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the-archangel · 10 months

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Are Friends Electric?

Kerry and V have had a row, don't blame me it wasn't my fault :D

Misty is worried, it’s almost three hours ago now that V had taken the elevator to the roof. This wasn’t unusual in itself as he often went up there to spend time with his thoughts, but this time he’d bypassed the store, presumably to avoid a conversation, Misty only knew he was up there because she’d seen the flash of his currently blue hair on the way past and then heard the hum soon after as the elevator made its way to the top of the building.

He’d seemed better, more stable lately. The operation had affected him mentally more than anything else, months of physical therapy had helped him walk again and build up enough stamina to start to go back to training, but his absolute refusal to talk about what happened to anyone but Kerry had been a worry, even to the Rockerboy himself.

She respected that he didn’t want to talk, he had a lot going on and found it hard to articulate, sometimes making him embarrassed and angry, but he’d gone up a long time now and Misty knew that it wasn’t long ago he’d been up there with a pill and a gun weighing up his options. Locking the door, she makes her way up to the roof.

Slouched on the grubby white garden chair V cuts a pathetic figure, a bottle in one hand and a cigarette almost burnt down to his fingers in the other. Misty sighs with relief, she’d expected worse although she’s only now realising it. Kneeling quietly in front of him she flicks the cig from his fingers and places the three-quarters empty bottle onto the floor gently shaking his knee to bring his attention around.

Now he lifts his head the tear tracks are evident, the redness of his eyes would have given him away regardless, the smudges on his cheeks seem to have come from wiping his eyes with bloodied knuckles.

“Who came off worse, you or the wall?” she asks him with a half-smile.

V sniffs loudly and just manages to look her in the eye, “Wall’s fucked, serves it right.”

Although now smiling, V is clearly very troubled, the smile only serving to make him look somewhat unhinged.

“Wanna talk about it?”

A non-committal shrug seems to be the best she’s going to get for now.

V had been is a stormy mood for the best part of a week, at first Kerry had tried to talk him around and get to the bottom of it, but he was being met with a brick wall every time and if he’s honest he has other shit going on that demands his attention so he’d reluctantly backed off and waited for whatever this was to burn itself out.

Louise is after more cash, holding the kids to ransom once again. Even though they’re grown she still has complete control, how had he not noticed what a controlling bitch she was until it was too late? Kerry is hunched over the laptop in V’s office trying to compose an email with the right balance of ‘Stop being a cunt’ and ‘Get fucked’ when the ex-merc storms in and swings Kerry’s chair around to face him, only just stopping short of giving the other man whiplash.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he spits indicating the overnight bag which Kerry has placed on the floor next to the elevator.

Kerry is taken aback but tries to keep his tone light, “I’ve got a two-day promo thing in Texas, I reminded you yesterday and it’s been on the calendar for weeks.”

“You’re leaving? Now? You can’t be fucking serious.” V has now taken to wildly gesticulating and pacing the room. “You can’t leave now.”

It was pleading more than threatening, but Kerry is still concerned. “I’ve got to babe, but I’ll be back Friday. We’ll go somewhere fancy for dinner when I get back, how ‘bout that?”

“You think throwing your cash around in an over-priced shithole is going to make this better? Fuck you Kerry, you have no idea what I’m going through, you’ve hardly even spoken to me in days.”

“I’ve tried talking to you and it’s hardly my fault that you never check the fucking calendar. Maybe a couple of days apart will do us good.”

Kerry is as stunned as V is when the words spill out of his mouth. The anger and hurt in V’s simmering gaze is more than Kerry can bear, but before he can try to explain or apologise the other man has stormed back through the door and Kerry winces on behalf of the lounge wall that has just been tastefully redesigned by V’s formidable fists. He sits with his fingers woven together and his head bowed for several minutes until the soft hiss of the elevator doors opening indicates that he is alone in the apartment and he goes to survey the damage.

That was yesterday morning, since then V has been going from bar to bar, getting into trouble and fitfully sleeping in a doorway, he can’t remember a lot of it, but as the anger receded and a deep sadness began to set in, he knew he needed to be here on the rooftop, alone with his thoughts. He finds some comfort in this place, feels close to Jackie and to Johnny, he talks out loud to them sometimes even though they’re gone, but he’s pleased that Misty is here now, his thoughts were getting darker and he was struggling to work up the enthusiasm to leave at all.

Misty moves to the other chair and hooks V’s pinky finger with her own sitting quietly looking out over the City and letting him get it all out in his own time. He tells her about the argument, about being hurt by what Kerry said, about being in a dark place right now and not feeling supported and she listens, nods and tightens the grip on his finger.

“Why do you think Kerry said what he said V?” Misty asks.

V bites back his first reaction and thinks for a moment before answering, “I’ve been a bit of a dick I guess, kicking off at the smallest things, chewing his ear off while he’s trying to work. No one else understands though, what it’s like to…” V stops and sighs.

“…be without Johnny?”

“Yeah, I guess. But he’s given up on me, just left me to work through it by myself, thing is I’m not sure I can.” V gazes sadly out over Night City, neon blurred by the tears returning to his eyes.

Misty puts her hand on his arm and turns to look him in the eye. “It’s a lot, what you went through, you’re struggling and that’s fine, but Kerry’s struggling too. He’s got his own demons, now he’s got yours as well, he’s doing his best but he’s out of his depth. There’s no shame in talking to a professional, someone who can unpick what you went through and set you back on a more positive path.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but he was going to leave, today of all days he was going to leave me by myself and fuck off to Texas.”

“Does he know why today is important to you?” Misty has half guessed why, but needs V to confirm her suspicions.

“He should!”

“Now V that’s not what I asked…”

“OK, maybe not, but he should.”

Last year around this time V’s mood swings had been put down to the medication he was on, they were still changing it up every week trying to offset the side effects which seemed to manifest daily. He and Kerry hadn’t spent a more than a few moments apart since he came back, as soon as the shuttle landed, he’d been whisked to a room in a private facility with twin beds – which were quickly pushed together – and all the comforts of home.

A few weeks later they were back at the condo, Kerry still catering to V’s every whim, so grateful to have him back, but also feeling stretched beyond what he could easily cope with. Things began to slowly improve, Kerry could work while V was at physio or training, but he’d promised the universe that he’d always be here for V if it brought him back to him, and he was keeping that promise.

V said little about his time on the space-station, had all but blocked it out as far as Kerry could tell, but he would talk for hours about Johnny, the stuff he used to say about people, the memories he shared, how much he missed having him around. Kerry would listen attentively, much of what V told him was exactly how he remembered his old friend to be, irreverent, charming and a pain in the ass, the difference was, Kerry didn’t miss him, not anymore. Years of therapy had started the process, but meeting him again confirmed it, Johnny was his past and that’s where he could stay, V was his future.

This time two years ago, V had just sold his soul and was in an Arasaka funded facility orbiting the globe about to be ‘cured’ of his brain-parasite. He’d disappeared from the condo days before making up some excuse about a job, which Kerry had not believed as V has been too sick to work for weeks, and wasn’t heard of again until months later when he could finally get a call through and Kerry had saved him. What happened in those intervening weeks was a mystery to Kerry, some of it was a mystery to V.

Misty had correctly guessed that two years ago today Johnny had effectively died, and with him a piece of V was gone too. He would never be the same, but there was nothing stopping him being proud of the new, successful, generally happy and loved person he had become, and Misty told him so.

“I bet Johnny would be proud of how you’ve done, I am for sure.”

“Thanks Misty, Johnny would prolly call me a pussy and cuss me out for shouting at Kerry, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“You know you need to find someone to talk to V, a professional, someone who can help.”

“Uh-huh, Kerry knows someone, keeps trying to palm me off onto him, maybe I’ll let him.”

“Good idea, and Vik and me are always here for you, you know that.”

V had been eternally grateful when Misty had finally forgiven him for helping Haniko, once she understood he didn’t feel like he had a choice she eventually came around.

“I know Misty, thanks.”

“And I think you’ve got some apologising to do.”

V nodded slowly, “Yeah, I need to explain everything to Kerry, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me but he’s not a fucking mind-reader. As soon as he gets back from Texas tomorrow, we’ll sit and talk – if he’s even still talking to me.”

“I am, just,” a honey-soaked gravel voice declares from the direction of the elevator, “though I’d be happier if you answered your fucking phone and didn’t make holes in our walls.”

V’s head whips around rendering him momentarily nauseous, Misty heads towards the open doors clutching at Kerry’s hand as she passes, he takes up her vacated spot and puts a hand on his input’s knee, searching his eyes.

“I…I thought you were in Texas.” V stammers covering Kerry’s hand with his own.

“And leave you like this? Texas will still be there next month, fuck em!”

