?” I asked bemused.

  Taking his hand away from his face and entwining it with my own, he huffed a chuckle.

  When I gave him a warning glare, he bit his lip to quell the smirk on his lips.

  “I think when Willie was nay even two – I came up with this plan – no not even a plan more like a fantasy – ”

  He bit his bottom lip in hesitation again, and I took his chin in my hand. Tilting it up as I did sometimes before cleaning Willie’s face.

  “Tell me – “I said with a warning stare.

   “I thought about guilt’n ye into Willie needing a sibling – I mean the lad could barely speak so how he could tell us he needed one I dinna ken – but at the time I wasna thinking too sensibly – I thought I would offer to have another bairn with ye – make ye feel it was only right on account of Willie.”

  His head fell back, and his whole body shook as laughter filled his lungs.

  I couldn’t help joining him.

  “Oh my god, James Fraser – you would fool me into thinking our son needed a sibling so you could get laid!”

  His head shot up, his eyes were taken on a dangerously dark look, and the laughter faded on our breaths.

  “Getting laid wasna the issue Claire -  being with you again was.”

  I swallowed hard and felt a ripple of pure desire run from the tips of my toes all the way up my spine. Pooling warmth filled my belly, and I bent to bring my lips to Jamie’s.

  I couldn’t help the giggle that fell from my mouth into his as I thought over his plan to impregnate me again.

  Jamie sighed impatiently “I kent ye will never let me live this down.”

  I ran my tongue over his bottom lip and shifted my hips closer to his, earning me a long drawn out groan.

  “I am slightly impressed that you were going to instigate sex with me but sell it as you doing me a favour –“

  “Oh aye –“ Jamie said winking owlishly at me “aye, I am a marketing dream me.”

  I slapped his chest and wriggled my hips again.

  Jamie’s hands crept down and cupped my arse.

  “Christ ye have no idea what ye do to me – “ he sealed his mouth over mine again, when his tongue sought entrance to my mouth I let out a little whimper.

  Jamie broke away suddenly, and I instantly felt the loss of his warm mouth.

  His tone had changed from the lighthearted banter of before, “Sassenach – earlier .” He asked hesitantly. “Ye dinna want me to touch ye – before we picked up Willie” he elaborated.

  I nodded once urging him on.

  “Was it because of the bairn? I mean did ye think I would guess.”

  “Yes, my breasts are massive, I am already showing – if you had have seen me naked you would have guessed instantly and I wanted time to tell you – for us to talk.”

  Jamie let out a long relieved breath. I creased my brows in confusion.

  “Why?”

  His expression changed completely, he bowed his head looking at our joined hands between us. When he met my gaze again his face was the image of Willie when you laughed at him when he wasn’t meant to be funny. A mixture of embarrassment and confusion.

  I bit my lip to stop myself smirking.

  “I thought ye had maybe gone off me.” He mumbled under his breath, not meeting my eye.

  “Gone off you?”

  “Aye – I thought when ye dinna want to – well it’s been months and I have put ye through the wringer for most of them – I wasna sure if well – this, us. I dinna know if you wanted me.”

-

His cheeks were flaming, he looked so endearing, I couldn’t help myself leaning into his mouth and kissing the breath from his lungs, hands roaming up and down each other’s bodies, our hips lifting and grinding into each other.

  When we broke apart, our breathing was laboured, lips red and swollen.

      “I will never go off you James Fraser.”

  I let my hand roam down and cup the length of him beneath his jeans.

  “Asides- I said in my most sultry voice “This pregnancy has done all sorts to my libido – if anything you’re going to have trouble keeping up with me.”

  I don’t think I will ever forget the awe look expression on Jamie’s face, followed by one of steely determination.

  “Get to bed.” The growl from his lips filled my belly with sparks, and I was up and off his lap before he had a chance to blink.

#ourson #outlander fanfic #jackistired

[millysaurusrex]

Heartbreak Warfare

When the snows settle and the shock of survival sets in, Gendry finds himself in the Winterfell forge. There is no need for weapons now, at least, not until they ride South, but it is the one place that makes him feel some semblance of normalcy.

Normal. He's not quite sure what that word means anymore. The world as he knew it had gone topsy turvy ever since Master Mott had woken him from his sack one morning declaring that he now belonged to the Night's Watch. Four moons ago, he was back in the slums of King's Landing. Now, he has fought an army of the dead, is a King's son, is now the Lord of his father's ancestral home - is this his new normal?

He stares into the burning coals of the forge and tries to think about the days before he'd come North. It helps stave off the cold to think about the heat of King's Landing. The North is cold - a cruel, unforgiving cold that seeps into your bones, no matter how many layers of leather and fur one wore. In the heat of the forge, he can almost pretend he is there again, on the Street of Steel, mending armor for Lannister soldiers. It's a fantasy that isn't particularly pleasant. The Lannisters were enemies - enemies to his father, enemies to the Starks, and he hadn't exactly been living in luxury during his days there. But, pretending he's back there, far from this place and the battle he's just survived, he can almost forget about her.

He’s an idiot, he knows. She’s said it enough times and he’s once again proved her right. What made him think that she would choose him? So, he’s a lord now, with a fancy title and a nice large keep by the sea - it doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered to Arya. He could be a no named bastard smith living in the slums of Flea Bottom, or a King’s son, fighting alongside her noble born brother. It doesn’t matter who he is, it’s who she is not.

He wants to laugh. Wants to cry. But he settles for beating a discarded breastplate in the forge until it cracks and crumbles and becomes more useless than it was before. It’s okay. He knows angry. He likes angry. Anger is something he’s felt since he was a child. Anger at the way the world treated him due to his circumstances, anger at the way highborns sold and traded him like he was cattle. Anger is something natural to him, if all the stories of King Robert’s fury are true.

So, he beats his hammer against one item after the next, not caring about the mess he’s made or the protest his muscles make as the hours tick by. He can deal with the physical pain even if his body is still fatigued from the battle. He won’t stop because if he stops then he thinks of her, thinks of her mouth, warm, as he kissed her, thinks of her face when she refused his proposal.

He wants to be mad at her. Wants to think that of course she turned him down- he was too bloody lowborn to be kin to my lady, high - but he knows that’s not true. He’d seen it in her eyes, the way they’d crumbled when he sank to one knee, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a drunken frenzy. No, he cannot blame her for turning him away. And that angers him all the more. Because what did he think, that just because they had shared a night together, that just because he had been given a title by a foreign queen, that she would somehow see him differently? She had told him that she just wanted to know what it was like being with a man. He'd taken the softness in her eyes, the way she pulled him flush against her to mean that maybe, just maybe, she wanted him the way he wanted her - by his side, forever and ever. But, he's a fool, because that's not her - she's not a lady, not one to settle down with some man. She's the Breaker of the Dawn, the Slayer of the Night, and she doesn't need a bastard-blacksmith-turned-Lord. He cannot fault her for that.

He can, however, be angry that she left without another word. He’d grown used to her presence since arriving in Winterfell, and he knew, just knew she was gone. She’d not said a word to anyone, if the harried look on her sister’s face meant anything, or the way Jon called her name well into the night. He wants desperately to look for her, to follow Jon into the woods that surrounded Wintertown, but he does not. If she has left, she does not want to be found. And he stays in his forge and waits until it is time to head south to join what is left of the Dragon Queen’s army.

He could sit this one out. Jon tells him so. He could go to Storms End, take his ancestral home. He deserves it.

But the idea of sitting in an unfamiliar castle tastes sour in his mouth and the thought of losing himself in the carnage of another war sounds better, and his fingers itch for the bloody, deadly fight that’s sure to come when they take back the Kingdoms from the evil Lannister queen. He’d like to bash her head in with his hammer, he thinks. He’s fantasized about it, about standing over her as she looks on in terror, thinking Robert’s ghost had come back to haunt her. And all that rage, all the pain and suffering he’d endured just because she was a jealous, vile woman - he’d make her suffer. And oh - what a sweet suffering it would be.

He runs a hand across his face, wondering just when his thoughts had gotten so dark. He never used to think this way, about murder and bloodshed. Maybe this was what war did to a person. What suffering did.

Either way, he doesn’t mind. He likes it. It spurns him on, keeps him going, keeps him alive. And right now, life is just about survival. Survive one war to fight the next. Survive each and every night until the gods no longer see you fit to walk this earth.

As he travels south, he steadies his mind on the task at hand. They may have survived the dead but they still have Cersei's army to contend with. She has the golden company and Euron Greyjoy's fleets, or so Jamie Lannister says. He doesn't know much of anything about the golden company nor the Kraken Pirate's army, but he knows King's Landing, knows the goldcloaks and the Lannister army. He'd armed them, been around them for years. He'd overheard them talk about the dragon queen and what they hoped to do to the Northerners. He'd watched as the Sept of Balor erupted in green flames, heard the screams of those locked within. He'd heard the Lannister soldiers laugh about that, too.

He may not be a war strategist like Jon or Davos or the Unsullied leader, but he knows just how dangerous the Lannister queen is. She may just be a woman, seemingly so insignificant after what they've just endured, but he knows better than to underestimate Cersei. There is nothing she wouldn't do if it meant she could keep her golden crown.

.

When they reach Dragonstone, Jon requests his presence in the council room. It's a dark, drab room, and a large table carved in stone to show a map of Westeros sits grandly in the middle. He's seen it before, when the Red Witch had brought him to Stannis. He involuntary grimaces, the way he always does when he thinks about that night so many years ago. That had been the only time he'd ever met a family member and it's not exactly a fond memory.

Jon clears his throat and Gendry realizes that the King in the North has said something that he's missed.

"Pardon, your grace?"

"I asked if you would come join us." Jon motions toward the table which is surrounded by the new Dothraki leader, the Unsullied captain, the Imp and Lord Varys. The dragon queen stands at the window, her back to them. Gendry blinks.

"M'lord, I'm no war strategist, I don't understand -"

"No, but you fought along side me, same as any other man at this table. And you're a lord now and so your place is here."

He wants to argue but Jon fixes him with that small smile, the one that says 'please shut up, and just do it,' a mixture of exasperation and appreciation. He knows that look. He's seen it on Arya's face a thousand times over the years. She’d looked at he or Hot Pie that way whenever either of them said something particularly stupid. She'd given it to him when she requested her weapon. He swallows that thought and nods before joining Jon at the table.

“They have taken down one of the dragons and Cersei now has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet. They haven’t nearly as many of the Iron Born since Yara Greyjoy has taken back the Iron Islands, but they still have the Golden Company.” Jon says, motioning toward the stone map.

“How many men fight for the Golden Company?” Queen Daenerys asks, although she has not looked away from her place at the window. Gendry isn’t sure how he feels about the dragon queen. She’s beautiful, it’s true, but there is a coldness to her that he cannot quite name, and even her kindest actions hold a sense of threat. He had seen it in her eyes the night she had named him Lord of Storm’s End and it makes his insides churn when he thinks too hard about her reasoning. He’s learned well enough by now that highborns never do anything out of pure kindness. Except maybe Jon.

“Nearly ten thousand, your grace.” Ser Davos says. Gendry grimaces. Ten thousand and at least five thousand Iron Born. Already the army is twice their size and that doesn’t include the Westerosi who fight for her.

“Why would a foreign army fight for a Lannister queen?” Daenerys asks, finally turning from the window. Her strange purple eyes are hard as steel. Gendry can’t blame her. She’s lost so much already. He's felt the steel harden inside him as well.

“Well, enough gold can make a man do just about anything. And the Lannisters have lots of it.”

“And they are backed by the Iron Bank as well.” Lord Varys says, his voice smooth and cool, but the indecision in his eyes evident. Everyone seems to be on their toes and it makes Gendry all the more uneasy.

“But they are sellswords, are they not?” Queen Daenerys asks. She looks at Jon for a moment before turning to Lord Tyrion. “In my experience, it isn’t too difficult to sway the allegiance of men who fight for gold.”

“Yes, your grace, but the men of the Golden Company are not like other sellswords.” Davos says, his hands ever clasped behind his back. “They are notoriously reliable and have never been known to break a contract. Their leader, Harry Strickland, is as honorable a man as any.”

“You know him?” Queen Daenerys’ voice is hard and accusatory. Davos pauses, glancing at Gendry and then her, before answering.

“Yes, but only briefly. They came to Storm’s End, many years ago, to make treaty with Stannis Baratheon.”

Gendry raises an eyebrow. It is still strange to hear about his uncle, and even stranger to remember that his uncle was the same man who wanted his blood to be king. He doesn’t miss how Queen Daenerys’ eyes slit to him before moving to Davos.

“And what about Cersei’s army?”

“While we were fighting in the North, their army has had time to rest and build and train.” Jon says, sliding an uneasy look at the queen. “Who knows how many soldiers she’s gathered.”

Gendry speaks before he can catch himself. “At least eight thousand, your grace.”

Jon, Queen Daenerys, Davos and all other eyes turn to him. He feels his face warm and prickle. He moves closer to the table to stand beside Davos. “When I was in King’s Landing, I armed the Lannister army. I got to know them, listened to them talk while they looked around my shop. Last I heard, they had eight thousand soldiers.”

Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his tired face. “So, that’s eight thousand Lannisters, five thousand Iron Born and ten thousand men from the Free Cities. All men who are loyal to the Lannisters.” The heaviness of the situation is evident and Gendry squirms in his boots. Somehow, this is worse than the threat of the dead army.

Queen Daenerys seems to contemplate the situation before raising a brow.

“If their honor will not convince them to our side, then they can die with their honor, with the rest of them. To hells with all this waiting. I will fly Drogon to the Red Keep and burn it to the ground, with every single one of her soldiers and their honor.” The word sounds like a curse as she spits it out, and rage forms in her violet eyes.

“Your grace, Cersei has opened the gates into the keep. There are thousands of common folk there. You cannot –” Queen Daenerys’ slams her hands on the stone window and she turns to face her Hand with unbridled rage.

“I can and I will. I have followed your guidance, Lord Tyrion. I took my men to Winterfell to fight the Northern battle and lost over half my men. I took my dragons beyond the wall for the Northern cause and lost one to the dead. I have waited as year after year has passed by while Cersei sits on my throne. I am through waiting. I will take what is mine with fire and blood.”

The room is quiet. Gendry stares at the Queen, his mouth ajar. She intends to burn them all, he realizes with a jolt and stories he’d heard of her father, the Mad King, flood through his mind. Stories of dragon fire and burning flesh that adults told naughty children to keep them in line. Truth be told, when he had first met the dragon queen, he had not seen any resemblance to her father. She had a kindness about her that he hadn’t expected from the tales he’d been told of the Targaryans. But looking at her now, her pretty face twisted in ugly fury, he wonders if he sees a spark of the madness.

It is Jon who speaks next and he calmly steps to the queen, touching her shoulder with unexpected familiarity. “Dany, we will take your throne.” His words are careful and kind, but stern. “But, we cannot let thousands of innocents die for Cersei Lannister. Remember what I told you, out there on the beaches?” He motioned his head toward the window. “Remember I told you that if you bring fire and destruction that you are not any different. And what the Seven Kingdoms needs most now is someone different.”

Queen Daenerys is quiet for a moment and Gendry takes a breath. It almost seems as if Jon is able to convince her – until she speaks again.

“Someone like you?”

And at once it seems like all the air has been sucked out of the room despite the large, open windows. Everyone freezes, Gendry included. The accusation in the queen’s voice is clear, and she marches away from Jon who is staring at her open mouthed and wide eyed.

“Dany, I-”

“It doesn’t matter.” She snaps. “Every minute we spend here arguing about what move to make is another minute that usurper sits on the throne. You can join me, or you can stay here and debate your honor, but I am through with waiting. My army has been slaughtered. My children have been shot down like cattle. Jorah is dead and Missandei is dead. I will not wait another moment longer.”

And with that she marches from the room and the silence is deafening.

.

That night, as he sits in the room the queen has given him – a room nicer than any room he’s ever had – he thinks. He thinks about the pending war, thinks about the fury in the dragon queen’s eyes. She has lost so much. He cannot imagine the pain she must have felt watching her friend slaughtered before her eyes. He knows pain. He's felt it all his life, having everyone he's ever loved taken from him. His mother, who's face he can barely recall but who's soft hands and warm voice penetrates his memory, had been taken by fever. He'd grown to respect and look to Mott as a father figure, and he'd been cast away - or not cast away, but spirited away to protect him. He'd finally learned he had a family, only to remember that they were all dead. And Arry, Arya, the scrawny little girl pretending to be a boy in the wake of a seemingly endless war...He'd thought he'd lost her once, to the Frey's at the Red Wedding, alongside her lord brother. But, there she'd been, in Winterfell, taller, cleaner than he'd ever seen her. More beautiful. And they had shared a moment together that would forever be burned into his memory. But, now she was gone as well and he was once again all alone. Yes, he can imagine the queen's pain.

And right then, he feels guilty for the pain that has gripped his heart, feels guilty for feeling sorry for himself. His thoughts of Arya - playing their last moments together over and over in his head - seems foolish now. He could very well die tomorrow – die in the same shithole he had been born in - and here he is pining away after a girl that was never really his to begin with. The anger that radiated off the queen and Jon’s look of concern - it is clear that they may have won the war against the dead, and they might win the Great War – but the fighting will never be over. His dreams of grey eyes and a wolfish grin suddenly do nothing to warm him.

He has it all, has everything he could have ever asked for - a name, a title, a home - but of course, it means nothing without her. Lord of the Stormlands or bastard blacksmith, without her he doesn’t have what really matters - family. None of it matters now, though. She's spoken her peace and disappeared, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see the grey eyed Stark again.

But, he'll survive. He's survived the slums of Flea Bottom. Survived the nightmare that was Harrenhal. He survived the Red Witch and the seas around Dragonstone. He survived beyond the Wall and the Battle of the Dawn. Baratheons are survivors. He can survive this as well.

#gendrya fanfiction #gendrya #gendry #arya #storms end #because i can’t get enough of it

[biglifequestions-blog]

Big Life Questions

In 1991, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes; an incurable autoimmune disease that would have killed me were it not for the discovery of a breakthrough treatment some 70 years earlier. Had my great grandmother—who lived to be an octogenarian with four grandchildren and eight great grandchildren—been diagnosed with the same condition, natural selection would have swiftly eliminated her and the potential for offspring as unceremoniously as it had thousands of others. By pure chance, my mother, uncle, cousins, brothers, and I would never have been born. Twelve unique progenies, gone; an entire branch of the family tree stunted and withered at the hands of a few faulty genes.

As luck or God or the Universe would have it, I was born at exactly the right moment in history to not only survive type 1 diabetes but thrive. And here I am today at age 29: a walking, talking, breathing, body with blood circulating and nerves firing, alive with not only conscious thoughts, but also feelings, opinions, beliefs, quirks, aptitudes, and proclivities. From this foundation, I’ve created a full and complicated life that includes accomplishments, hobbies, aspirations, and emotional connections to other walking, talking, breathing bodies. That I am even sitting here now in a 600-square-foot apartment in Philadelphia with a Chihuahua named Peanut napping sweetly in my lap, able to freely express myself through the typed English word using an online platform capable of sharing those words with millions of people around the globe, all while my loving husband cooks his take on vegan enchiladas in our tiny kitchen is nothing short of a holy-shit miracle.

I wish I could say that the mind-blowing awareness of my mere existence—never mind the trillions of complex, improbable events that coalesced to have me adopt a Chihuahua—has compelled me to live each of my 10,500+ days on this earth to their absolute fullest. I wish I could say the knowledge of my finite and delicate reality has inspired me to follow my passions, live authentically, and weather life’s storms with grace and fortitude all while dedicating my time and energy toward the betterment of society. Surely a life as precarious as my own would catalyze an ongoing quest to align mind, body, and spirit; to be a role model for overcoming adversity against all odds.

Alas, I am not quite so enlightened.

Last Saturday, for example, I spent the entire day in worn-out sweatpants eating buttered toast and playing Candy Crush on my iPad. Between waiting for more bread to toast, butter to melt, and lives to reload, I scrolled through the bottomless pit that is the /AmITheAsshole sub on Reddit, grappling with the complexity of human social norms while also getting my daily bump of “my life really isn’t so bad” by contrasting my comparatively insignificant problems to the drama of Internet strangers. By sunset, I had succeeded only in eating a half loaf of bread and irritating my husband by finishing off the butter and bringing crumbs into the bed. (AITA?)

I’m sure you’re wondering how I’m able to justify such a flagrant misuse of my time. While I don’t exactly know the answer to that question, I can hazard a guess it’s because I’ve collected enough insignia of a successful life—academic degrees, a wedding ring, my handsome husband, a Pinterest-inspired apartment, stamps in my passport—that the pressure to fill my days with meaningful, enlightened activities has lessened. So long as I continue showing up to work, paying taxes, saying “I love you,” and periodically posting #humblebrags on Twitter about some new promotion or my latest vacation, what does it matter if I occasionally splurge on procrastination and carbohydrates?

…right?

Until last year, I had only peripherally considered that there might be more to life than just achieving and owning things. From high school honors to senior job titles to a committed relationship, these milestones were my markers of success, happiness, and security. I craved them, worked for them, plotted how I would make them happen, and invested all my energy into proving to the world and myself that I was smart, hard-working, lovable, deserving; often to the detriment of my own physical, mental, financial, and spiritual health.

Moreover, I was actively encouraged to seek more of these achievements: to play an instrument in both orchestra and band, attend academic summer camps, double major in college, study abroad, work late, work weekends, work, work, work. I believed these tangible symbols would unlock the secrets to all the Big Intangibles: happiness, passion, fulfillment, security, joy, peace, gratitude, love. And when those fleeting moments of accomplishment came and went, and the Big Intangibles didn’t instantly manifest, I turned to my old, worn copy of the “Perfect Life Checklist” (which I wrote myself at the age of 10) and chose my next goal to appease the restlessness and disappointment in my heart.

And then, after years of sacrificing sleep and sanity to acquire these tangibles, it all came to a climax in May 2018: I had just graduated from a prestigious university with my master’s degree, was months away from marrying my soulmate, and had just been offered a dream job in a new city. Life was perfect or as perfect as I could have contrived. I awoke in my fiancé’s bed the morning after graduation expecting to feel elated, happy, fulfilled; or at the very least, well-rested and content. It was the first Tuesday in perhaps my entire life that I technically had nothing to do and I felt completely, inexplicably…. empty. 

Where was the happiness I was promised; the light at the end of the tunnel I built, brick by brick? I felt a sudden urge to laugh followed by the very real experience of tears. 

And then, in response to those tears, a harrowing, gut-wrenching, pass-me-the-wine-no-the-whole-bottle question materialized before me as if posed by some older, wiser, separate self: Who would you be without all these labels, titles, and accomplishments?

Who am I?

The answer that came was enough to make me want to dive under the covers and let the carbon dioxide build up around me.

Before I go any further, I want to recognize that despite living with a chronic illness, the problems and concerns I’m describing here are distinctly privileged-people-problems. I understand and appreciate that my ability to grapple with questions about my identity and personal fulfillment are luxuries only possible because of that privilege. I don’t have to worry about basic necessities like where I’m sleeping tonight or from where my next meal will come. I don’t wake up worrying about whether I might get arrested, mugged, shot at, or bombed if I walk out my front door or if I might be persecuted for my skin color, openly practicing my religion, or loving who I love. That I even have health insurance to afford the medication that keeps me alive is a blessing that I am keenly aware not everyone with my disease has.

Yet it’s precisely this knowledge—that other people who were born into different circumstances must work a hundred times harder and maybe not ever get to the point I find myself at now—that makes answering these Big Life Questions even more important. With all my privilege and so few barriers standing in the way of me living a magnificent, inspirational, blessed life of service and passion, why am I not making every day, hour, and minute count?

I pondered that question again a few months ago when I was asked to give a presentation at an all-employee meeting for work. “All-employee” meaning, of course, the entire company; hundreds of people in-person and remote gathered in one moment to critically judge my outfit, throat-clearing tic, and the way I pronounce “gala”—or at least, that’s what it felt like. A naturally nervous public speaker, I practiced obsessively to minimize the risk of forgetting my own name and spent copious time working through every worst-case scenario. In the shower, on the train, before bed, in my dreams; I worried and rehearsed that speech so many times that my ultimate irrational fear of a light fixture falling from the ceiling and concussing me mid-word could have come to fruition and my lips would have continued mouthing statistics while my hands, of their own accord, gesticulated to slide 5 bullet point 2 at the 20-minute mark exactly as rehearsed.

This exercise was, like many of my endeavors, not borne out of passion and commitment to a good cause, but a calculated attempt to take on another “professional development opportunity” in the hopes that it would indirectly increase the likelihood of my future happiness by one, maybe two, percent. Because more responsibility at work = more money = more success, stability, and therefore infinite happiness, right? The irony of all this calculation is that an activity I expected to yield happiness had the unintended consequences of increasing my stress levels by 1000 percent and costing valuable time with my friends and family. 

And tell me, what exactly is the point of investing all this energy and being so completely exhausted if there’s no greater good, higher purpose, or feeling happy and inspired before, during, and after? What’s the point of tackling any endeavor if it’s only going to lead to a buttered toast/social media binge to cover the feelings of emptiness and dissatisfaction?

Until now, I’ve asked but not fully grappled with these Big Life Questions. But I want to. I want to wrestle and spar, analyze and critique until awareness turns into action and potentially transformation. In my short life I’ve had the opportunity to answer some medium life questions whose answers led to amazing, unexpected changes. Questions like, “What more do you have to lose?”, “Would you be willing to relocate?” and “Will you marry me?” I’ve answered and then watched life shift miraculously to accommodate my new conceptualization of what’s possible. And now, I feel myself standing at the edge of another new conceptualization with an ever-present awareness of my own potential, mortality, limitations, limitlessness, and connection to the rest of humanity. 

This blog is a chronicle of my attempts to answer and act on life’s biggest questions, including, but not limited to:

Who am I?

What is my greater purpose in life?

How can I find joy in the mundane?

How can I make the most of every day?

How can I be kinder to myself in deed and thought?

How can I honor and love my body?

How can I love unconditionally?

How can I forgive myself and others?

How can I overcome my fears?

How can I have more faith?

How can I live in the present moment more often?

How can I align my career and work with my passions and higher purpose?