They both chuckle and move to rest their foreheads together, “How’d you find me?”

“Gave you a couple of hours yesterday before calling, you didn’t fucking answer, called again, no fucking answer, called Vik, hadn’t seen you, called Mama Welles, hadn’t seen you, called Misty, she called you, you didn’t fucking answer…”

“OK I get it, I’m a dick. I put my calls on mute, couldn’t deal with it all. So, Misty called you today then?”

“Actually no, Vik did. Saw Misty pass as he was locking up and guessed where she was going.”

“Oh, right, listen Ker I need to explain…”

“All you need right now is a rest and a very long shower, anything else can wait til after. Did it help coming up here?”

“Yeah, yeah it did.”

“Good, that’s all that matters for now, let’s go home.”

#kerry eurodyne #kerry is my muse #kerry eurodyne x male v #kerry x male v #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk kerry #v cyberpunk #cyberpunk v #kerry x v #misty

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icannotreadcursive · 1 month

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Question I was thinking about: which Hazbin Hotel character would you be down to go on a three-day road trip with? Because I think that, despite likeability, each and every one of them would start driving their companion completely insane in their own unique way.

Oh damn, oh shit, I gotta think about this.

I think Vaggie.

Cuz—while I am so sure she's somewhat prone to backseat driving when it's not her turn at the wheel, which would irritate me, and is probably a bit of a leadfoot—she'd also definitely be a great copilot in the "keep an eye out for the exit", "am I clear to merge?", "can you hand me a french fry?" kinda ways, I think we could find a pretty boppin' middle ground on music tastes, and would probably end up teaching each other new swear words while being pissy about other drivers' stupidity.

You also, though, get my thoughts on the pros and cons of everybody else.

Alastor drives like a fuckin' madman, no one can convince me otherwise. Anybody else in the car during his turn at the wheel will be in fear for their life for non-serial-killer-related reasons. And then there's the serial-killer-related reasons; I don't wanna be an accessory to anything, even assuming I'm safe. He's also a judgemental shit-talking bitch, which I would enjoy when aimed at other drivers, but have very little patience for when also inevitably aimed at me. The overlap of music tastes would work out well here, too, though (hello electroswing). And I have interests in radio, music, creepy shit, true crime, and food so I think the chitchat would be pretty good.

I could do a day trip with Charlie no problem, but after three days we would be fighting because her blind peppiness wore me down, I snapped at her about some unexamined hypocrisy or something, and she got defensive, but then she got overly apologetic which pissed me off more. Genuinely think she's fine as a copilot—probably great at feeding-the-driver-snacks duty—but might be overly timid about certain things as a driver (like merging) in a way that might bug me, depending.

My tolerance for inebriated people is generally pretty limited, so that puts a massive asterisk next to both Angel and Husk for things being dependent on how their sobriety's doing.

Angel also drives like he's running from the cops, but I think that could probably be reigned in by establishing some road behavior boundaries like it's a kink negotiation. Honestly, that's probably the key to making it through a road trip with him without losing my mind. Roadtrip buddy safeword system, and taking breaks. The music, banter, and snack situation would be fire. (Though the banter may occasionally need reigning in.) He strikes me as very down to go check out random roadside points of interest, which would be fun. Having to inevitably drag him away from sexually harassing the clerk every time we stop for gas would not be. And not actually his fault, but this would bug me: having to readjust the seat every fucking time cuz he's so goddamn tall.

Husk has some of the same judginess issues as Alastor, but is overall one of the more chill options. Would be a decent and responsible co-pilot when it comes to things like navigation duties, but either cops an attitude about or outright refuses things like snack duty. If he's sober, I feel like he's generally a pretty good driver, but I also think he gets road rage, which I don't wanna deal with.

I...am not sure Niffty can drive. I don't think Niffty should drive. That right there makes her a bad candidate for only companion on a multi-day road trip. And then I don't think I could comfortably tolerate her degree of manic-obsessive behavior for that long in close quarters. Bless her heart.

That's everyone I have articulate thoughts about

#eiiri answers #thank you for the ask!#hazbin hotel

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hunxi-guilai · 4 years

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god please tell us more about who you think Lan Wangji is! How does 16years change him? Is he marble on purpose or is it nature? Will he thaw fully ever do you think?

man oh man oh man... where to begin with my thoughts on Lan Wangji...

so I’ve talked about his speech patterns, speculated on his childhood competitiveness, gone way too deep on his microexpressions, watched him lose the love of his life more times than I can count; I’ve translated his thinly-veiled love letters, his roasts, his flirtations dialogue. I’ve lost count of how much ink I’ve spilled over Lan Wangji, online in meta and offline in fic, but there’s something about him that keeps making me think more, and more, about how incredible of a person/character he really is

he is also the character that I find most terrifying, but more on that later

let me start off by talking about a trope that, nine times out of ten, I detest: the Ice Queen. Most of the time, I hate it because I often see it as the result of a male author who just doesn’t know how to write women, and the deployment of the Ice Queen trope becomes this cheap way to maintain the allure and unattainability of the love interest until your scrappy protagonist manages to thaw her heart through a combination of questionable charm and inability to take no for an answer, and it turns out in the end that all she truly wanted was a man to break down all of her defenses and heal her past trauma with his supremely average protagonist powers... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

But sometimes, I come around to really loving a particular rendition of the Ice Queen archetype, and it’s usually when the show doesn’t treat the character’s Ice Queen-qualities as something that has to be overcome with the Power of Lurv. Rather, this character is an Ice Queen because it’s just who they are, and that’s just fine. Their frostiness and aloofness are worthy parts of their personality that doesn’t need to be thawed out or changed just to fulfill a particular expectation or fantasy.

One of my favorite things about watching a friend go through the whole CQL Experience (TM) is their changing views on Wang Yibo’s portrayal of Lan Wangji -- I think most, if not all, of us start out at “okay deadpan, do you actually know how to emote?” and then twenty-eight episodes later go “oh my god it’s the wide-eyed microexpression of concern, please help I am a puddle of emotions on the floor.” Crucially, what changes isn’t necessarily Wang Yibo’s performance, or Lan Wangji’s expressiveness -- it’s how we all come to learn this character, to pick up on his tics and habits and microexpressions.

In short, we come to know him, and we realize that the Ice Queen is very much an archetype that resides in the perception of said character. Sometimes, we’re fortunate enough to reside in a narrative that supports the understanding that the work of Defrosting an Ice Queen isn’t work that the Ice Queen themselves should have to do -- a character doesn’t have to change themselves to fit whatever mold popular opinion thinks they should. Lan Wangji doesn’t need to be rehabilitated or socialized in any way to fit societal expectations. He’s just fine the way he is, thank you very much.

But damn if that isn’t so desperately, heart-numbingly lonely.

Is it any wonder, how swiftly and deeply Lan Wangji falls in love with Wei Wuxian, if Wei Wuxian is the first person in years to actually try and learn the language of Lan Wangji? Because no matter how cold and perfect and invulnerable he may seem, he’s still a living, breathing human being -- one that fears, one that loves, one that hurts, one that wants. But the world doesn’t see that -- the world sees only Hanguang-jun, the bearer of light, the vanquisher of chaos, war hero, living legend. He’s unapproachable, unattainable, untouchable. And even before the Sunshot Campaign, he’s one of the Twin Jades of Gusu Lan, an unforgiving hand of discipline, a cold look and a silent demeanour. Others have always seen him as so high and aloof that they’ve never actually tried to reach out to him, never actually tried to get through and speak to the person behind the reputation.

Lan Wangji makes his peace with that before the story even begins, accepts a life of quiet isolation and meditation and cultivation. He works on perfecting himself, lays the foundation for all of those skills that the world will praise him for in the future, and does not hope that he will meet someone who understands him. He has his brother, and that is enough.

Until Wei Wuxian comes crashing headlong through the neatly-ordered patterns of Lan Wangji’s world, tangles the linearity of cause and effect, frustrates the binary of forbidden and permitted, until Lan Wangji isn’t sure which way is which anymore, what is wrong, what is right, what is black, what is white...

I have written so damn much about wangxian, and how this relationship affects Lan Wangji, but I also think a lot about Lan Wangji in the absence of Wei Wuxian -- Lan Wangji before he ever met Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji during those sixteen years, Lan Wangji who looks at soulmate he fought so hard to protect and still says I’m going that way, a different direction from one of the only people in the world who have ever listened closely enough to hear the melody of his heart. I’ve written about the principle of 问心无愧 wenxinwukui, of asking one’s heart and finding no regret, and it’s something that drives Lan Wangji just as much as it drives Wei Wuxian -- even more so, sometimes. From the moment Wei Wuxian meets Lan Wangji, he seems a man made of marble, made of ice, made of light -- other-worldly, ethereal, unstained by the dust of this mortal realm. Even at sixteen, Lan Wangji walks through the world with a surety of step and a confidence of motion that is absolutely astounding and profoundly enviable. He makes decisions with an incisive swiftness that baffles the rest of us who have to pause, to take a few minutes and think, weigh options, ask for advice, then decide.

Not so with Lan Wangji -- if he wants to do something, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t. If Lan Wangji listens to you and judges you boring, he’ll let you know. If Lan Wangji decides that something isn’t worth his time, he walks out.

If he decides that you are worth fighting for, then he will follow you down a single-plank bridge into the dark and fight the world for you.

I played myself, because I made an offhand comment in the tags on this lovely piece of art that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about:

how did you already know the melody of your heart at sixteen, Lan Wangji? How did you know?

What is it like, to have such a powerful, unshakeable conviction in the righteousness of your actions that you’ll carve it into your own body, you’ll willingly accept the heaviest punishment in the memory of your sect, that the only regret you’ll have is that you didn’t make the same decision earlier? What is it like to have a faith so strong that you’ll burn all of your bridges on the steps of a place far away from your home, before a gathered crowd of everyone you’ve ever known? What is it like to know yourself so well and to be fearless enough to do what your heart tells you to, and damn the consequences?

This is what fascinates me and terrifies me the most about Lan Wangji -- his sureness of movement, the solidity of his faith. Lan Wangji is that Peggy Carter quote, the tree who will not move, the river-sunken stone, so set and solid where it has come to rest that all the force of a spring snowmelt has no choice but to part around its will.

This isn’t to say that Lan Wangji doesn’t have doubts, that he doesn’t deal with conflict and setbacks and regrets and mistakes, because he does -- thirteen or sixteen years of it, no matter what version of his story, Lan Wangji endures over a decade of purgatory, of watching his life slip slowly back into grayscale in the absence of Wei Wuxian. He settles back into the life that he knew he would live at sixteen -- cultivating, meditating, night-hunting -- packs away all of those terrifying hopes and dreams and joys and fears left behind in the wreckage from the whirlwind of Wei Wuxian tearing through his life. He doesn’t move on, per se -- if there’s one thing we know about Lan Wangji, it’s that he’ll never move on from Wei Wuxian -- but he builds a life out of the ruins of what could have been. He teaches the juniors. He watches over A-Yuan, now Lan Yuan, now Sizhui. He brings light to dark places; he brings order to chaos. He goes where he is needed, because there will always be a need for someone like Lan Wangji, because even if Wei Wuxian is no longer in this world, Lan Wangji will live their principles for both of them, fulfill a vow entrusted to a floating lantern --

to eliminate the wicked and aid the weak,

to ask one’s heart and find no regret.

#listen I really really love Lan Wangji #this is maybe like a quarter of the thoughts I have on him #the other three quarters are refusing to be articulated in words #but trust me when I say that the more I think about him the more I realize how good he is #I feel like we often talk about Wei Wuxian outside the context of wangxian but it happens a little less with Lan Wangji #and I am all for discussing characters and their complexity outside the lens of their romantic relationships #tonight words are hard so I'm going to leave this here #ask and ye shall receive #Lan Wangji #Wei Wuxian

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noire-pandora · 3 years

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You drive me crazy

For @14daysdalovers also on my AO3

Words: 2159

Pairing: Solavellan

Warning: brief mentions of blood and pain.

A pungent smell of healing potions and bitter tinctures shrouded the barely lit room. There, Elluin sat on a chair, her back on the wooden backrest, her eyes examining the surroundings. A bed with linen sheets stood next to the left wall, a bed she spent many nights in. She moved her gaze from it to the white, tall, long table, its whole surface occupied by numerous bottles, bandages and instruments she didn't understand. Healing magic was a curious craft, one she never fully comprehended.

A sneeze suddenly tickled her nose, but she forced herself to hold it in, a high-pitched noise ringing in her ears. The shake of the sneeze would have reopened her barely closed wounds, a risk she wouldn't take.

Her left hand reached for her abdomen, delicately patting and probing for any blood staining the silky wrappings. Her fingers met a warm, sticky liquid, and she sighed, disappointed with her body. The short walk from her horse to the Skyhold's healing quarters ruined Dorian's handy work.

An annoyed grimace crossed her face. The healers always scolded her for jumping in front of the danger, huffing and puffing with disappointment. But, the only healer who could make her feel like a misbehaving child was Solas. And right now, she crossed her fingers, hoping anyone but him would come to heal her. She assumed he slept, as it was the middle of the night. Surely no one would dare to wake him up and announce him the Inquisitor and her party are back.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Solas entered the room, closing the door with a loud thud. He said nothing and crossed the room to the worktable, firmly avoiding her gaze. The black circles under his eyes and his tensed jaw made her sigh profoundly.

'This won't go peacefully' she thought, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Elluin watched him as his hands opened and closed three bottles, pouring their content on a few bandages, mixing them with impressive confidence. His fingers sparked, healing magic sneaking in the silky bandages.

"Solas," Elluin warned him.

An annoyed huff left his nose.

"No healing magic for me, please," she patiently explained once again.

"As you wish", he grumbled through gritted teeth.

He turned to face her, one hand holding the bandages and one clenching the mysterious bottles. He stared at her wound, a dangerous frown knitting his eyebrows.

"Sit on the bed," he instructed her.

She slowly moved from the chair, hissing as a pang of pain quickly crossed her wound.

"Take off your shirt," he continued as she eventually reached the bed.

"Oh, without kissing me first?" she said, looking up at him and grinning. "And here I was, thinking you're a gentleman."

Her cheeky grin melted immediately as he fixed her with a cold stare, the purple flecks in his eyes sparkling dangerously.

She quickly unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her pale shoulders, sprinkled with freckles that travelled down on her neck and chest. There, they disappear under her breast-band only to continue towards her abdomen where they disappear again, hidden by the hem of her pants.

She whimpered as she tried to slide the shirt down her arms, pain crossing her body again. "Can you help me, please? I don't think I can do it," she asked him, eyes closed to hide the anguish residing there.

Quickly, Solas abandoned the healing materials on the bed next to her, and carefully slipped her shirt down her arms. Goosebumps sprang up all over her bare arms, as his fingers accidentally brushed her skin. She glanced up to meet his eyes, only to find a discrete blush dusting his cheeks. Her smirk returned, please to notice the effect she had on him.

"I will take off the wrappings now. Try not to move."

She nodded and peered up at the ceiling of the room, allowing him to take care of her in silence. She winced and hissed a few times, the dried up blood peeling off from her skin. The cold air soon reached her wounds, the painful sensation pushing her to bury her nails into the wooden frame of the bed.

"It will hurt less if you lie down in bed. Can you do that by yourself?" he asked, voice thick with concern.

She shook her head. "No, I think I might need help for that too."

The coldness in his eyes disappeared altogether, only to be replaced with worry as he helped her get into the bed. After a few more painful seconds, relief washed over her, the pain subduing.

While Solas left her side to burn the wrappings with his magic, she dared to take a glance at the wound, as the bleeding stopped. Her armour and the enchantment Dorian put on her took most of the damage, but the Venatori's sword still found a way to leave a mark on her flesh. She could clearly see a deep cut, a few centimetres long, stretching from the right side of her abdomen and stopping at her bellybutton. It was deep enough to cause impressive bleeding, but not enough to end her life. She closed her eyes again and made a mental note to properly thank Dorian for his assistance.

Solas' hands touching her skin made her aware of his return. She opened her eyes to look at him, wondering if his cold demeanour melted away. The frown was still there, but she suspected it was the result of his deep concentration. She challenged his skill with her insistent refusal to use any magic to heal, thus forcing him to utilize the standard, non-magical means to help her. She closed her eyes again, the fatigue finally catching up with her, and she dozed off in less than three minutes.

A loud huff woke her up again. She looked up at Solas with curiosity, raising an eyebrow. "If you have something to say, I'll happily listen."

"I'm finished," he said, ignoring her words, the coldness returning in his voice.

"Already? No wrapping?"

"No, not yet," he replied, gathering his stuff to put them back on the table, his back at her. "I will have to change the bandages again, in two hours. I do hope you will stay put for a few hours, without feeling the insistent need to jump in front of a sword."

`Oh, here we go again.` she thought, half amused and half worried. She patiently waited for him to continue, already knowing where this discussion would lead.

A few bottles clicked against each other as he sorted them, throwing away the empty ones. "I have the suspicion you do not understand an important fact, and I will be quite happy to enlighten you about it if you do not mind it." he continued.

"Not at all, go on, enlighten me," she articulated, wondering if he caught the cheekiness in her words.