How can I be of service to others?

If you decide to follow along, I hope my words can provide some perspective on how to begin answering your own BLQ’s, even if what I’m describing is a case study in what not to do. Consider what follows to be a record of hard lessons learned, a magnifying glass for bad habits, an arena for confronting fears and traumas, a whiteboard for exploring crazy ideas, and with a little luck and determination, a launching pad into the magnificent, inspirational, blessed life of service and passion I hope to live.

#biglifequestions #selfhelp #selflove #newblog #type1diabetes #consciousness #sprirituality #happiness #searchformeaning

[lexiseigneur]

Chapter fifteen: Betrayal and bargaining

They drove through the night, only stopping to fill their gas tanks. Quinlan did not protest as their numbers afforded them safety and also because Lexi no longer needed protection. Both Raul and Gus slept in the back seats. Lexi had taken the wheel and Quinlan, tired from the events of the day, sat with his eyes closed. In the silence of the car and of his mind, he pondered. The day he had shoved that needle in Lexi’s neck now appeared very different. It mattered very little what his intentions had been. His silhouette still overlapped with the horrible man as they both held onto a struggling Lexi. It was repugnant. Quinlan growled lowly in self-hatred.

“Quinlan…please.”

For the third time since silence had settled in the vehicle, Lexi had to remind him to keep his feelings from overflowing into the Bond. She reached for his hand and squeezed.

“Perhaps I should drive. It would distract me from unpalatable thoughts.”

“Would you rather answer a few questions for me? If that is not distraction enough, we’ll switch.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Why did you call Gus a Sun Hunter?”

“Do you recall that I told you I associated with the Ancients?”

Lexi nodded.

“For thousands of years, they used both sapient Strigoi and humans. Those who could walk in the daylight to do their bidding were called Sun Hunters. Gus is the only survivor of this cast of elite warriors. Their name will die with him.”

“Can we trust him if he worked for the Ancients?”

“He had little choice. My student, Vaun, had chosen him and would not have taken no for an answer.”

“Your student?”

Lexi smiled and glanced in his direction.

“I taught most of those Strigoi, yes. Vaun was one of them and the one who taught Gus.”

Out of the blue, she chuckled.

“I fail to see how this could be amusing to you.”

“Gus is you grand-student?”

What a silly thought. She glanced again and this time her musical laugh rang clear. Quinlan loved that sound. He relaxed.

“So you guys worked together for the Ancients?”

“He might have but I never worked for them. The Ancients and I had a common goal and we used each other.”

Just like Lexi and Quinlan had when they had met for the first time. That seemed so very long ago.

“I mean, you never told me about him, only those who died in the blast.”

“He had left the fight before that event. In fact, he had already attempted to remove himself from the unfolding war when I found him.”

“You dragged him back, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

He remembered that day. Seeing the Sun Hunter kiss a beautiful young woman and calling his name. Using her as a motivation, he had convinced Augustin to rejoin the cause. To protect her from the Master’s shadow, he had persuaded him to give her up. What a hypocrite he now was. Quinlan shared that memory but strived to keep his self-disgust out of it.

“Good God, Quinlan.”

She grinned and shook her head.

“Have you ever met any of your allies…hum…nicely?”

“Humans tend to react negatively to my appearance.”

Her face fell.

“To our appearance, now.”

Quinlan leaned and tucked a wavy strand behind her ear. The stripes on her temple waned within the white roots of her hair. This was not a hardship he could spare her.

“Yes. To both of us.”

“I don’t think they were very scared today though.”

“Augustin would have told them what to expect.”

She scratched at her eyebrow which had also turned colorless.

“You’re right.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“They might get a little worried because I’m getting thirsty and their smells and sounds don’t help.”

Quinlan was tired but he had drunk the last bag just a few hours ago.

“Can you manage for the moment? Maybe we can hunt on the way.”

“I’m sure I would be able to last several days without a meal if need be. As long as we don’t need to fight or run.”

Quinlan lowered his window and smelled the cold night air. With some luck, they would encounter animals on their way.

The city sounds and smells seeped into the SUV. They would reach their destination shortly. Unfortunately, Quinlan had not succeeded in locating the scent of animal prey. He too started to feel the burn of thirst creeping. Gus was driving again and his radio beeped. A low voice came out of the crackling speaker.

“Arturo is in place. It’s clear. Drive in.”

Just like that, they were smuggled into Manhattan. The Sun Hunter relaxed perceptibly.

“You guys have some food to spare? Maybe a few Partnership bars?” ssked Lexi.

Quinlan stared at her, bemused.

“What the fuck? Are you joking?” replied Gus.

“No. But if you don’t have food to spare I’ll manage without.”

“Are you serious?”  asked Quinlan.

“Yes. Our differences lie deeper than what meets the eye.”

“Oh.”

He scowled. It was idiotic to be bothered by such an insignificant distinction between them, but he was. During the fleeting moments they still had, he wanted to share everything with her and for her to do the same. This aspect of human nature would remain forever closed to him.

“Ok…we’ve got some food but I thought…Quinlan, you too?”

“Only women Dhampir can eat human food.”

Lexi said that with such conviction that the cousins did not question it. Then Quinlan remembered that to their knowledge she was the only female Dhampir. He repressed a smile.

“And only female Dhampir need shampoo or is that a wig?”

Lexi laughed out loud and that sound made him want to purr.

“No, it’s real.”

The two of them then chatted about their dinner and the sleeping accommodation they would be granted. Quinlan was unsure how he felt at the ease with which Lexi could talk with that man. No…he did not care about that per se. He simply did not want to share her. The end was too near.

“It’s a good idea if not everyone inside sees you. I’ve only brought my brothers to get you but I don’t exactly trust all the men in there.”

“How do you suggest we accomplish that?” asked Quinlan.

“You can access my flat from the roof. Then tomorrow, we’ll find you another spot to stay.”

The radio beeped again.

“Gus! They aren’t fucking answering. Something is wrong.”

“Puta madre…”

“What’s going on?” asked Raul. His eyes were wide with worry.

This one was not a warrior. Quinlan could tell by the way that issue had sent his heart into frantic thumping. The Sun Hunter ignored his cousin and spoke into the radio after adjusting its frequency.

“What are you guys playing at? We’re almost at the gate! I can see the guards at the fucking window.”

There was static then a deeply unpleasant voice spoke.

“Hey, Gus…You thought you could go on a wild goose chase and I would keep the place for you? Turn away before we start shooting.”

“Creem, have you lost your mind?”

“You snooze you lose, asshole.”

The Dhampir sighed at this inconvenient turn of events. It seemed like Augustin had underestimated the treachery of the associates he had left in charge of the business.

“We might have to help him regain control over his black market. The plan depends on his connections and we do not want loose ends threatening everything.”

“Yes. This obviously happened because of his absence. We are somewhat responsible.”

Gus swore and barked orders into the radio. They turned around and the four cars parked several blocks away.

“That puto is going to eat his shiny teeth,” said Gus with a disgusted face. He struck the wheel once in anger.

“We believe we can be of assistance,” said Quinlan.

“They’re expecting us to try something right now. Most of us haven’t slept in days. We need to regroup.”

“Can we reach Red Hook safely from here?” asked the Dhampir.

Gus glanced at him then at the other cars and their occupants. The man felt responsible for their lives, Quinlan was certain of it.

“What’s in Red Hook?”

“A safe place. At least it still was when I left it more than a year ago. This is our nearest option.”

“I don’t think we’ve got much of a choice right now. Maybe you should drive. I’ll tell the others to follow.”

“That’s where the doctor died, is it not?”

Her thoughts were imbued with a hint of grief.

“It is.”

“Is his body still…?”

“No.”

Quinlan had not taken the time to bury the man but he had not left it there either. His final resting place was the Red Hook Channel. Now that this information unsettled Lexi, he regretted his thoughtlessness. The Dhampir took the wheel and they departed.

The street was dark and deserted when they arrived. The building stood like a monument to his late owner. Like the exterminator had been, it was oversized, square and practical. Quinlan searched his metal trunk and at the very bottom, he found his collection of keys. One of them unlocked the fortified door and silently, the men walked inside. Quinlan and Lexi unloaded the SUV and brought their precious cargo to safety. Once the heavy latch closed behind the last of their small troop, there was a perceptible wave a relief. They had been driving for more than a day before reaching New York and all were exhausted. The space inside was large, all concrete and metal with clutter that must have once been organized. Already, some of the men explored. Someone in an adjoining room yelled “Dibs on that bed!”. But the Sun Hunter did not appear inclined to rest. Because of his actions, his men were deprived of the safety he had been building for a year. Quinlan thought that the Sun Hunter ought to be proud. For weeks, those men had followed him faithfully. Even now, not a single complaint had been uttered despite the precariousness of their situation.

“Quinlan? Lexi? Let’s talk,” he said and immediately walked to a glass and metal table in the center of the open space. Lexi’s brow furrowed slightly. Quinlan perceived her guilt when he focused. The man gathered papers and pencils then drew a detailed map of the facility which had been stolen from him.

“Here, you can only get buzzed in and at all times, there will be two guards with automatic weapons pointed at the gate.”

Straight to the point. The Dhampir appreciated it.

“That is of course if Creem even continued with the protocols in place.”

Gu’s jaw tensed and Lexi’s guilt grew deeper.

“The man is ambitious but he is a moron.”

“Lexi. This is not our fault. Augustin is an intelligent man and I doubt this blindsided him. Before we arrived here, he knew the men he had left behind could not be completely trusted. He also knew where his priorities lied. Killing the Master is more important to him than his business.”

Her hazel eyes glanced up at him briefly and she nodded.

“There is a door on the roof and it’s not usually guarded because there is no way to climb up from the street. That’s your access point. There are UV lamps just inside but you guys can power through, right?”

“Child’s play,” replied Quinlan.

“How many men are inside?” asked Lexi.

“About fifteen. I doubt that changed much.”

Quinlan snorted at the prospect. At least they might be somewhat useful for them.

“Do you care about those men? About them dying quickly?” he asked.

“No. Those cutthroat bitches can die crying.”

Quinlan reached for Lexi’s small hand.

“We should attempt to feed during that assault.”

“What? But…”

He could taste her fear. She was terrified of inflicting that kind of suffering.

“You have not done it yet but we cannot steal blood within the city limits without attracting attention.”

Her eyes rose to him and her lips disappeared into a fine line. Gus stared through this silent exchange and Quinlan was surprised to see concern for Lexi on his face.

“Can you excuse us for a moment?” said the Dhampir.

Gus nodded and walked away to talk to his men. The couple locked themselves inside the master bedroom under the spiral stairs. In there, everything was just as cluttered. The bed was undone. Lexi’s fear had already subsided and now there was resolve on her face.

“Show me,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“How you do it. How it feels. I want to know.”

He approached her, hungry for physical closeness. Then Quinlan selected a memory carefully. It was also in the heat of battle. That day, he had fed to regain strength.

The warrior skewered a centurion and turned to Quinlan. The Dhampir smacked him on the head with the hilt of his sword to stun him. With an expression of mild surprise, the man hit the muddy ground. Quinlan leaned over the body. It smelled of sweat and adrenaline. The thirst burned his throat and each breath was painful because of it. The stinger closed around the thick neck. Small muscles inside the appendage adjusted the position of the bone to align with a usable artery. Once a proper vessel was found, the knife-life structure pierced the flesh. The stinger made a seal around the wound and the blood poured inside of it. Muscles pumped the liquid to his throat and the burning faded slowly. Pressure had to be controlled to avoid breaking the seal. Powerful muscles adjusted it carefully with each contraction. The last pumpings of the stinger were the strongest ones, as they coincided with the dying beats of the victim’s heart. The appendage retracted and satisfaction cursed through his entire body.

Lexi shuddered in his arms.

“I will do it. I can do it. I even considered it when the SUVs arrived and I thought the men wanted to hurt you.”

Quinlan purred at that admission.

“I love it when you are…fierce.”

Lexi’s cheeks adopted a lovely alabaster shade. Quinlan nuzzled them and his purr grew louder. He wanted more time away from humans. Away from everything.

“When we get there…to the volcano…if we were not followed and there is time...”

“Yes?”

“Maybe we can wait…just the two of us. No humans, no mission.”

The woman was tempted. Her resolve wavered for the briefest of moments.

“If we do that, we will never finish this. I know it. We cannot put ourselves in a situation where giving up would be so easy. I don’t trust myself.”

“Why must you be so reasonable?”

Lexi’s laughter resonated in the room. He knew the words had reminded her of a cold day by a river.

“One hour. My reward for finishing a lifelong mission. Is that reasonable?”

The woman continued smiling for a moment but then, slowly, starting with her eyebrows, her face contorted in pain. She cried even as he kissed and held her.

“One hour. Not a second longer. Or I won’t be able to finish this.”

“Yes. Not a second longer.”

Smells of cooked food filled the space when they returned to talk to Gus. The men had eaten in record times. Around the table, they stood as their leader explained how the Dhampir would start the assault. He described the layout of the different rooms further as well as a few words on the different people they would encounter inside. In particular, he emphasized Creem’s appearance. The man in question sported silver teeth and would likely stand out because of it.

“You guys should just do as much damage as possible before they realize what’s happening. Then you will have buzz us in. We’ll finish them.”