"In the last year, I have been the witness of your choices and decisions, and all of them had a logic, a well-thought move behind them. I have fallen in love with that intelligence. And yet, I am confused. Are you unable to understand your importance at this moment, Inquisitor?"

`Oh no, I'm in trouble now. He just called me Inquisitor in private.`

As if hearing her thought, he turned to look at her, his lips pursed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring. He reminded her of a dragon ready to attack his prey. A wide, mischievous grin grew on her lips.

"Oh, my current importance?" she replied, feigning ignorance.

"Yes. Do you not understand what it means to be the bearer of the magic on your left hand?" he continued, almost growling.

She hummed questionably, raising her left hand to look at the Mark. The green light twisted and slithered against her palm.

"The magic on your hand," he continued, moving closer to her. He reached her bed, his tall silhouette hovering above her. "That Mark, Inquisitor, is the key to the survival of this world. To our survival. And I have the impression you do not understand the importance of that fact."

"Oh, is that so?" she replied and slowly rose up from the bed, careful not to open her wound again. Solas moved back a few steps to stare at her face. "What makes you believe I am so ignorant?" she looked up at him, the grin still on her lips.

"This is the fifth time you do this. You used your body as a shield to protect someone who did not need your protection. Varric told me how you protected Blackwall with your body when a Venatori attacked him. Why? He has an armour! He trained all his life to withstand moments like that. You are a mage, you should run away from a sword, not jump in front of it!" he spoke, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed them into fists.

"Did Varric tell you Blackwall had his back turned at the Venatori and didn't see the attack coming?" Elluin calmly asked.

"No, he did not. And even so, Blackwall can endure such an attack. You cannot!"

"Well, it seemed I endured it quite well," she shrugged, pointing at her wound. "Dorian helped me, and you finished the work. I see no hard done."

"No harm is done?" he asked incredulously. "You could have died. What if Dorian's charm failed? What if the Venatori had a poisoned weapon? What would you have done then?"

"I don't know. But I'm sure you would have saved me."

"You cannot do that. You have to stop risking your life. Stop jumping in front of the attacks, Inquisitor!"

"And what, let others die in front of my eyes?" she asked.

"Yes. If that means staying alive and protecting the Mark on your hand, then yes!"

"Hm, so I should try to stay alive just to protect the Mark. My life is important only because of that?" she asked, closing the distance between them.

"No, that is not what I said. I would--- "he stopped, his eyes widened with surprise, as Elluin lips smacked against his. She kissed him, no, she devoured him, her tongue urgently searching for an opening to slip into his mouth. With a frustrated moan, he allowed it. One hand grabbed her butt to pull her closer to him, the other slipped into her hair, gently tugging at her locks.

After a few heated minutes, the imperative need to breathe made Solas break the kiss. "Why did you do that?" he asked Elluin, who licked her lips.

"To stop you from sounding like an ass."

He opened his mouth a few times to speak but closed it back. He sighed and spoke again. "I apologize. You are right, I went too far," he closed his eyes and bent down to rest his forehead against hers. "You are important to me, more than you can imagine. The thought of you being hurt beyond healing petrifies me. I cannot bring you back if you die. The Mark on your hand is essential, but your safety holds more importance to me.

"Oh, I know that. And I am aware of everything you told me just now," she nonchalantly said.

He quickly straightened his back to look into her eyes. "Then why did you…."

"Well," she started, biting her lower lip to contain her smile. "I think you're hot when you get angry. But since you rarely get angry, I took advantage of this situation. The way your eyes darken when you're pissed off is quite delicious. And I enjoy teasing you."

"Oh, for…" he groaned, hiding his face behind his hands, a crimson blush covering his cheeks to continue up to the pointy tips of his ears. "You drive me crazy."

She laughed, holding a hand on her belly, in an attempt to protect her wound. "Yes, I know that. But that's exactly why you love me, right?"

"Yes," he acknowledged, dropping his hands in defeat. But you truly need to stop jumping in front of swords, Vhenan. If you die, my soul will die with you."

"Fine, I will try to stop doing that," she replied, sitting back on the bed, wincing.

He blinked in confusion. "All I have to do is say I will be hurt and you will stop doing dangerous things?"

"Yes. Much easier than being a smart-ass with me, huh?"

"You truly are confusing sometimes, my love."

She laughed again. "Will you stay with me tonight? I doubt I can climb all those stairs to my room without undoing your handy work."

"I will, Vhenan."

He joined her on the bed, pulling her in his arms and kissing her hair. Elluin nestled on his chest, breathing in his scent. A thought quickly crossed her mind, breaking the sweet moment for a second: What would she sacrifice to keep him alive? Would she jump in front of certain death to keep him alive?

'Yes'

#14DALovers #prompt #you drive me crazy #solavellan #solas #lavellan #elluin lavellan #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #idiots being in love #and elluin being a little shit xD #noire writes

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hopeshoodie · 3 years

Text

I can’t believe it took me until part 8 to do my favorite boy but

Here are the pros and cons of dating

Noah

Cons

Noah is really non confrontational, so he tends to let issues fester. It’s not that he’s trying to let things build up, it’s just that he doesn’t think they’re important enough to bring up. He won’t start a fight about them when they’ve built up, but if MC is angry about something he’ll mention that there’s a bunch of things he’s let go but not have specifics. It ends up coming out like ‘yeah well what about all the other things?!’ ‘what other things!?’ ‘I don’t remember!!’. He’s not actively keeping track of all her mistakes, he genuinely does forgive and forget, but then when tensions come to a boil he needs to point out that there has been conflict that he just ignored. He’s not trying to guilt or gaslight MC, but sometimes it feels like it. If she thinks especially little of his intentions, it feels like he’s just pulling things out of thin air to be mad instead of focusing on the issue. That’s not what he’s doing- he just doesn’t address little things until they feel like big things. But of course he hasn’t done the introspection to truly understand how doing this is hurtful or articulate that he doesn’t mean it to be.

When he and MC disagree, he lets things go wayyy too easily. This is fine if MC is a really mature, self-reflective person who can see that she’s crossed a line after the fact. But if MC is a little more selfish/immature, like Lottie, this is a huge con because he doesn’t give her accountability that would help her grow. We saw this with Hope- she wasn’t able to recognize how harmful her temper was when she was dating Noah because he never pointed it out, he just rolled over. If there’s a genuine problem- financial, emotional, logistically, he’ll ‘let it go’ until it’s a way bigger problem (and much harder to solve).

Sorry that most of these cons are about how he fights with people, but that’s what we saw in-game lol. I’d love to know more about how Lucas or Rahim fight with their partners. But when you’re arguing, Noah tends to focus on really little details of what you said instead of listening to the whole thing and getting a sense of the bigger picture. So let’s say the issue is ‘Noah, I need you to tell me when you’re borrowing my car because you took it to the gym and then it went from having enough gas to get me to work in the morning to being on empty. This morning I had to stop for gas and that made me late.” The issue there is actually ‘please tell me when you’re using my car”, but he fixates on the gas part and says “well fine I can fill up your tank”. So he focuses on little details that he can fix instead of acknowledging the actual problem.

He internalizes things so fucking hard. Yes he intellectually knows that when MC gives him feedback on things she’s talking about his BEHAVIOR and not him as a person, but he definitely feels like shit about himself if he makes a mistake and MC calls him on it. He’ll definitely beat himself up about things for weeks after it happens, and his internal dialogue in general is pretty toxic.

I can see him being a bit of a workaholic. Not in the same sense that Camilo is in Boat Party, but Noah definitely will go into the library on a day he’s scheduled to be off if he has projects to work on or will stay late because he got engrossed in research. Same thing now that the library’s closed because of COVID- it takes him two times as long to put everyone online and work from home, so he’s spending more time working than ever. He views it through the lens of the ‘greater good’- getting that display set up for the patrons is more important that seeing his wife two hours earlier because many members of the community outnumber one person. Plus he just cares so much about his work that he has a hard time seeing it as an inconvenience to other people.

He loves his family so much. Even when MC and he get married and have kids, he struggles to prioritize them over his siblings and parents. So if his little brother Arlo needs money, Noah won’t hesitate to give him a loan even if he and MC are struggling financially. If his aging mom or dad can’t live alone anymore, Noah will invite them to move in with his family, even if their house isn’t big enough to accommodate more people. I can see this being a huge point of contention, especially in that second scenario where MC would have to take on a caretaker role as well. Noah just wants to help people so bad and has a hard time saying no, so that can sometimes impede his partner.