A corpulent bearded man in a knitted cap and a dark-skinned lanky one exchanged looks. Quinlan did not appreciate their vaguely masked sneers.

“Yeah, I totally believe the tall one can do that but the small…huh…woman?” said the bearded man.

He had smirked while pronouncing the last word. As if Lexi was not worthy of that title. Quinlan was instantly submerged by the desire to relieve him of his head. But he restrained himself because they needed all the help they could get. Lexi jumped on the table, ran its length and stood above the man. Sheets of papers had flown off the table in her wake and her machete brushed the tip of his nose. A guttural growl resonated from her chest and filled the sudden silence.

“I am not bound by the limitations of your kind, human,” he said with a low voice.

Shivers ran down Quinlan’s spine and the desire for violence vanished. He grinned at the distraught face of that foolish man.

“Ok, let’s calm down here. You two have the same methods, heh?” said Gus while scratching his temple with a finger.

Gus seemed particularly tired in that instant. The Dhampir raised a brow and recalled how he had snapped the neck of a man more than a year ago, in this very city and also in front of the Sun Hunter.

“Not exactly, Mister Elizalde. He is still alive, is he not?”

Lexi sprinted back to his side, scowling. She grimaced and touched her throat.

“I should not have done that,” she shared.

“You ain’t gonna give a speech, Lexi? To motivate the troops?” Asked Gus.

“No, that’s not my style. I am going to assume that everyone here is smart enough to realize that we all share the same goal. I will also assume that we will all do everythingthat is necessary to achieve it. None of you are children who need to be convinced to do their duty.”

All the men nodded gravely, even the one standing at the very end of the table and discretely rubbing his nose.

“Besides, I doubt you’d have selected men unable to understand this from the start.”

She smiled and the Hunter flashed white teeth back at her.

“Is this flattery necessary?”

“I was about to maim one of his friends. After he crossed the country to find you and lost his business because of that. Kind words are the least I can do.”

“We can proceed tomorrow during the sunlight hours. Humans tend to relax during that time,” announced Quinlan to the room.

“What he said!” confirmed Gus. “Let’s get some rest, cabrones.”

He amicably patted the back of the corpulent man as they turned away.

Quinlan brought his trunk and the jamming devices to the bedroom. He trusted no one but Lexi around the machines. Eventually, he would have to let the humans have them but not yet. Everything in good time. His companion was in the shower, humming softly to herself. He put his possessions back in order. The trunk had been a mess. After locking the heavy bedroom door, he undressed and joined her.

#mr.quinlan #quinlan #the strain #the strain fx #the strain fanfic #the strain fanfiction #quintus sertorius

[labyrinthofthoughts]

600 days

it’s been 600 days since i last wrote on my tumblr page. i might make it a new year’s resolution of mine to start writing more, as i always do every year *sighs*. but anyways, yes, it’s been 600 days. almost 2 years. a lot has happened in the last 600 days. jumping in and out of depression, having people come and go in my life, building and destroying and rebuilding and redestroying relationships, you name it. amidst this pandemic (God knows when will i get my normal life back) where most of us are stuck at home in quarantine, doing things remotely, and normalising the unhealthy practice of spending the entire day behind blue light lit screens that strain our eyes if we look at it for too long, it’s pretty shocking how i managed to experience and feel so many things.

600 days have passed, and all i can say is that life is made up of these short fleeting moments and nothing is ever permanent. looking back, i think it’s both miraculous yet frightening how the dynamics of my relationships (family, friends, romantic, platonic, etc) have drastically changed throughout these 600 days because of this pandemic.

i fell out of love during the early days of quarantine. it didn’t scar me that much, though. i cried for 3 days and that’s it. i was too disappointed of myself and the people around me to a point where i pushed everyone away because i was too scared of giving them new chances. i was scared of the idea of falling out of love again. i became heartless for months before i finally had the courage again and decided to open up and give myself the opportunity to love someone new. more than a year later and i couldn’t ask for more, i couldn’t be happier.

the friends i used to physically see and talk to every day are now at home and we only occasionally communicate with each other through video calls or through a few text bubbles, and even that’s only for important matters because we are already too drained to entertain our unread messages and are deprived of human touch. i feel guilty for not making an effort to keep in touch with them because i know those are the friends that i will be seeing again after the whole pandemic things settles down (that is, if it does settle down), but i am just exhausted. i am exhausted of all this online interaction and sitting behind screens replying to emails and text messages without actually seeing their faces or hearing their voices. taking a break comes at a cost which i have to painfully pay. i’ve grown distant to them. i feel like a stranger in their lives now. i feel like i am no more than a speck of dust, insignificant to them now. i know should’ve reached out, talked to them or even ask how their lives were going when i had the chance, but i didn’t. and i’m sorry. i’ll fix this, i promise. i just don’t know how and when. but at least i’ll try.

being a hardcore introvert, as much as i value my alone time, i need to socialise with people too. hence, i picked up the courage to join as many societies as i could and picked up so many responsibilities and said yes to almost every project offered to me. sometimes i’d like to think of this as a coping mechanism and as a way to distract myself from my real problems, other days it’s just another excuse for me to procrastinate and downgrade myself even more, besides of using it as an excuse to fill in my chronic FOMO. haha. but as much i regret these decisions, i did get many good things out of it. mainly it’s where i get to meet so many good people around me and build genuine friendships. the people i thought i would only work with for a short period of time are now an essential element in my life. sharing real conversations and secrets and confessions over breakfast or evening jogs or even in the middle of the night. being the only few people left stuck in college, i used to think of these people as my last options of social interaction (apologies for having this initial assumption). but now we’re just inseparable. and i appreciate that. i appreciate having friends where i feel like i belong without having the intrusive thoughts of whether i am good enough or not, because they make me feel like i’m enough. and i couldn’t ask for more.

i am not exempted from having enemies too, and within the last 600 days i managed to turn some of my friends to enemies. i am not proud of this though. are my feelings valid? yes absolutely. but does that give me a free pass which allows me to react in that manner? absolutely not. i have done some pretty dumb things in life and i do feel remorseful of my wrongdoingsbut sometimes i’m not sorry and feel like i’m in the right. they might feel the same way too. i guess no one is spared from having an ego, me included. it’s not like i didn’t try. i’ve tried making amends, i’ve tried reaching out and apologising to give and get closure, i’ve tried but some just use that as a weapon to further spew hate at me. at this rate, i just don’t care anymore. i’m done being the only one trying to fix things. i guess i do forgive them, because i no longer want to keep that hate in my chest (or at least i try to). i guess it’s just better to move on my own terms and write my own closure. and trust me, there have been labels thrown at me so easily to a point where i can casually joke about it. toxic, bitter, you name it. sometimes i think it’s funny, how people who barely know me but have so much to say about me. but i guess every one is entitled to their own opinion, right? but that doesn’t mean we should blindly agree with everything people say, that’s up to us to evaluate and decide.

let’s not even get started on my relationship with my family. i’ll be honest, i am not very close with my family. yes we have had good and bad history and i still do see them as people i would go to in case if i need any help and vice versa (i mean they are still family to me), but i don’t really open up to them often because of how differently we think and how we have opposite views on life. and we always seem to be avoiding the elephant in the room and keep things to ourselves when things get ugly and hope that the problem goes away on its own. it’s like a vicious cycle, there is always a major argument and then it somehow resolves on its own and life is back to normal. and then, another bomb just drops and we’re suddenly not on speaking terms again because if we start talking i know it’ll turn into another war and we are all very avoidant on actually addressing any arising issues. i was lucky enough to be at home for months because of quarantine, in a way it did help me mend and rebuild the broken bond i had with them after spending a lot of our time together. but now that i’m living far away and that we’re starting to get busy with our commitments again, i have no idea how will i ever be able to go back and face the music again.

600 days and i am still as confused as ever about life and its fluctuations.

030506012022

#quarantine #life #confusion #adulthood #family #relationship #friendship

[ohdizzy]

Holy Poseidon (I’m Hooked on You)

Title: Holy Poseidon (I’m Hooked on You) Pairing: Taehyung/Jeongguk Rating: Mature  Genre: The Little Mermaid AU, Romance, Fluff, Comedy, Wordcount: 7,000 Chapter: 1/7 

Summary:

Prince Jeon Jeongguk of Busan (better known as South Korea’s Sexiest Prince, crowned not once, but three times by GQ Korea) is in love. Stupidly, undeniably, irrevocably in love.

The object of his affection is, however, questionable.

A tale (tail?) of shitty haikus, even shittier fish puns, accidental hair dyeing, cursing entire bloodlines, and Jeongguk passing out so often it can’t be good for his health.

Read at: ao3 or under the cut! 

There are three lessons to be learnt, Jeon Jeongguk thinks.

First, never underestimate the power of bad vibes. Of course, when the aforementioned bad vibes are coming from a certain Kim Namjoon it would probably be in everyone’s best interest to take his advice. He is, after all, the noble advisor of Crown Prince Jeon Jeongguk. Jeongguk’s pretty sure he didn’t get to his position by bullshitting his way up the ranks.

Then again, when said advisor uses words like bad vibes and negative juju, man, Jeongguk wonders just how much of his advice is legitimate and how much of it is bullshit. What had been going through his father’s thick skull when he had looked at Kim Namjoon and decided it was a good idea to appoint him as the advisor and life coach of the beloved Prince of Busan, Jeongguk isn’t too sure. But he should probably look into that.

The second lesson, Jeongguk surmises, is that life is fleeting and thus, precious. He’s not quite sure where the second point derives from, but after spending nearly all of his time with Namjoon he was bound to pick up on his philosophical bullshit sooner or later.

Bullshit? Absolutely. But unfortunately, also true. Life is, in fact, fleeting and precious and Jeongguk had clearly been unaware of this fact. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and doted on by millions of people, Jeongguk has always been on top of the food chain, unaware that his life is an insignificant speck in the grand scheme of things.

And the final—and arguably most important—lesson is that death fucking sucks. Namjoon had once told him that during one’s final moments, they will be overcome with an overwhelming sense of tranquillity and utter peace. Almost like their body is doing them one last favour before they leave the world of the living and transcend into the beyond.

Now, Jeongguk’s unsure of what kind of utter bullshit Namjoon had been feeding him the past several years (and why he’d chosen to believe him), but he is slowly coming to the realisation that it’s probably for the best if he lets Namjoon go. If he survives, that is. Which, by the looks of things, the likelihood of his chances at survival is getting slimmer and slimmer by the moment, which sucks because Jeongguk has really wanted to be the one to send Namjoon packing.

He should’ve turned the ship back the minute the waves started getting choppier. Should have listened to Namjoon’s complaints that started as moans of bad vibes, your highness that slowly began to decline into retching and vomiting (seriously, who decided it was a good idea to appoint Namjoon, someone who got seasick easily, as Jeongguk’s—the prince of Busan, a fucking fishing port—advisor?) at some point of their voyage and turned back. Should’ve have steered the ship back towards the shores of Busan—to safety—when he watched his crew dart around on deck, trying to desperately hold the ship together against the rocking waves.

There’s a lot of things he should have done, but he supposes all that is too late now, especially when he’s been thrown spectacularly overboard and is currently trying his hardest not to drown. Which, all in all, doesn’t sound like too much of an impossible feat for a prince like Jeongguk, per se. But when he is battling waves the size of houses with no ship in sight, prospects aren’t looking too hot.

Another wave crashes on top of him, dragging him underwater for a heart stopping moment before he manages to resurface. Honestly speaking though, Jeongguk is a little glad no one is there to witness him screaming loudly at the top of his lungs every time his head pops up above the water before he’s dragged back down by the force of the waves. It’s honestly very unattractive. Maybe it’s because of his third consecutive year winning Sexiest Prince in South Korea that even when he’s fighting for his life he finds himself unwilling to look anything but sexy and alluring whilst doing so.

But there seems to be more pressing matters than looking appealing when drowning—the issue being a very real, very huge building-sized wave slowly forming right before his very eyes. A very real, very huge building-sized wave that is going to collapse on Jeongguk and very possibly crush him into a human pancake.

Ever so eloquent, Jeongguk has time to whisper a princely, “oh fuck”, before the wave crashes down onto him. The wave crashes down onto him so hard, Jeongguk finds himself being legitimately surprised at the fact that he is still very much alive and conscious and not flattened like a tin can.

His body is jerked back and forth by the unrelenting, violent waves, and his chest feels like it’s about to explode from the lack of oxygen and too much seawater. There’s a real sense of panic that flutters in his chest because he’s suddenly coming to the realisation that he is absolutely going to die a horrible and painful death, so very much alone.

Something hits his head, hard. A log, perhaps, or something from Jeongguk’s ship that was thrown off ungraciously much like he was—he’s not really sure what it is, but he can’t find it in himself to care, not when he’s slowly sinking towards the bottom of the ocean, the remaining oxygen in his lungs whooshing out of him.

Barely conscious, Jeongguk, however, still vaguely makes out through his half-opened eyes something golden moving towards him, twisting and shimmering in the inky-black ocean and for a moment, for the half second Jeongguk manages to stay conscious it feels a little like hope glimmering in a distance. The sounds of the thunder and waves roaring have faded above waters, and there’s a pleasant muted pressure pressing down on his ears.

Perhaps, he thinks to himself, death isn’t so bad after all.