He’s really used to living on low income, and so he has a lot of frugal habits and concessions that he thinks are normal that someone more middle or upper class might find irritating. These are all coming from my experience and things partners have complained about- but think things like only eating out once a month or refusing to turn the heat on until it’s dangerous or making his own laundry detergent. He grew up doing them out of necessity (and still does, student debt on a public librarian’s budget? I couldn’t do it), so he doesn’t realize how strange or frustrating his habits might be to someone who isn’t used to it. He also has a really hard time justifying spending excessive amounts of money, so if MC has lavish taste there’s going to be some conflict.

He doesn’t like initiating anything. Conversations, activities… you know *smirk emoji*. He will, but the ratio of when Noah suggests something to when MC does is like 1:8

My boy is beautiful, and his clothes look lovely, but he has 7 outfits that he rewears all the time. The closest thing to fashion is him putting a different button up shirt underneath his vest. It’s definitely a joke at work that he wears the same sweater, button up, and quarter length shirt just in different colors. You know that vine where the teacher walks into the room wearing the same shirt in different colors, saying the same ‘hello’ for like a million days. Noah’s coworkers remake that with him, because that’s exactly what he does.

He’s a bit of a homebody, and loves routine. For me, massive plus, I love that. But for someone who wants to party regularly or be spontaneous, I can see constantly changing plans and going out with people being really draining to Noah. He has a small group of close friends, so he’d struggle to remember MC’s friends' names if she has more than five. Don’t get me wrong, Noah will take MC to galleries and dates at least three times a month, but it has to be discussed and scheduled in advance.

Pros

Honestly, what isn’t a pro about him? Noah is a steadfast, thoughtful, and kind person. His politics are about taking care of people, providing them dignity and respect, and building community. He loves his family and is incredibly patient. He’s incredibly smart but not at all classist or condescending about it. I know this is supposed to be about how the islanders affect the person they’re dating, but oh my god he’s such a good person I love him. Let’s just say the pro for this is his positive aura.

He’s really good at group dynamics and listening, so he goes out of his way to make everyone feel heard and valued. If someone says something and no one acknowledges it, he’ll specifically engage with them so they’re not left hanging. If someone’s trying to get a word in but can’t, he’ll get everyone’s attention then say ‘so and so had an idea’. He’s not one to boisterously laugh in group settings, but he always makes eye contact and smiles if you make a joke that flops or say something he agrees with. If people are teasing about something, he picks up if it’s gone too far really easily and will gracefully change the subject/tell them to knock it off.

He’s super conscientious about respecting boundaries and ensuring the people around him are taking care of himself. If MC and him are long distance and texting after 10pm, he’ll be like “I love you, but we’ve both got to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow”. He’ll always check and make sure people have eaten when meeting up with them, and if they haven’t he’ll insist they get food from somewhere. 100% gives you his jacket, brings you water bottles, in general just wants you to take care of yourself.

Above all else, Noah just always ensures the people around him feel safe. The last thing he’d want to do is make people uncomfortable, so safe driving, safe spaces, safe sex are all musts. He’s really good in crisis situations because he can calm people down and encourage them to think critically.

Building off of that, he’s really aware of how much of the housework is being done by who and always tries to ensure he’s doing his part. I bet that was a big thing he ripped on Rahim for- Rahim expects his woman to clean up after him and do the bulk of the domestic work, and Noah knows that’s bullshit. I think Noah likes cleaning, anyways, and will usually take laundry/disinfecting bathrooms/cleaning dishes over cooking or running errands. But the mental load of keeping track of recipes/groceries that need replenishing and keeping up with kids needs, he’s aware of the imbalance and does his part. Obvious plus, because it sounds fucking exhausting to date a man. He fucking hates vaccuming though, and will splurge on a roomba.

He has a dry sense of humor that’s very based in puns and hyperbole. Sometimes it’s hard to know when he’s joking or not, but he never makes you feel bad for missing a joke or dwells on something for too long. He absolutely subscribes to the Mcelroys’ No Bummers rule, there are some things you don’t joke about and he’s happy to shut down inappropriate comments or ‘jokes’. He definitely prefers physical gaffs and dumb ways of saying things, so his favorite comedians are John Mulaney and Chris Fleming. While humor isn’t an important part of how he relates to other people, Noah enjoys being around funny people and won’t shut down their energy like Rahim, Marisol, or Hope.

This is just me projecting again but Noah is generoussss. Even though he doesn’t make a lot of money at the library, he still has a ‘mutual aid’ budget each month (and goes over it often). He’s the first one to give money to panhandlers, donate to gofundmes, and give friends/family personal loans. That definitely gets him into sticky situations sometimes, because he has a hard time saying no and can get taken advantage of, but ultimately I think it’s a pro because he’ll never forget where he came from and always prioritize helping other people.

He has a really pretty, deep singing voice and this is a pro to me because fuck I meltttttt.

The shit he says to his partner or spouse? THE most romantic thing in the world. You think Mr. “you’re made of stardust” doesn’t shower his lover with the most meaningful lines at random times? You think he’s not quoting sappho and jane austen when he’s at a loss for words? You think he’s NOT going to turn over in bed on a lazy Saturday and say ‘this is the most perfect my life will ever be’? It’s not even prompted either, yes he’ll compliment Bobby or MC when they get all dressed up for date night, but more often he’ll profess his adoration in the middle of dinner, then take another forkful of food.

Fantastic with kids, and this is a huge pro because people who can work with kids and be patient/positive with them make me so fuckim soft. But if/when (hopefully when because if MC didn’t want kids I don’t think it’d last) they had kids, Noah is happy to be on bottle duty, wake up early to the baby, and generally be a really involved parent. He’ll take a big chunk of paternity leave, and generally be there as much as humanly possible. Even when they have multiple little tyrants running around, he always makes time to be alone with MC and make sure she’s not taking on too much.

He’s basically a lesbian, which is definitely a reason I love him so much. Hear me out- loves milfs, loves 80s music, communicates affection through meaningful glances and playing with hair but will die before explicitly saying any of it, crushes on his best friend for the longest time but never makes the first move, puts way too much emotional meaning and personal metaphors into objects and then presents them as gifts, is into fandoms and actively collects pop figures, is attracted to assertive/powerful women, wears beige skinny jeans, wears VESTS….. That’s a lesbian. He’s a bisexual man, but he’s also an honorary lesbian.

A really good confidant. Noah’s an amazing listener and never judges people harshly- his life philosophy is as long as you’re not hurting anymore or yourself, everything else is details. So you can definitely tell him secrets and confess regrets to him and he’ll listen with those soft eyes and gentle nods. Talking to him about mistakes always feels like unburdening yourself. And he’d never tell your secret to anyone. Doesn’t matter if you cheat on him, lie to him, or die, he’s never going to tell anyone your secrets.

#litg #litg noah #pros and cons

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devnicolee · 4 years

Text

The Chosen Ones (6)

Warnings: Slow burn, angst

Word Count: 9,150

Pairings: M’Baku x Original Character

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

A/N: This took forever... slowly realizing I am a slow writer lol also this story was only supposed to be 5 chapters. It is going to be more like 8. Someone teach me how to write shorter stories and chapters lol Enjoy!

Asha gingerly opened her eyes to the darkness of her bedroom, her deep red curtains blocking the sunlight she knew tried to shine through her window. She stretched her arms and legs slightly, grimacing at the soreness that still coursed through her bones. She closed her eyes again, focusing internally to feel her powers once again at full force. The panther inside was rested and rejuvenated... ready for a new day. After years of begging to be rid of them, it was unnerving and terrifying to have exhausted them the way she did last night. She was slowly coming to realize that even in her lifelong hate of her powers, she still relied on them to catch her if she ever fell. Last night was an example of what would happen when the safety net was not beneath her. That was enough to force the young princess on her journey to accepting her powers, even without her conversation with Bast.

She thought back to her conversation with Bast briefly but refused to let her mind spiral too far down that black hole.

It is too early to dissect that, she determined silently. She would need a cup of strong coffee… maybe Jabari rum, to process that.

She lazily rolled over to her side, eyes still heavy and tired, deciding to fall back into the unconscious world for a bit. Quiet moments passed before she opened her eyes again, coming face to face with the slumbering giant in her bed. Her eyes widened with shock as she took in M'Baku's resting form and deep, gentle snores.

I must have been more tired than I thought last night, she thought to herself, knowing that if she had all her wits about her... she certainly would not have forgotten falling asleep with the man of her dreams under her covers.

The desire for more sleep vanished like a flash of lightning. Small flashes of the night before appeared in her mind like a movie. Him carrying her to the fire, her asking him to stay in her bed, his heavy arm pulling her close to him, the warmth of his chest, him saying he would care if she died.

I would care.