     Okay, so maybe not death.

Jeongguk finds himself well and truly alive as he coughs up seawater, body shaking as the water gushes from his mouth, burning his lungs and throat and nose. There are strong, gentle hands supporting his head up as he coughs violently. When he manages to pry his eyes open, blinking against the stinging seawater that drips into his eyes, he can just make out a shadowed figure hunched over him, blocking the sunlight.

“Come on,” a gentle, melodic voice urges him. “Cough it up.”

Jeongguk groans, letting his head rest against the stranger’s hands. The stranger laughs and maybe Jeongguk might be a little lightheaded from ingesting copious amounts of seawater, from almost drowning a horrible death god damn it, but he swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. It’s stupidly deep and rich like honey in a way that makes Jeongguk think unprincely things, yet also has a soft and strangely musical quality to it, almost as if the owner of the voice is singing with every word they speak.

“You’re alright. You’re going to be okay.”

Jeongguk blinks several times and when his eyes adjust to the sunlight and the stinging seawater, he catches sight of his saviour and—oh.

Maybe it’s the sunlight that haloes around the boy’s head catching in his golden hair and making it look like spun gold. Or maybe it’s the way his long eyelashes seem to brush against his soft-looking skin every time he blinks. Jeongguk is convinced there’s something funky in the seawater, but there is something decidedly angelic about this boy.

“I—you saved my life.” Well, that much is obvious to anyone. Jeongguk’s just glad his father isn’t here to see him making stupid statements.

The boy smiles, rosy lips stretching into a pretty grin. “I just pulled you to safety. You survived just fine on your own. Well, right up until the point where you passed out, anyways.”

Jeongguk doesn’t pay attention to the strange implication behind the boy’s words, struggling to sit up after his skin and bones have been worn out by fighting against the strong waves.

“Just stay lying down for a while. You really took a beating out there,” he says, pushing him back down gently.

“How can I ever repay you?”

“I appreciate the gesture, but there’s no need,” the boy waves his hand dismissively. “A thank you is enough for me.”

“A thank you?” Jeongguk frowns. He begins to struggle against the boy’s iron grip, attempting once again to sit up. “You saved my life. Please, come back with me to the castle. My father will repay you handsomely. Anything you want.”

The boy’s eyes bug out, as if that is the last thing on earth he wants. “No, it’s really okay. You should stay lying down, please, just lie down. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“Not supposed to be here? I don’t understand, I—”

With everything that happens, there is a lesson to be learnt. Never underestimate the power of bad vibes, life is precious, death sucks and—

Lesson number four:

Listen to others.

Jeongguk never realised the boy was topless, but his eyes catch sight of the tanned expanse of his neck, gaze travelling along the smooth, lean torso, down past the cute belly-button, and sees scales. Beautiful, multi-coloured, shiny scales.

“Oh. Oh.”

Perhaps Jeongguk isn’t as mentally strong as he likes to believe. Because he takes one look at the boy’s figure and decides once and for all that he ingested something strange and 100% illegal before his mind realises it can’t comprehend the actuality of the current scenario and he promptly passes out again.

    The second time Jeongguk comes to, he jerks back to consciousness with a gasp, eyes darting around wildly, and—alone. So very alone.

Well, almost alone.

There’s a ruckus coming from his left and he manages to turn his head ever so slightly to see Namjoon tripping over rocks, using his hands and feet as he tries to find grip on the slippery edge. It’s a sight for sore eyes. Maybe Jeongguk will postpone Namjoon’s… departure.

“Jeong—I mean, Your majesty!” Namjoon gasps out as Jeongguk blinks at him. “We thought you fucking—pardon my manners—died!”

Namjoon somehow manages to cross the slippery terrain and kneels down next to him, his knees making a muted thud as they hit the sand, hands hovering over Jeongguk like he’s on the verge of physically searching his body for bruises and cuts.

“Mermaid,” Jeongguk croaks out to Namjoon. He stops his fussing to look at Jeongguk with a strange expression.

“Your majesty?”

“Where’s—where’s the mermaid?” Saying the words aloud makes it feel like it had been some ridiculous dream that had happened in Jeongguk’s half lucid state. But Jeongguk’s sure of it. It—he had been there right next to Jeongguk, looking every bit like Jeongguk’s dirtiest, most unprincely fantasies.

“Mermaid?” Namjoon eyebrows pinch together in worry. “Oh god, you must’ve hit your head on something. We must have you checked immediately. Can you walk? Would you like for me to carry you? Shall I fetch someone?”

“No, I can walk.” Jeongguk winces as Namjoon hauls him to his feet despite his refusal, wrapping an arm around his waist securely, and helping him limp back to the direction he had come from.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“But… the mermaid…”

“Are you sure you didn’t somehow ingest the weed I know you keep stashed in your breast pocket when you were drowning, Your Majesty? I think you—”

“Shut up, Namjoon.”

“Shutting up.”

  When Taehyung was sixteen, he had swum up to The Surface in a fit of rebellion.

There had been a large ship and on board many people danced and sung, clearly celebrating something. They shot huge, colourful stars into the sky and Taehyung had watched in awe as they exploded with a loud bang into a myriad of colours and shapes.

There had been a boy on board, perhaps Taehyung’s age.

He was sitting on a throne of sorts, clapping along to those who danced with a jovial expression. He had been the most beautiful creature Taehyung had ever seen and he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from boy with stars in his eyes as a young man pulled him from his seat and encouraged him to dance. Oh, how he had danced! Taehyung was mesmerized by the way the boy twisted and turned fluidly, his hands weaving an intricate pattern as he danced merrily alongside the other people.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours that Taehyung stayed above the surface, watching the men and women dance with an aching longing, and staring the boy who seemed a million worlds away.

When he returned back to the palace, his father had flown into a fit of rage. He destroyed all the trinkets from The Surface Taehyung had carefully and lovingly collected over the years and punished Taehyung by stationing guards at every entrance and denying him of his freedom.

Of course, that never deterred Taehyung. Not even in the slightest.

It did, however, scare the holy Poseidon out of Hoseok. Which was probably the greatest inconvenience of all great inconveniences for Taehyung.

“Oh holy Poseidon,” Hoseok moans, his hands fluttering uselessly around Taehyung’s hair. “What were you thinking, going up to The Surface?”

“Hoseok, it’s alright. Nothing happened, I swear.” Taehyung adjusts a pearl that’s sitting wonky on his tail, pouting a little.

“Alright? I was worried sick. I thought your father was going to find out. Imagine what he would’ve said—worse, done—if he knew you had gone to The Surface!”

“Hoseok, are you sure you weren’t given the gift of worrying?” Taehyung teases, trying calm Hoseok. Speaking only from experience, Taehyung is sure that Hoseok is already halfway to the Point of No Return (or, the point where he’ll turn red with rage and worry and burst out crying—or even worse, tell his father).

“Oh, shut up you bloody siren.” Hoseok rolls his eyes. But the strange tension is gone and Hoseok is smiling. “Not everyone can be gifted like you. You know, I’m still mad at you for hypnotising me with your voice. I’m going to tell your father that you’re abusing your powers.”

“I didn’t hypnotise you! I just… sang.” The excuse sounds lame, even to Taehyung’s ears.

Hoseok scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, a merman given the gift of music, merely singing to his easily susceptible advisor and convincing him to let him go up to The Surface? Of course you’re not abusing your powers.”

“I did not.”

“Yes you did! I—you’re doing it now! Stop trying to lure me in with your singing, you siren.”

“Stop calling me a siren, you know I hate it!”

“Well, you and your mother are where the legend derived from.”

“Hoseok!”

Hoseok pouts and Taehyung knows he’s won. “I’ll stop calling you a siren if you stop abusing your powers. God, I hate your voice.”

“Oh, hush,” Taehyung says, but he’s grinning smugly. “I know you love my voice. It helps you sleep.”  

“No, I do not love your voice, I just—holy carp you’re bleeding, oh god. Oh my god. Poseidon help me.”

“Hoseok,” Taehyung sighs. He sticks his arm out to Hoseok. It’s a cut from where he scratched himself from the floating debris when he had found that boy drowning in the ocean. “It’s just a little scratch.”

“Scratch—are you serious? Half your arm is cut open.” Hoseok retches as he eyes the small gash before he reaches into his pouch and pulls out seaweed, wrapping it around Taehyung’s arm. “That should stop the bleeding for now. We have to go back so someone can treat you properly. It’s my responsibility as your advisor to take care of you, Taehyung. Come on.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at Hoseok’s theatrics but allows himself to be escorted back into the palace. Hoseok is quiet for a minute and Taehyung allows himself to wildly hope that Hoseok is done with his ranting. But he should know better. Hoseok takes a deep breath and Taehyung lets go of all hope.

“When are you going to stop swimming up to The Surface?” Hoseok scolds, lowering his voice as they swim towards the infirmary. “The Ancient Laws state that you shall not be seen by humans! And then you go and break the law by not only being seen by a human, but saving it and talking to it? Oh Poseidon, your father is going to have my head.”

“He—not it—was drowning, Hoseok. Was I meant to just watch him drown?”

“It’s nature taking its course! We can’t save every human that drowns in the ocean, Tae.”

“Of course not, but I can’t just let someone drown before my eyes. That’s barbaric.”

“You know what’s barbaric? Man stringing our kind up in the sun, letting them dry out. Draining our blood and selling our parts. We have always been a hunted race and the ancient laws are there for a reason. They’re there to protect us, Taehyung.”

Taehyung shakes his head stubbornly. “People aren’t like that anymore, Hoseok. Besides, it’s been so long since we’ve been seen by man. We’re nothing but a folk tale now.”

“And we’re meant to keep it that way! If every merman had the same mindset as you, we’d be discovered and hunted to extinction before the week was over.”

“We would not. I’m telling you, people are different now. And besides, literally everyone goes up to The Surface. I know that you’ve been to The Surface several times too, Hoseok. Don’t even try to lie.”

When Hoseok splutters incoherently, Taehyung smiles smugly. “Nothing to say?”

“I do not go to The Surface!”

“Yes you do,” Taehyung sings. “I saw you collecting shells for your tail by some rock pools just last week.”

“First of all, that was a one-time thing and—where are you going? The infirmary is this way!”

“I’m not going to the infirmary for a scratch, Hoseok.”

“Where are you going?!” Hoseok sounds like he’s about to cry. Taehyung halts, looking over his shoulder to where Hoseok is. He looks so defeated Taehyung almost feels bad. Keyword being almost.

“I’m heading out for a bit. I’ll be back before sundown.”

“Out? Out where?! What do I tell your father?!”

“Tell him I’ve gone to visit someone. I’ll bring you back some shells for your tail.”

“Oh, Poseidon.”  

    For all its worth, Taehyung is going to visit someone.

He picks up a few pretty shells that catch his eye and tuck them away into his small pouch for Hoseok. He swims quickly and carefully, making sure that no-one sees him, ducking behind coral and buildings as he swims towards the edge of the city.

Soon enough, he’s reached the outskirts of the Atlantica and sets off towards the Garden of Polyps, a place where no merman dares to go.

But Taehyung is no ordinary merman.

As he continues on, there are less sea-flowers and colourful coral and pulsing anemone. There’s barely a trace of life, only the occasional fish or crab—the ones that don’t belong to society, to Atlantica. All Taehyung can see is bare, colourless sand stretching on forever.

No one goes towards the Garden of Polyps, for it’s said that the sea-witch resides just behind it, in the skeleton of a gigantic creature, long since dead.

The Polyps are disgusting—half creature, half plant designed to scare off mermen. Mottled brown and green in colour, and stretching up towards Taehyung as they scream and moan in agony, they are said to be the souls of the merpeople who have failed to fulfil their payments to the sea-witch. Taehyung recoils, clutching onto his pouch tightly and twisting out of reach when the Polyps attempt to grab onto Taehyung and pull him down with their tentacles.

He lets out a breath of relief he didn’t realise he was holding in when he makes it through and he turns towards the witch’s lair, swimming towards the giant maw without hesitation.

“Hellooooo,” he calls out as he swims through the dark corridor, swatting the leafy plants hanging about everywhere. “Anyone home?”

Silence. Taehyung frowns. It’s not like the sea-witch would be roaming about in Atlantica. He was exiled, for crying out loud.

He swims out into the main hall, looking around the darkened room. The large cauldron in the middle is abandoned, some sort of strange, orange-brown concoction bubbling away inside, and the giant clam in which the sea-witch usually resides in is empty.

“Yoongbeaaaaaan!” He hollers loudly, cupping his hands around his mouth.

A pause and then from the darkness—“Could you at least pretend to be scared of me?”

Yoongi swims out like a true villain from the shadows, holding a vial of something bright purple in his hands. His menacing, mangled, black tail swishes back and forth, and the sharp fishermen hooks embedded into his disfigured, scarred tail glint in the dull light. He raises an eyebrow at Taehyung who grins goofily at him.

Many are fearful of the sea-witch that lives in the skeleton just beyond the Garden of Polyps. Many have heard stories and rumours of the sea-witch’s scarred, mutilated tail, blackened as a result of the black magic he and his ancestors dabbled in—a stark contrast to everyone else’s multi-coloured, beautiful tails. Many say that the sea-witch can grant you any wish, as a result of being given the gift of magic, but that it comes at a terrible cost.

Many mermen say a lot of things, but to Taehyung, Yoongi is just Yoongi. Not a malicious, wicked sea-witch. Just Yoongi. A little gruff and a little mean, but mostly just misunderstood and lonely. It hurts a little when Taehyung overhears the things mermen say about Yoongi.

“Nope,” Taehyung replies, popping the p with his lips. He floats backwards leisurely, lying down on the giant clam.

Yoongi snorts, swimming over to his cauldron and pouring the purple liquid in. “Trust you, the prince of Atlantica to befriend a fucking sea-witch. Merpeople are terrified of me.”

“You’re so cute, how can I ever be scared of you? Gosh, that’s ridiculous. The merpeople of Atlantica are severely misinformed.”

Yoongi shakes his head in disbelief, but Taehyung can see the little smile playing on his lips. Yoongi twirls his finger and the contents of the cauldron begin to swirl, mixed by an unseen force.

“What’re you brewing?”

“Something to boost one’s intelligence. A merman came in seeking wisdom.”

“Did you scare him with your whole I’m an evil sea-witch, fear me spiel? Let me guess; was it the red smoke this time, or did you do that thing where you emerge from the dark with your creepy pets circling you?”

“I’ve only ever used the red smoke twice, thank you very much,” Yoongi frowns, pouring some of the now-brown liquid into an empty vial. “And Holly and Minnie aren’t creepy. Leave my babies alone.”

“Moray eels are creepy and you know it.”

“They’re cute.”

“This is why everyone thinks you’re evil. You think moray eels are cute.” Taehyung shudders remembering the time Yoongi’s eels had come in and swam around Taehyung, flicking their tails into his face and snickering when he’d jumped.

“I am evil. I’m a sea-witch, the sea-witch.”

“You’re not evil and you—we—both know it. If it weren’t for your stupid ancestors, you wouldn’t even be here. You’d be in Atlantica, hanging out with me and Hoseok.”

Yoongi mutters a few words in an ancient language forgotten by all but those who have magic running in their veins, and the remaining liquid in the cauldron disappears. He sets the vial down. “Yeah, well. That’s never going to happen and you know that. Last time I tried convincing the merpeople of Atlantica I wasn’t evil, well… You know what happened.”

Yoongi’s tail flicks forward and the hooks and broken bits of glass embedded in his mutilated tail glint in the dim light, a dark reminder of what happens when ignorance is tainted by fear. Taehyung knows far too well just what had happened to Yoongi.

“Speaking of evil,” Taehyung steers the conversation into safer waters when he sees Yoongi’s lip curling down into a frown. He doesn’t like it when his hyung is sad. “When are you going to get rid of those Polyps? They’re disgusting.”

Yoongi chuckles and Taehyung breathes a silent breath of relief. “They deter mermen from coming and bothering me. Though that didn’t stop you one little bit.”

“Doesn’t seem to stop a lot of people, by the looks of it,” Taehyung says, looking pointedly at the vial. “What did you charge for that?”

“Three pearls and six of his scales.”

“Three pearls? Six scales?! You’re scamming my people! You know it’s hard even for me to come by pearls, right? And why would you make him yank six of his scales out?! Why are your services so darn expensive and painful?”

“Seokjin’s potions are useless and he’s garbage at magic, so people come to me. If they’re desperate enough to come to me, then they’ll be desperate enough to pay whatever I tell them the price is.”

Taehyung sighs as Yoongi comes to rest next to him. “I would love to be given the gift of magic.”

“Then you would’ve been exiled, like me,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, stretching out on the giant clam. “Besides, being given the gift of music is just as rare. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“I know, I know. What colour would your tail be if it wasn’t cursed?”

“My grandmother told me that those given the gift of magic had golden tails,” Yoongi says quietly, a small smile playing on his lips. “Can you imagine me with a gold tail?”

“That would be so weird. I bet all the merpeople would fall in love with you.”

“Ha! If only.”

They fall into a comfortable silence before Taehyung perks up again. “I forgot why I came here. I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“I saved a human from drowning.”

“What?”

Yoongi’s face looks thunderous—even he, the supposed wicked sea-witch, doesn’t fuck with The Ancient Laws. Taehyung hurries to explain himself.

“I couldn’t leave him, Yoongi! How could I have left him alone? Besides, he looked so much like…” Taehyung trails off.

“Like?” Yoongi prompts.

Taehyung blinks, shaking his head. “Nothing. I saved him from drowning and when he woke up, he told me to go back with him to his castle. I think he was a prince, Yoongi. I saved a prince!”

“A prince?” Yoongi blinks once before bursting out into laughter. “Of course it was a prince.”

“It’s true—” Taehyung begins to hotly argue back but Yoongi silences him with a single finger, his eyes wide.

“Hold up. I feel a haiku coming on.”

Oh Poseidon. Anything but a haiku. “Yoongi, no please,” Taehyung begs, but Yoongi’s not paying any attention to him. He clears his throat dramatically. Taehyung wants to rip his ears off already.

‘Tae rescued a prince Lingering touches and looks, but it was a dream’

Yoongi looks at Taehyung expectantly who groans. He can feel his tail cramping up from the sheer cringe.

“Holy Poseidon,” Taehyung chokes, his fingers curling up into cringe claws. “That was awful. I feel like I’ve aged about thirty years.”

Yoongi looks far too pleased with himself. “Are you kidding? That’s the best one I’ve come up with all day.”

“Are you for real? I thought my ears were going to bleed.”

“Hey!” Yoongi protests, glowering. “I’ll set Holly and Minnie on your sorry ass if you don’t shut up.”

Taehyung shuts up immediately. Yoongi smirks. “That’s what I thought. Anyways, what do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want anything from you?” Taehyung sulks, flicking at a tiny fish that darts by his face.

Yoongi pretends to think, tracing his finger around a hook embedded near his belly button. “Let’s see. You came in saying that you had something to tell me, and then you blabbed on about some maybe-prince you had saved—which, by the way, is against The Ancient Laws—and got all googly-eyed talking about him. You definitely want something from me and I’m willing to bet a pearl that it’s going to be about your supposed prince.”

Damn. Right in one. Taehyung supposes that there Yoongi isn’t given the gift of magic for no reason, then.

Taehyung pouts. “Okay, fine. You’re right.”

“Nothing new, but go on,” Yoongi motions, a smirk playing on his lips. “What is it you want, oh so mighty Prince Taehyung?”

“I wanted you to show me the prince. I’m willing to bet a pearl he really is a prince.”

Yoongi makes a face. “Seriously? You want to spy on your loverboy? Why are you so creepy?”

“It’s not creepy!” Taehyung objects indignantly. “I… I just wanna see if he’s alright, that’s all.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay. We can pretend that that’s why you want to see him.”

“Don’t make me sing!”

“Ooh, threatening me now? If your father could see you now,” Yoongi grins as Taehyung smacks his arm. “Okay, fine. I’ll show you him. I should charge you three of your pretty scales, they’d do wonders for my potions. I am the sea-witch, after all.”

“Payment? I’m your friend!” Taehyung whines.

“Four of your pretty scales, then.”

“Yoongi!”

“Okay, fine. Just this once. Then after I’m really going to start charging you.”

That’s a lie. Yoongi’s been brewing potions and casting spells for Taehyung free of charge for as long as Taehyung can remember.

But Taehyung likes to humour his cute Yoongi. It’s like a thing they have.

“Sure, Yoongi. Whatever you say.”

  Jeongguk had always believed he had been someone who was well acquainted with the ocean. They were almost friends, if anything. Growing up as the prince of South Korea’s best and busiest fishing port Jeongguk had spent the greater portion of his life either on a ship or in the water.

But as Jeongguk sits on his balcony overlooking the ocean, watching the waves crash against each other, he can’t help but wonder just how well acquainted he really is with the ocean. Can he even call himself the self proclaimed, self confessed Prince of the Ocean?

Jeongguk wonders if this is what Julius Caesar felt like while he was brutally murdered by his so-called friend Brutus. He wonders if this is the betrayal Caesar felt.

That’s the least of his problems, though. There’s that one problem that’s been eating away at Jeongguk’s goddamn mind for the past week. The wretched M problem.

The mermaid. God, Jeongguk shudders even thinking about thinking about it. He had seen a mythical creature, half man, half fish before his very eyes, hypnotising him with its goddamn beautiful golden hair and its voice that had washed over him and made him want to give him every possession he had.

Maybe Namjoon was right. Maybe he had somehow ingested that weed and maybe it had gotten into his bloodstream and he had been as high as a kite. That makes more sense. Otherwise Jeongguk is going to be left with so many more questions that can’t be answered by neither Namjoon nor the library nor—god forbid—his fucking father.

Questions that have been keeping Jeongguk up all night these couple of days. Questions like—does that mean killing fish is essentially like killing that mermaids’ cousins? Are there more of them? And where do they live? Why was its tail rainbow coloured, when all those paintings depict them usually as blue or green? Are all their tails rainbow? Was it going to attack and eat Jeongguk? Was he lucky to escape with his life?

Jeongguk is so deep in thought he doesn’t notice Namjoon until he’s practically breathing down his throat.

“Your Majesty—” Jeongguk yelps loudly, startling so hard he jerks backwards, hitting his head onto something hard and pointy.

Namjoon staggers back a few steps, lips trembling with the effort of stopping himself from swearing in front of the prince, clutching onto his chin.

Jeongguk rubs his head. “Have you ever heard of knocking before entering?!”

“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” Namjoon gasps, rubbing his chin ruefully. “I thought I had made my presence quite clear. I was talking about the weather for like, two minutes. I had assumed you knew I was there. But that was my bad.”

“Your bad indeed,” Jeongguk sniffs. “What is it?”

“The king asked for you.” Namjoon looks around furtively before dropping his voice and beckoning for Jeongguk to come closer. “Bad vibes, Your Majesty,” he whispers, his high and mighty demeanour dropping faster than a hot potato upon the realisation that they are alone. “Your father was lookin’ real antsy. Kept pacing around and doing that thing where he—” Namjoon mimes sighing deeply, before closing his eyes dramatically and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jeongguk winces. That means his father is worried about something which automatically means Jeongguk has to be worried about it, too. He wonders just how bad it is.

“Did he…” Jeongguk trails off, looking at Namjoon meaningfully.

“Ask for a glass of red wine? Your Majesty, he asked for an entire bottle.”

Oh god. Really, really bad, then.

Jeongguk stands. He stares out towards the ocean one last time, watching the waves crash together in resignation. Mermaids and mythology and boys with golden hair and rainbow scales will have to wait for another day.

    It’s chaos.

Jeongguk stands at the entrance of the planning room, watching with trepidation as his father’s advisors clamour and talk over each other loudly in an attempt to be heard, while his father sits at the head of the table, a solemn expression on his face, his finger tracing across the rim of the wine glass.

Namjoon clears his throat hesitantly. “Announcing the arrival of Prince Jeongguk…”

Namjoon trails off as the advisors’ shout at each other loudly and he turns to Jeongguk with a panicked expression on his face. Jeongguk rolls his eyes and walks towards his chair at the opposite end of the table. The planning room goes silent immediately, all advisors jumping to their feet and bowing deeply to Jeongguk, who waves them back down before sitting down.

“Father?” Jeongguk asks. “What’s happening?”

Maybe that was a little too casual, if the way the advisor with the ugly, stiff-looking military jacket scoffs says anything. Jeongguk glares at him, and he shrinks back immediately into his seat. Slimy little worm. Jeongguk always hated him.

“Jeongguk,” His father sighs. “As the Crown Prince you should know better. It is your duty to be aware of affairs even before they occur.”

Jeongguk thinks that’s a little unfair, considering he was literally on the verge of death a mere week ago.

“Your Majesty,” A little balding man pipes up. “There have been reports of unrest in the neighbouring provinces.”

“Unrest?” Jeongguk frowns.

“Yes, Your Majesty. We have received reports that peasants in the neighbouring provinces are revolting against their monarchs, due to the belief that they are being undervalued and overworked.”

“Oh.” Jeongguk’s not too sure what to say. Cool sounds a little too careless and a shocked gasp seems a little theatrical. He sneaks a glance towards Namjoon who’s motioning for him to say something more. “That’s… not good.”

Namjoon facepalms.

“Indeed it isn’t,” His father says. “Do you know what revolts in neighbouring provinces means, Jeongguk?”

He actually does. Namjoon had a rather passionate rant about this the other day. Maybe it was a good idea that he didn’t kick Namjoon to the curb.

“It means that we too are in danger of revolts. Our people might become influenced by those who rebel and rise up against us,” Jeongguk says immediately. Namjoon breathes a visible breath of relief.

Yes, Jeongguk knows what that means. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that he agrees.

“We have to take immediate action,” The military worm jumps in. Jeongguk frowns. Rude. He hadn’t finished talking. “Your Highness, we—”

“I think not, Jungjae,” Jeongguk interrupts delicately, raising a finger. Jeongguk just made that name up. He has no idea what the military worm’s name is, but he feels like Jungjae is a slimy enough name to match such a slimy character.  Jungjae the military worm mashes his lips together into an ugly name and Jeongguk cackles meanly on the inside.

“Jeongguk?” His father frowns.