How could three simple words carry so much weight? Perhaps because aside from her siblings, no one had ever said it about her before. She loved him... She was in love with him. And she never felt it more strongly or deeply than last night when he held her in his arms. They hadn't done anything... hadn't even shared a kiss but that was intimacy unlike anything Asha had ever experienced. Staying like this with him was far more appealing than the drama she knew waited for her outside her bedroom's vibranium-enforced walls.

She could see it now: waking up to his soft snores in the mornings, the thumps of his strong heartbeat against her ear as she laid on his chest, his strong arms wrapped around her to keep her close and safe, his natural body heat keeping her warm. She wanted it... craved it. And she thought nothing could top waking up in his bed that morning in Jabariland? This beat that by miles.

Her fingers ran up and down his bicep, feeling the strong muscle beneath the surface that gave him his sculptured figure. His eyes opened slowly at her light touch, the warrior inside crushing the heavy sleeper he once was as a child. A smile crept across his face as he took her in for the first time that day, a sight he certainly could get used to. He decided that there would be no better way than to start his days than with this woman by his side.

"Good morning," he said, his deep voice raspy and somehow more sexier than normal to Asha.

"Good morning," she answered back, a sly smile on her face. A silence fell over the two for a few moments as they just laid and stared at each other. Asha looked away, the intensity in his eyes too much for her. The joy of waking up with him was slowly morphing into dread. It was unfortunate that she could so clearly articulate the feelings she had for him to herself but the moment she had the opportunity to say them to him? She clammed up and shut down. The sun was up and a new day meant they would have to talk... about their complicated feelings, what they could be to each other, what it would mean for their families, their tribes. Asha didn't even know if she was still engaged... though she figured it was a safe guess to assume that arrangement had ended.

She knew she wanted to choose M'Baku and figured he felt the same. After all, why would he still be here if he didn’t? But still, she dreaded asking... dreaded revealing her true feelings only to be disappointed. Asha's life was a series of moments where she thought things were going well and life veered down a hill of ragged rocks. Hasani was a great example... something she thought could work out only to be sadly mistaken. She was tired of expecting smooth sailing only to be met with rough seas and disappointment. She wanted desperately to believe this would be different, but her fear was real. She didn't know which conversation she was dreading more: the one with her brother and sister or the one in front of her right now.

"W-we should probably get up, yes? I need to talk to my brother and sister. I-I should have called them last night," Asha said quickly, stumbling over her words a bit. Ultimately, she chose her siblings, that crisis seemed less daunting than whatever was going on between them. Besides, it seemed selfish to focus on building a new life with someone after lighting her old one on fire. It was her duty to help put it out first.

She watched a look of surprise and disappointment flash across his face as she sat up to get out of bed. But to his credit, he did not voice it. He didn't want to get around her family and lose the opportunity to finally talk about them. He knew what last night meant for her family and he felt for them. But he also knew that last night meant the end of her engagement. M'Baku was not as selfless as he hoped to be so he couldn't help but see all of this as another barrier between them falling, granting them a clearer path ahead. But as T'Challa rightfully reminded him, selfishness was not Asha's way. They would need to deal with the consequences of last night before she would ever consider their future.

"Yes. Your sister left these for you, since yours were destroyed."

He handed her a delicate set of new beads, which she quickly slid onto her wrist as she muttered a soft thank you. They blinked purple for a few moments when they touched her wrist, resyncing themselves with her information.

M'Baku quickly excused himself to go back to his own guest room and change his clothes, allowing Asha to do the same.

Asha used the new set of beads Shuri left with M'Baku to send messages to her siblings, mother, and Nakia, asking the group to meet her in T'Challa's office in 15 minutes. She was desperate to see them, to talk to them. Guilt rose like bile in her throat as she contemplated what to say, the appropriate apologies and explanations she needed to give for her reckless actions. Her father always said she would be the downfall of their tribe and she always vowed to prove him wrong. She had quite spectacularly failed at that. She knew they would ask about her flying adventure and she was not quite sure on what to tell them. Would she tell them of her near brush with death, her visit to the Planes, her conversation with Bast... her desperate attempts to stay there?

No... she quickly decided.

The rest? Maybe, Bast seemed to believe there was some quest she had to fulfill and she had no earthly idea what it could be. Perhaps the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio could help her decipher Bast's riddles. But she knew she could never tell them that she tried to choose death, that would be hard to admit and even harder for them to hear.

Once dressed, she walked outside her room to find Alexis waiting. Her guard did not even attempt to hide her jubilation at seeing the Princess alive, well and whole as she quickly swept the girl into a tight hug. Despite her surprise, Asha returned it with equal vigor, tightly wrapping her guard and confidant in her embrace.

"Don't ever scare us like that again," Alexis stated sternly in her ear, though there was a plea buried under Alexis' usual abrasive tone.

"Never... I promise," Asha said back. It seemed Alexis decided that her stern warning would do and let the young girl go. Asha smiled at her before the two started toward M'Baku's guest quarters.

M'Baku emerged from his door as soon as his guard knocked to alert him of Asha's arrival, having been ready moments before. The two shared a smile but no words, having just seen each other, and continued on the journey to T'Challa's office.

Asha tried her best to ignore the stares and hushed whispers of the palace staff they passed. She knew what it meant. Her powers were no longer a palace secret... the thing many knew of or suspected but dared not talk about. Now, she imagined the secret was free and circulating through the palace and country like air, being soaked up by person after person after person. She felt exposed, naked… particularly without her rings she completely destroyed.

However, she was determined not to let them get to her. Where yesterday's Asha would have shrunk into the shadows and hid in her room, today's Asha forced herself to hold her head high. It was difficult, she found herself desperate to hide at moments. But every time she did, a voice whispered to her and reminded her that she was a child of Bast. If Bast would not tolerate her kneeling before her, she certainly would not accept her cowering before anyone else.

Asha knew the true transformation into the person Bast wanted her to be... the person she was apparently meant to be would take time. One meeting with Bast, one night would not change how she felt about herself, or stop her desire to run away from who she was. She knew she was still miles away from where Bast wanted her to be and where Wakanda apparently needed her to be, but she would celebrate any small step in the right direction.

They rounded a corner and found themselves face to face with T'Challa's unmanned office door. She didn't announce her presence, simply opening the door to find her favorite people in this world huddled around T'Challa's desk. She didn't get a word out or even cross the threshold of the office before a speeding ball crashed into her and almost knocked her off her feet. There was no need to look down and figure out who it was, only one person in her world hugged like a mini cannonball.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her sister before pulling back to hold her face in her hands. Shuri looked as though she aged years in that one night. She looked up and found similar looks of worry and exhaustion on everyone else's face, bags and worry lines that could not be hidden by their wide smiles at seeing her.

Shuri seemed reluctant to let her go but finally did, giving her brother the chance to wrap her in a bone-crushingly tight hug.

"We are glad you are ok," he said.

Just hearing his voice, the voice of her first and fiercest protector caused tears to spring up to her eyes. She hid them as best she could but she knew the dam wouldn't hold for much longer. The round-robin of hugs continued with Nakia and Okoye before Asha turned back to face her brother again.

Her right hand fidgeted with the long sleeve on her cardigan, her apprehension and nerves clearly on display. They calmed slightly at the soothing circles M'Baku rubbed into her back and his presence so close to her as she tried to overcome the tightness in her vocal chords. When she finally looked up at T'Challa again, he was shocked to see tears streaming down her face.

"I-I am so sorry T'Challa," she whispered. "Running away like that... scaring you all like that. I-it was selfish and i-it was wrong. A-a-and I never should have provoked Elder Shani in the first place. This is all my fault, I feel horrible. I am just... please forgive me."

"Why in Bast's name are you talking about? You can't think any of us blame you for this?" Shuri asked, her confusion painted clearly on her face.

"How could you not? After what I said to her... and fleeing like that? I mean I broke a window for Bast’s sake." Asha's eyes bounced between the two, searching for a hint of anger or disappointment, searching for the reactions she had built up in her mind. But she couldn't find any of it.

T'Challa chuckled, "You mistake us for Baba, Asha. We are not him... unreasonable and apathetic. Nothing you said to Elder Shani was untrue or wrong. It was your right to speak up as my advisor. Elder Shani made a choice and those choices are not your fault, nor are they a reflection of you. We were worried about you, of course. But we certainly do not blame you. We will have to speak about the window though," he added with a smile, winking at her.

"Quite frankly, you did us all a favor," Shuri added, waving off Asha's concerns with her hand as she hoisted herself up slightly to sit on T’Challa’s desk. "Keeping that secret was killing you, hurting the tribe's reputation with all those lies. Now, we don't have to worry about that anymore. The laws are gone. You can set things on fire to your heart's content and no one can hold it over our heads again."

Asha nodded slowly, "I know not everyone feels that way... where is mama?" she asked, acknowledging the absence of a key member of the Panther Tribe.