“Father,” Jeongguk leans forward. “There is unrest in the neighbouring provinces because their people are unhappy. Perhaps their king does not care for his people the same way we do. We listen to our people. There is no reason for them to be unhappy.”

Jeongguk feels a little smug—his little spiel was pretty darn good, if he was to be so bold. He glances over to where Namjoon stands, attempting to send a subtle thumbs up, but Namjoon’s expression makes Jeongguk’s thumbs up wither and die. Namjoon’s mouth is open, his brows pinched together, and if Jeongguk was to make a wild guess, it’s kind of a holy-fuck-you’ve-fucked-up kind of expression.

“Your Majesty is clearly living in a daydream,” Jungjae the military worm says. There’s a victorious little grin on the smug bastard’s face Jeongguk wants to slap off. “To say that there is no reason for our people to unhappy is idealistic and unrealistic.”

“Sanhyuk is correct, Jeongguk,” his father interjects. So Sanhyuk is the worm’s name. What a waste of a perfectly good name, Jeongguk thinks sourly to himself. “You are foolish to think that our people have no reason to revolt, and you are wrong to assume their king does not care for his people. Do not let your guard down, especially at a time when we are so vulnerable.”

“Yes, father.”

“We must remain ready for any sort of attack, yet we must be good to our people. As the Crown Prince, you must do your duty. Tend to your people, listen to them. But do not let your guard down. Think of it as a test. In time, you will become king and it will be your responsibility to handle these occurrences with grace and diligence.”

Jeongguk can feel his shoulders weighing down with his father’s words and Sanhyuk the worm’s stupid grin and the judgment radiating from all the advisor’s are suddenly the least of Jeongguk’s problems.

He looks up slowly to meet his father’s eyes. Serious and unwavering, Jeongguk’s father is everything a king is meant to be and more. And soon, so will Jeongguk.

“Do not disappoint me, Jeon Jeongguk.”

“Yes, father.”  

     Jeongguk’s not sure how he’s done it.

Maybe it was pure luck. Maybe some higher power felt sorry for him because of the crushing pressure and expectation. Or maybe he had just underestimated his own physical prowess.

Because somehow he has managed to shake off Namjoon, who has taken to him like a particularly annoying fly Jeongguk just can’t get rid of now matter how hard he tries.

After the disaster of a meeting a few days ago, Namjoon had followed Jeongguk around, cursing Sanhyuk the worm on Jeongguk’s behalf. When he wasn’t cursing, he was planning witty comebacks Jeongguk could be sure to utilise next time he got into an argument. When he wasn’t planning he was worrying with Jeongguk, trying to come up with plans and battle strategies in the case of an emergency battle.

Jeongguk, at first, had been grateful for Namjoon’s annoying persistence. It had taken his mind off the tremendous burden he had felt. But then when he wouldn’t leave Jeongguk alone, even when Jeongguk was in the midst of pushing out a big one, Jeongguk had taken to running away from Namjoon whenever the opportunity arose. Which wasn’t as often as he had hoped, seeing as Namjoon had an annoying habit of finding all of Jeongguk’s nooks and crannies and hidey-holes.

But somehow Jeongguk has managed to successfully shake off Namjoon—it had involved strenuous planning and the spur of moment luck that had occurred—and is now near the rock pools at the beach far, far away from the castle (and hopefully, Namjoon).

Jeongguk figures that the further away he gets from the castle, the longer it’ll take for Namjoon to find him, which means he’ll get more of his precious Me Time. He makes his way towards the rock pools, climbing over rocks with ease.

He reaches the part near a cliff, where it curves inwards a little creating a small cave of sorts, right next to a deep pool of clear water. Jeongguk settles down with a little sigh, rubbing his eyes tiredly and resting his head in his arms.

To say that Jeongguk is worried about the unrest and the meeting would be an understatement. As his father so lovingly pointed out (in front of everyone, thus succeeding in making Jeongguk look like a royal idiot), he had to be ready for any sort of attack.

Jeongguk is good at fighting. He’s good with a bow and arrow and fucking fantastic with a sword, so he’s definitely physically ready for any attack. But emotionally ready? Mentally ready? He’s not too sure about that. Jeongguk is in the midst of wondering if it’s too late to run away and join some gang of bandits or something when he he’s jerked out of his reverie.

“Hello.”

A voice shatters his thoughts and he startles violently. His immediate reaction is disappointment at the fact that Namjoon has found his hidey-hole so goddamn quickly and he turns in the direction of the voice, ready to complain loudly and struggle the entire way back home and—oh. Oh.

There is someone who is most definitely not Namjoon peeking out from behind the large rock in the middle of the pool of water. That is most definitely not Namjoon on the account of two things.

One, Namjoon doesn’t like water and there’s little chance you’d find him near the water, very much less in it. Two, Namjoon doesn’t have golden coloured hair and large doe eyes and—holy fuck.

Holy fucking fuck.

A tail. A big, huge, rainbow-coloured, shiny fucking tail.

Which fucking means—

“Mermaid,” Jeongguk whispers, mostly to himself. “I knew I wasn’t going crazy.”

And for the second time in a week, Jeon Jeongguk passes out.

#bts fic #bts fanfic #taekook fic #taekook fanfic #taekook #taeguk #bangtan fic #I DID IT!! !I PULLED THROUGH FOR MY OTP MY RIDE OR DIE [THUMPS CHEST] #SO. MANY. SHITTY. FISH. PUNS.

[naenvs3000-blog]

N(art)

Posted Oct 24 2017.

 “Beauty is too personal, and therefore too subjective, to lend itself to a universal definition. One person experiencing something as beautiful does not make it so for everyone” (Beck and Cable 2010).

 I agree with this opinion, and rather than thinking it a difficulty to deal with in interpretation, I think it makes art, and nature interpretation much more interesting. If we all thought the same things were beautiful, wouldn’t this be such a boring life? Every art gallery would be full of the same paintings, every nature walk identical.

Nature is..

Powerful

Nature isn’t just beautiful for its aesthetic qualities.. Why is that? First, I think beauty in nature has to do with the feelings it evokes within people. In nature, you simultaneously feel yourself as insignificant and as part of the bigger picture.

“To the explorer, the land becomes large, alive like an animal; it humbles him in a way he cannot pronounce. It is not that the land is simply beautiful, but that it is powerful.”

-          Barry Lopez

Art does the same thing. Just as how standing in a forest evokes different feelings in different people, so too does looking at a painting. The debate about “what is art” is an endless one because it’s so subjective. You can use this to your advantage when using art to interpret nature, acknowledging that what you present will connect with people on different levels and in different ways.

 Complex

Second, by appreciating and understanding the complexity and interrelatedness of nature, we can begin to see conventionally “unattractive” aspects of nature as beautiful. How many people find insects beautiful? To many insects are a source of fear and disgust. To an entomologist, insects are spectacular. Their beauty lies in their complexity, their diversity, and their uniqueness.

Take spiders, for example. Many people are terrified of spiders. I am also afraid of spiders. Yet, with a little research, I can appreciate their beauty. Some of them have amazing adaptations, like the diving bell spider. It is one of the only species that can live underwater. These spiders build sheets of silk called diving bells that are waterproof, and allow for gas exchange in the water. They basically live in an air bubble!

Could we call spider webs a work of art? They are certainly complex, and pleasing to the eye. They evoke feelings of awe, just like a painting would.

Dynamic

“No man ever steps in the same river twice.”

-          Heraclitus

There are two ways to interpret this quote - one, is that we as humans are ever changing and thus we are never the same person we were moments ago; two, the river is constantly changing, it is in a constant state of flux. I think both are true.  One of the most beautiful aspects of nature, in my opinion, is that it is a living work of art. The beauty you find one day may not be there the next. A perfect example are flowers, some of which only bloom for a couple of minutes and then close. Part of their beauty isn’t in just the flower, but their fleeting nature. In Costa Rica, I discovered that new species of flowers are discovered every year because they bloom for such a short time period, deep in the rainforests, that it’s a matter of pure chance that someone comes across them.

A perfect sunrise doesn’t happen every day. Chancing upon a rare plant may not happen again for a long time. This helps us appreciate the beauty of nature. The power of nature not only to create, but to destroy its’ beauties gives them a unique quality.

One of my favourite nature sculpture artists is Andy Goldsworthy. He spends countless hours creating sculptures out of natural materials, takes a photograph, and then lets the sculpture return to nature. Part of the beauty of his work is that it is temporary. Like standing in a forest, in must be appreciated in the present moment (or through a photograph).

Andy Goldsworthy. 

Beauty in Nature: Unfilling Your Cup

How do we interpret beauty in nature? As beauty (and art) are so subjective, I think we must help people unfill their cups. Imagine your mind as a cup. The cup is full of thoughts – major responsibilities like school, work, family, hobbies etc. There are tons of small things in there too – memories, song lyrics, ideas about what you’ll have for dinner tonight, and so on. When you are in a beautiful space, it’s hard to appreciate its’ beauty if your cup is full. An interpreters job is to help people empty their cup; to help them become more receptive and open to beauty. What, or why they find something beautiful is not up to you.

[flauntpage]

Saray Khumalo Takes on Everest

Standing at the base of Mount Everest, Saray Khumalo throws back her head and tilts her face to the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive summit towering 29,029 feet overhead.

The imposing, snow-capped peaks of Nepal's Himalayan mountain range feel like a different world from the dense, sweltering jungle where she grew up.

This is Khumalo's third attempt to climb Mount Everest. In 2014, a deadly avalanche stopped her from summiting, and in 2015 she almost died in Nepal's devastating earthquake. If she succeeds this spring, Khumalo will be the first black African woman to summit the world's tallest mountain.

At Everest Base Camp, she clutches three flags in her cold, stiff hands, all honoring her African heritage: Rwanda, where her parents are from; Zambia, where she was born; and South Africa, where she lives today.

Born into a missionary family of seven daughters, Khumalo grew up in a township in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where the ambitions of impoverished women were largely deemed insignificant—the D.R.C. ranks 176th out of 188 countries in the United Nation's Gender Inequality Index, and decades of warfare have contributed to a horrific epidemic of sexual violence. It is by no means an easy place for a young girl to thrive, but Khumalo attributes her success to her mother, who taught her to dream big from an early age.

"My mom used to say that it doesn't matter that you are a girl," Khumalo told VICE Sports. "You can be anything you want, and you don't [need] another man or another woman or another person to help you. Only you can help you and only you can stop yourself from reaching for the sky."

Khumalo on Mount Aconagua. Courtesy Saray Khumalo

Never a sporty kid, Khumalo used to beg her mom for letters excusing her from school athletics. She eventually discovered a passion for outdoor sports after enrolling in a church program that organized wilderness excursions for kids, but it was just that—excursions. Khumalo completed her education and found work at an insurance company. She married a South African man, and the couple moved to Johannesburg to start a family.

It was motherhood that brought Khumalo back to the wilderness. She wanted her two sons to experience the thrill of mastering nature, as she had. Her family started camping and hiking, rediscovering the African outdoors. During a vacation to the United States, an American asked Khumalo if she had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa.

"I just thought, This is my story. I should be telling you about Kilimanjaro," she said. "And I put it on my bucket list."

In 2012, after several years of saving, Khumalo traveled to Tanzania with a group of friends and reached her first summit—Kilimanjaro. There, standing on what's known as the "roof of Africa," she cried tears of joy. She made it.

"It's a feeling that you get for a fleeting moment because you don't stay at the summit for a long time," she said. "But it's a feeling that stays with you forever."

Khumalo used her trip to Kilimanjaro as a fundraiser to build KidsHaven, a library for poor children in South Africa.

"The appreciation and the realization on the faces of those kids that I, who also grew up in a township like them, can stand up and do something for them—it was life changing," she said.

Ice climbing. Courtesy Saray Khumalo

After returning from Kilimanjaro, Khumalo furiously researched mountain climbing and set her sights on a new goal: summiting the world's seven highest mountains. For her, it's not just about the mountains; it's about showing young Africans that the circumstances you're born into do not define you.

Khumalo spent the next few years raising money for her trips, eventually summiting Russia's Mount Elbrus at 18,510 feet, and Argentina's Aconcagua, at 22,841 feet. With each successful climb, she built a school or library to promote education in Africa, particularly for girls. As of 2015, there were 16.7 million girls out of school in sub-Saharan Africa, according to UNESCO. And 9.3 million of those girls will never make it into a classroom.

She drew inspiration and support from women like Sophia Danenberg, an African-American climber who in 2006 became the first black woman to summit Everest. But she also saw the harsher side of an expensive sport largely dominated by white men, many of whom could not imagine a black woman from the slums of Africa breaking into their circle.

During her attempt to climb the Aconcagua, for example, the tallest mountain in the world outside of Asia, she was forced to defend her abilities to another climber from Germany.

"He said, 'There are no mountains in South Africa. What makes you think you can climb Aconcagua?'" Khumalo recalled.

"Well, because I can," she responded, matter of factly. "I've got as much of a shot as you do."

Khumalo successfully summited Aconcagua that day. Her fellow climber did not.

She says that the racism and sexism she's encountered has only pushed her to work harder toward her goal. "I'm proving them wrong for another African girl, who's going to have an easier time because I broke that barrier.

In 2014, Khumalo decided she was ready to tackle Everest, but her trip abruptly ended when an avalanche killed 16 sherpas. The event shook Khumalo to her core and made her question her own ambitions.

"It was the first time that I realized how dangerous climbing can be," she said. "I actually saw people dying, and bodies being carried and it just became real. I had to question if I'm doing the right thing."

Khumalo spent hours reflecting and talking with her family until she came to a clear realization: If we're all going to die one day, why not die doing something we love?

"I realized this is my journey," she said. "So I decided I was going to continue climbing. I was just going to be a lot more careful."

Khumalo spent the next year training harder than ever for her second attempt at Everest. She had already reached the second camp when a massive earthquake hit the mountain, forcing her to turn back. She immediately started planning her third attempt upon returning home, but her plans were put on hold again after a cycling accident put her in a three-week coma.

She pulled through. Now she's back at Everest, standing in the shadow of the world's tallest mountain, gazing up at the sky. She hopes to summit in late May.

Neha Wadekar is a Kenya-based multimedia journalist and contributor to The Fuller Project for International Reporting.

Saray Khumalo Takes on Everest published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[ecritetmort]

Beauty is terror

- and in that moment, I welcomed the fear: what was there to do but embrace it?

Even when love is out of the question and feelings are fleeting, there are those who dazzle the eyes and claim the mind, demanding attention, demanding praise, demanding respect and appreciation; she was one of them; in a moment of self-realization, the squalor of this place and form struck out as filth in comparison, for where there is reverence, there is hatred too; the lash back of why am I not like her? why am I not as equally radiant?

They lie when they speak of wobbling knees and dropped lip; signs of awe and of fear are different. A miracle and sight demands awe in its presence; this demanded fear: fear of domination, fear of inadequacy, fear of insignificance and relative nothingness; where she inspired, she did so with the knowledge that no matter how hard you tried, you could never be enough.

And so instead you simply looked on, heart threatening to take flight in your chest; you were shaken and struck weak, and that is not your fault; knowing suddenly the greatest fear is terrifying, and my, how you fear a beautiful thing. 

#prompts #original writing #Anonymail

[richardsfourfaith-blog]

Oversharing

Have you ever had someone tell you some really impactful news, and then you proceed to spill? Not coffee...not water...your guts. Within those moments, for those of you who have had them, I believe we are just trying to grasp a way to make the other person understand how much we care about what they are saying. We inevitably share a little, then a little bit more, and then that creeping thought that you were thinking about not saying just pops right out. Immediately you feel ok about it. About 10 minutes after the conversation ends, however, you walk away haunted by the fact you couldn't keep your mouth shut. Maybe what you said wasn't so bad. Maybe the other person isn't giving it another thought, but all that currently matters is that you want to take it back. If you are like me, you can't stop thinking about it for at least 24 hours, if not more. If I have no access to the person I spoke with for a few days, I am dying to see them so I can either somehow backpedal or at least figure out if what I have obsessed over is even still living in their memory. I am having one of those moments. Yesterday, I was told some really great news. In an effort to express my appreciation for the amount of faith that is being placed in me and heightened level of responsibility, I totally overshared worthless potential career information because I wanted to express that my allegiance lies where I am. Dumb...just dumb. I could feel myself holding it back. There was too much silence. I felt like I hadn't expressed enough gratitude and out it came...just spilled everywhere, but not like water, more like jelly. Jelly is a little watery, a little clumpy, spills slowly and leaves a sticky trail. Its all pretty ridiculous really. This is just one insignificant overshare of many more dramatic ones. Maybe the solution is to pull this person aside on Monday and request that they forgive my inability to filter at that moment, or plead that we forget I ever said that. Maybe I will feel worse if I say anything at all. 

The bigger issue here is this. We have minds that are so smart. They learn, create, problem-solve, and much more. Unfortunately they also work involuntarily. My eyes blink without me thinking about it. I don't even have to think about making my fingers type as I am sitting here writing this. All I have to do is think of the words I want to say, and my brain does all the work. I suppose that is why all I have to do is have a fleeting, stupid thought and it will just involuntarily come out no matter how much I want to keep it from doing so. I always promise myself after incidents like this that I will work on strengthening my mindfulness and self-restraint for next time. Hopefully you have a better solution. If so, do share. It is moments like these that I am thankful for grace, mercy, compassion, and forgiveness. There is no avoiding the fact that I am human and will say something stupid again at some point in my life. Lord knows, this whole country is saying some pretty dumb things right now regarding this election business. News flash, the election was in November...but that is for another time...when I feel like spilling more things I don't need to say for others to hear. :)

In conclusion, if you are feeling like you need to practice self-restraint and control your words in moments of heightened emotion, you are not alone. You are accompanied at the very least by me. Keep learning from your mistakes, and always have faith that everything happens for a reason. If you didn't learn this lesson you might make a much bigger mistake in the future. If you overshared and something bad came from it, maybe there is something else that is meant to happen. Regardless, we can rest in the knowledge that God provides, He loves us when we spill things (and probably doesn't want us to cry over it), and as long as we are doing our best to bring glory and honor to Him, He promises to always hold us in His favor. Please extend that compassion and forgiveness to people as you wish they would to you. Its never a mistake.

[reformedyappings]

The Rare Jewel

"Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content." - Philippians 4:11

Paul, the holy apostle of Christ, speaks thus of himself: that he has learned, or rather, has had to learn, to be content. It is learned, for it is not something natural. We all have to learn this skill of contentment by the Word of God and the Spirit's help. This contentment I speak of is specifically Christian contentment, a jewel with which only Christians can be adorned.

Jeremiah Burroughs (1599-1646) was an English puritan preacher who possessed in his character two seemingly contradictory traits: a fervent zeal for purity of doctrine and worship, and a peaceable spirit. He was outstanding among his fellows in the latter. He wrote the book "The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment", a most worthy textbook of the uninspired kind (meaning apart from the Bible) on this subject. He did not add an "Epistle to the Reader" as puritan writers like John Owen or John Flavel do, providing glimpses of the author's heart and mind as he presents his discourse to the reader, telling of the motivations of his writing. Doubtless, though, Burroughs had intended to instruct fellow saints who were downcast during the "sad and sinking times" (in his own words) in which they lived. He saw how a contented Christian could scarcely be found, hence the title of his book. I will draw mainly from his book.

We must begin with a definition of what Christian contentment is. I find it meet to quote Burroughs in full: Christian contentment is that sweet, inward, quiet, gracious frame of spirit, which freely submits to and delights in God's wise and fatherly disposals in every condition. Notice it is inward, and not merely an outward calm that remains undisturbed whatever befalls. For it is a very easy thing to achieve, without any learning, to by sheer violence of will restrain outward manifestations of discontentment, while murmurings are festering inside the heart. "Truly my soul waiteth upon God" (Psalm 62:1), your soul must be at peace. It was an easy thing to appear calm when the dismissal time in BMT was continually pushed back and my platoon mates grumbled incessantly, but it was a difficult thing to control my own grumblings inside. Notice too that to be content, one must freely submit to and delight in God's wise and fatherly disposal in every condition.It is not only submission to God's hand, saying with a disgruntled spirit, "this is the Lord's will, He will do as He pleases." but submission made freely and delightfully, "Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice." - (Philippians 4:4). We have to have this joy in the Lord always. It is easy to say that something is of the hand of God when it profits us, but what about when it is something unpleasant? When the stress of examinations was overwhelming me and my results were sub-optimal, I could hardly rejoice in the Lord, for I had not learned contentment. It hardly entered into my mind to see this as from the hand of God, and part of His loving dispensations towards me. Hence, I could not freely and delightfully submit to His disposals.

Very well then, so much for what contentment is, but is it so big an issue? It certainly is. Consider the words of Jude 14-16: "And Enoch also, the seventh from Adam, prophesied of these, saying, Behold, the Lord cometh with ten thousands of his saints,To execute judgment upon all, and to convince all that are ungodly among them of all their ungodly deeds which they have ungodly committed, and of all their hard speeches which ungodly sinners have spoken against him. These are murmurers, complainers, walking after their own lusts; and their mouth speaketh great swelling words, having men's persons in admiration because of advantage." hard speeches spoken against God, murmurers, complainers. These are among the sins that are especially highlighted. What kind of spirit gives rise to these? A spirit of discontentment. Murmuring is a sin of great ungodliness, for it is rebellion against God. It is contrary to the worship of God that is in contentedness. In the worship of God we humbly bow before Him, and declare Him Lord, but in murmuring in our hearts we tell God that He has not done for us as He ought. Must God indeed give you good success? Must He grant you to fulfill the lusts of your heart? Must He make you free from the obligations of school or work? If in any condition we murmur in our hearts, we are accusing God of withdrawing His love (which is eternal) from us. Consider the murmurings of the children of Israel in the wilderness, and the judgment of God upon them.

Ah, some may say, you do not know what a terrible condition I am in, and you tell me to be content! You can most certainly talk about contentment when you are having peace. But be in my place, and you would not be talking about contentment at all. To such I would reply, that holy Scripture tells us to be content, and therefore all are bound to this. We all go through our own sad and sinking times, but even the darkest pits of hell on this side hell cannot excuse us from this duty. The duty to be content is upon us both in good times and bad. When I had to leave church early on the Lord's Day because the army forced me to, I knew I had to be content. No matter how much I was displeased at it, I had to delight myself in the Lord.

As you may now already know, it is a very difficult thing to be content, or else we would not have to learn it. So how may we learn it? By Scripture, and by a proper, Spirit-guided reasoning from the truths thereof. Burroughs gave many directions to the attainment of Christian contentment, I shall here only mention a few, particularly those which I have found most helpful to me in my current difficulty, and I trust that they will be helpful to you too.

The first is to consider the greatness of the mercies of God which He bestows upon us, particularly our salvation and the many spiritual blessings. "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits:" (Psalm 103:2) Remember His abundant goodness to us in every way, consider how His mercy faileth never. How can we be discontented with lacking what the ungodly can have, when we already have what they cannot have? "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ:" (Ephesians 1:3) How ashamed we should be, if we vex ourselves over vain things when we have God as our inheritance! Do not we as Christians already possess so great a treasure? He has blessed us in heavenly places. Should we be angry at losing earthly things, which are so lowly and insignificant in comparison? In my life I have known some losses and wants, some of which put me in a state of depression. We all go through some of this. But why must we cry over losing a few dollar bills when we have a full vault of gold?

The next direction is to consider our lowliness, and how much we deserve to suffer and die. We are so lowly. What are we compared to the glory of God? We are mere mortals, we are weak, and our lives are fleeting moments. We are sinful and rebellious against God by nature. How great is the magnitude of grace God shows towards us by not utterly destroying us! And dare we now be discontented with our conditions, seeing we still have breath? "For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust." (Psalm 103:14) See how Scripture describes us. We are dust. Do you treasure dust? I think not. Yet the Lord takes pity on us in our ever-so-mean conditions, the problem being we do not see it, and think He ought to do more for us. Let us be like Mephibosheth, who said to David, "What is thy servant, that thou shouldest look upon such a dead dog as I am?" (2 Samuel 9:8) Many times in my work I feel so helpless against the winds and waves that toss and buffet, but I remember how I do not at all even deserve to be alive, and that it is ridiculous to be complaining when I am not in hell.

The third direction is to see God's hand of love in everything He makes us go through. We all know what Romans 8:28 says. But do we truly appreciate the meaning of "all things"? Not some things, not most things, but all things. The flood of assignments to finish, the ridicule you suffer for being a Christian, the loss of a gadget you rely on, not being able to be with the guy/girl you like, and so on. Anything and everything that happens to a child of God is going to contribute in some way to his or her final good. That is the precious promise of Scripture, and it is because of God's love for us that He makes all things work out for our good. Seeing this, how can we be murmuring against God in doing something for us out of love? It is difficult to see how a trial can be sent our way because of love. But on this matter, Scripture already tells us why trials are valuable (James 1:2-4). See then how gracious God is, by giving us reason after reason in Scripture to trust in Him and delight in Him. Murmuring on our part, therefore, should be inexcusable.

A final consideration I would include here, is that we have a sure insurance in heaven. Insurers pay us a sum of money (under certain conditions) when we suffer losses against which we are insured, like houses or cars, even parts and functions of our body. Christians have a full insurance, which is in heaven. All losses we suffer here on earth will be more than made up in heaven. "This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through. My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue." Think about the words of this familiar song I quoted here. We have treasure in heaven, it will pay for all. What good can we possibly lose here that will not be repaid in heaven? An eternity in the presence of God awaits us, free from all evil, all sin, all sorrow! Will you then be discontented with your current state, as if this will be your lot forever? But a little while, and we shall pass through the gates of pearly splendor, into an eternity of joy. "For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory;" (2 Corinthians 4:17)

There is yet so much more to be said about this weighty subject, but I trust that this will suffice. I pray that the Lord would help us to learn this skill of contentment, especially in this age of abundance, where people expect much comfort and are apt to show their displeasure at the slightest of trivialities. I trust that you will find contentment to be indeed a very precious jewel, when you meet with sad and sinking times of your own.

"Do all things without murmurings and disputings:That ye may be blameless and harmless, the sons of God, without rebuke, in the midst of a crooked and perverse nation, among whom ye shine as lights in the world;" - Philippians 2:14-15

Written by: Asaph