Asha tried not to feel affronted by the fact that she almost died and her own mother had not come to see about her. She knew it was long past time to accept her mother's lukewarm reception of her. She always thought of her as an ally but as she grew and analyzed her childhood, she recognized that Ramonda was merely an extension of her husband. She would never fully love Asha as a mother should. But for reasons unknown, or rather that she did not yet want to admit, she still held hope that her mother would be more to her. And she was always disappointed.

T'Challa and Shuri could not control their immediate reaction to share a dark glare with each other. Asha appreciated their attempts to hide it and put on for her benefit. But she knew it was just that... an act.

"Mama said she would see you later. Don't worry about her. She is glad you are alright," T'Challa managed to say, though lying was never his strong suit, with a failed attempt at a reassuring smile on his face.

"It is high time you two stop lying about things for my benefit. I know, just as well as you do, that, at best, she is begrudgingly happy about my survival," Asha snorted, eyes rolling as she settled down on the couch across from T'Challa's desk.

"But we are not here to discuss mama... we are here to discuss the other woman who hates me. How bad is it?" Asha asked, moving on to more important matters than her mother's indifference toward her. Jitters coursed through her body as she waited to hear of the damage her stunt brought upon them. She felt M'Baku's weight settle on the couch next to her, his presence forcing some of those jitters to melt away.

M'Baku stayed silent throughout their meeting, feeling like an outsider in a family reunion. He felt assured in his presence knowing Asha indeed wanted him there. Her body gravitated toward his, leaning into his side the moment he sat down on the couch. His hand instantly found its home on her knee, her fingertips grazed his arm gently. It was so natural, he almost didn't realize it and wondered if she even noticed it herself. The intimacy of their soft, effortless touches were not lost on him or the other occupants of this office. He imagined it looked as if they had been in love for years, that was surely how it felt to him. Except, he didn't know what they were... in love, yes. In sync? Not so much.

T'Challa leaned against his wooden desk, suddenly looking older, the burdens of a king etched on his face. He rubbed his eyes like an exhausted child and folded his arms across his chest before answering, "It is, unfortunately, as we feared. Elder Shani has launched a campaign against the Panther Tribe. She has already gathered a group of vocal anti-mutants to support her and told anyone who will listen the truth of your status and the web of lies built to hide it. If it is any consolation, it seems to us that most of the country is enraged by the lies and secrets, not your actual status."

"The River Tribe and the Jabari are firmly behind us. The Mining and Border Tribes are still on the fence, refusing to signal support either way. We believe she will use the King's Exhibition tomorrow as her moment to publicly demand another challenge," Shuri added.

"Can she do that?" M'Baku asked.

"Technically, yes. It hasn't been done in a century and has always failed. But the majority of the Council can demand another challenge for the throne if they have sufficient evidence against the King. If she convinces the mining and border tribes to join her, she will have her majority."

"Our best bet is to remind the Mining and Border Tribes of the long-term implications of another challenge. If we strip T'Challa of his powers to challenge for the throne, it will be the end of the Black Panther. The last of the herbs runs through his veins," Nakia offered from her spot by the window.

Asha's head lulled into her hands, her soft moan of exasperation muffled through her fingers. She loathed to think about it, but her father was right. The truth was out and their tribe was beginning to crumble.

"Your engagement to Hasani has been called off, not officially. But we have no reason to uphold our end of that bargain when she did not uphold hers. It is nothing we cannot handle, Asha."

Asha nodded, slowly standing and pacing by the couch. Her fingers twisted among themselves as she walked, thinking. "Ok. So how do we stop her? What do we need to -"

"No, there is nothing we need to do. Shuri and I had a long conversation last night and we decided that whatever comes of this, wherever this takes us... it is no longer your concern."

Her pacing ceased, her hands fell to her sides as his words hit her. There was no malice, no intention of harm in his words... not even a hint of harshness. And yet, the words felt like a slap to the face, a slight. "T'Challa... what? What is that supposed to mean?"

He walked up to her, taking her hands in his firmly, ignoring her immediate instinct to rip them away. He saw the flickers of hurt in her eyes and needed to explain. He felt responsible for all this carnage that surrounded them. M'Baku was right. T'Challa always did the easiest thing when it came to his sister, never taking the leap that would actually free her. It was his determination as her big brother to free her, no matter the cost to him or their family. And it was time she stopped lugging around the weight of the consequences alone.

"It means that our parents laid the fate of our family... our legacy at your feet and that was unfair. Forced you to carry a weight alone that is all of ours. Your life has never been your own because of that. We will not do that any longer. As king, the fate of our family and tribe is my cross to bear. The rest of this life is yours... to experience something different, choose something different." His eyes lingered on M'Baku for a moment for he knew, even if his sister didn't yet, that life in Jabariland was that something different she needed to explore.

Asha was rarely at a loss for words but she couldn't think of anything to say. What he offered, she desperately wanted to accept. After all, it is what she always wanted. To be free of this place and all that came with it. But after her conversation with Bast, she now worried that her heart's desire was not her destiny. She was born into this family for a reason. If her destiny was to live happily in Jabariland, Bast could have put her there from the start. But no... she was here and that meant that whatever she was meant to do in this life, she couldn't turn her back on her role for good. After 15 years of believing she had to get rid of her powers to truly be in this family or that she had to leave in order to be free, she now actually saw a path in which she could have both.

She squeezed his hand before replying, "I love you both... more than anyone in this life. And I appreciate this, truly. But we are our family's present and future. So we share the burden of leading this country and its people. I can no more dissolve myself of the responsibilities that come with that than you can. I cannot leave here and pretend I do not care what happens to our family."

"But you said you couldn't stay here anymore?" Shuri asked.

"I did say that... before. But I don’t know how true that is now. Before I d-didn’t see a lot of choices. I wanted so desperately to be loved and wanted in this life. I just wanted to be like you two... you both live lives that are vibrant, filled with your passions and joy... filled with hope. It always hurt to watch you both live the lives you so richly deserved while I could not. But when I got back from Jabariland, days spent watching what my life here could have been like, I realized I couldn't ignore that pain anymore. I couldn't be satisfied with a half-life anymore, which is why I took the easy way out and ran. But you two are my family and this is my home. You two are in this world so I do not have a desire to choose a different one.”

T'Challa nodded, understanding, "We just want you to find happiness, Asha. Even if it is not with us... even if it is not here."

"The only happiness I have ever known has been with the people in this room. I can find some more happiness outside these walls and not turn my back on our family at the same time. I thought I couldn't but Bast showed me that I could, made me remember that you all are worth that. You are the reason I came back."

"'Came back?'" Shuri repeated slowly, confusion evident in her tone and on her face. "What do you mean?"

Asha bowed her head, internally frustrated at her slip up. She thought about lying but that wasn’t them. She, Shuri and T'Challa were different. She always felt like they would never understand the depths of her sadness and pain. But they proved her wrong time and time again. They might not have understood fully but they never stopped trying, never stopped listening.

"Um... well, when I fell, I went to the Ancestral Plane."

The air in the room became thick with tension as her words sank down upon them. T'Challa's body went rigid, his shock and anger clear in his facial expression. Tears welled up in Shuri's eyes. M'Baku leaped up from his seat, immediately tugging on her elbow to turn Asha's attention toward him.

Asha's body was tired of crying, exhausted of it, and yet the look of rage and pain in his face made her throat tight and tear ducts active again.

"You died?" he whispered, words barely above a whisper to keep the shakiness out of his voice.

"How are you here?" Okoye asked as the only person who managed to maintain their composure, though her face did seem harder than usual. "How is this possible? No one but the Black Panther can visit the Planes and return."

Asha scratched her head, unsure on how to explain something that she didn't fully understand herself. Scientifically, she knew what happened to her should not have been possible but what about any of this was scientific? It was all determined by Bast and she did not adhere to the rules of man.

"I don't know. Truly. Bast said I wasn't dead but that the fall was an opportunity for her to speak with me. She did say that it was my choice of whether to stay or return here. I chose to return."

"Bast? The Bast?" T'Challa whispered.

"Yes... The Bast... Panther Goddess of Wakanda and all that. You talked to her on your trip to the Plane yes?" Asha asked, confused as to why her brother looked more shocked than the rest of them. It was a known fact that the Black Panther visited the Ancestral Plane when they were given their powers. T'Challa visited twice, once more than any Black Panther before him. It was always Asha's assumption that the protector of Wakanda met with the Goddess that gave them those powers during that crucial visit.

"No. No, I didn't. I spoke to Baba, both times. And only Baba. I have never heard of a panther speaking directly to Bast, aside from the first Black Panther of course."

What is so special about me? Asha wondered silently to herself.

If she was being honest, meeting Bast had not seemed like much of an honor initially to her. But Asha's anger at her was unparalleled, her frustrations having built up for years with no release. It was hard to find joy in a meeting sullied by such pain and anger.

"So what happened??" Shuri demanded, loudly, tapping Asha on the arm to pull her out of her own head.

"When I woke up, I thought it was just a dream. I have dreamed about the Planes since I was a child and had not realized it. She showed up. I yelled at her, demanded she let me stay in the Planes," Asha admitted sheepishly, "And then she told me that Wakanda needed me to save its future and the legacy of the Black Panther. That is it. There were a lot of words but she did not offer many tangible actions," Asha added at the end, voicing her frustration at the cryptic messages her goddess gave her.

"Unless she told you how to make me immortal or gave you new seeds to grow more herbs, I am not sure you or anyone can save the legacy of the Black Panther. The mantle will die when I die." There was a sadness in his eyes that Asha had only seen in her own, an acknowledgement that he would indeed be the last of a centuries-long tradition. "Wakanda's only protector will be gone forever."

"Perhaps not forever..." M'Baku whispered. Asha could almost see the light bulb in his head going off as he addressed the full group for the first time since they walked in.

Everyone's attention shifted to the Mountain King, eyes wide with skepticism. The same question oscillating in all their minds: What did a Jabari know of the Heart-Shaped Herb?

"What do you mean?" Asha asked.

"I have had this reoccurring dream about the heart-shaped herb since I was a child. Except, the herb was on the top of a mountain, covered in ice, in Jabariland. I would try to seize one and panthers would surround them and I would wake up. The same outcome every single time. I believed the dream was my sign to challenge for the throne. But I continued to have the dream after Challenge Day. What if it means something more?"

"I don't see how that can help us, Lord M'Baku," Shuri muttered, rolling her eyes. "Those were just dreams. You all have never found herbs in Jabariland. There are none. We have searched... There are none in the wild in all of Wakanda."

"Yes, we have yet to find herbs in Jabariland, that is true Princess. But we have not searched all of Jabariland. There is a small mountain range on the border of the Land of the Heart-Shaped Herb, land that no Jabari has set foot on in almost a century. Its forest is impenetrable. It is forbidden. Truthfully, I haven't thought about it in years until just now. Last night, King T'Challa said that your priestesses refuse to go to the Hall of Kings because they are attacked by visions and voices, yes? Our scouts used to report the same phenomenon in those mountains. Even the Chosen are not immune."

"You think there are herbs there?" Nakia said? "I don't understand why Bast would put herbs outside of Wakanda?"

"Technically... she didn't put them outside Wakanda. We did. Old maps of Wakanda show that the land that is now the Land of the Heart-Shaped Herb stretched into the mountains. The Taifa Ngao simply thought the mountain and river's natural fortification made the easiest barriers between the territories, an easy break between the two that would not confuse anyone. But in doing so, part of the forest of herb ended up in Jabari territory. Bast said that she and Hanuman were aligned on many things... maybe it is protecting the last of the Heart-Shaped Herb?"

"This is all speculation. What proof is there to any of this? And how can we find them when the forest drives you to insanity?"

"You cannot believe these are coincidences? These dreams are real. Think about everything that has happened... Killmonger, reuniting Jabari with Wakanda, Asha meeting with Bast? All of it had to be for a reason. This is the reason. There are herbs in Jabariland and Asha is meant to lead us to them. She is not a Jabari, she is not a Chosen... she is... something else. She may be the only person who can do this."

Heads turned to Asha as she contemplated everything M'Baku said. She could not deny that the pieces fit together as he described them. If there were herbs left in this world, M'Baku may have just drawn them the road map directly to that garden. They owed it to Wakanda to find out the truth. And he was right… she was something else. She was A Gift.

"Then we go. We search for it. Today," Asha declared, determination set on her face.

"Today??" Shuri called out incredulously, laughing lightly at the absurdity of this plan. "You can't be serious? You literally died last night and now you want to go hiking? Are you on drugs??"

"Yes, I must agree with Shuri. Not because I don't believe you may be right. B-but you cannot run off into the forest off M'Baku's word and a hunch, Asha. it is not safe."

Asha shook her head. "It is not just M'Baku's word... it is Bast's too. She said I was to build last bridges across Wakanda, T'Challa. This is it. This is what she wants me to do. The herb and the Black Panther are what stopped Wakanda from tearing itself apart centuries ago. It is the thread that has held us together for centuries. Without it, we will just tear each other apart again. Bast doesn’t want the Black Panther to die, it would be the end of her people. If the Jabari lead us to the last of the wild herbs and give us the opportunity to cultivate them once more... no Wakandan could ever deny their place in this country again. If a mutant helps us preserve the legacy of the Black Panther, no one would ever question their existence again. They would have to recognize them as Bast intended, as gifts to her people. Brother... you have done what was once thought as unimaginable: bringing mutants back into the light, bringing the Jabari back into Wakanda. The Warrior Shaman went into the wilderness to save Wakanda then. This is how we save Wakanda now."

T'Challa stared at her intently, processing her words. He knew she was right, knew the puzzle pieces did in fact create this clear picture and path forward. However, he wished she was not the one that had to do it.

"We need the herb before the King's Challenge tomorrow evening. This is how we will convince the Mining and Border Tribes to maintain their allegiance to the throne. Are you sure you can do this, Asha? It won’t be an easy journey alone."

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "And I won't be alone."

***

The ramp of the Royal Talon thudded softly into the soft ground of a clearing in Jabariland, allowing Asha and M'Baku to descend into the frigid air. They looked like an odd pair, he in traditional Jabari hiking clothes. Asha, who had never done true hiking in her life, was in a borrowed pair of boots, leggings and a light jacket. A freezing Jabari day felt like a nice cool day to her. Both had backpacks filled with supplies and blankets, courtesy of Shuri who had also never hiked but seemed to think it was a week-long affair.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked M'Baku as they stepped into the soft and undisrupted snow on the ground. The Talon dropped them off at a spot already halfway up the mountain, giving them a head start. Unfortunately, the thick trees would not let them get any higher.

"Do you want to do this?" he countered, already knowing the answer. "No one wants to walk into a forest filled with magic. But this is my duty. I will nott turn back on it."

“How do we know that you are immune? From the creepy voices and dreams?” Asha asked, concerned for his mental health.

“We don’t. I guess we will have to wait and find out.”

Asha gave him a side glance. The man didn't look scared but there was such silence in him since they got on the plane and certain tension radiated off him that she was not used to. She wondered if this was how he wore fear.. This was certainly a new side of him she was experiencing.

"You said your dreams put the herb at the top of the mountain yes?"

"Yes, we should get started. It will take us a great deal of time."

The further they walked, the more Asha understood why people did not come here. Even without the voices and visions, which she was sure would be terrifying to the average Jabari, the trees were so thick and hunched over that they blocked out almost all of the natural sunlight along their path. It seemed as though night had fallen the moment they stepped foot out of the clearing. But so far, M'Baku's theory seemed to hold true. Asha heard nothing except the chitter chatter of forest animals, the swaying of trees, and a mixture of her and M'Baku's breathing.

Silence followed them easily as they walked for the first stretch, neither needing to stop or fill the space with unnecessary conversation. They just walked upward, toward the garden they knew was waiting for them. Occasionally, Asha threw a glance toward M'Baku, wondering what he was thinking of, wondering if they should use this free time to finally talk.

"It seems you were chosen in a different way, Lord M'Baku," she mused aloud as he used his knobkerrie to knock low-hanging branches from their path.

He looked back at her, eyebrows raised in speculation.

"How do you figure that?"

She laughed lightly, her childlike laughter filling the quiet forest as they went. "Well, you said this journey drives everyone else insane. Yet here you are... mind clear enough to continue the journey. Why do you think that is?"

Her question was met with silence but she could practically hear the wheels in his head churning, thinking about her words.

"Here we are... the only two people in all of Wakanda who could make this journey? You are doing something even T'Challa could not. You are saving the legacy of Wakanda."

"I don't serve your God though. Bast would not use me as a pawn in her plans."

She had fallen behind him slightly, his long legs allowing him to take greater strides than her. She sped up and he slowed down slightly so they could walk side by side and better engage in conversation.

"Bast and Hanuman are not mutually exclusive. They exist together. They are aligned in many ways. She told me so. Who says Hanuman doesn't want to protect the legacy of Wakanda too? If he didn't, why would he have urged you to fight for us against Killmonger or rejoin Wakanda? I don't think this is just Bast's plan... I don't know.I think it is their plan? "

"You seemed to know a lot about Bast for someone who doesn't pray," M'Baku countered, not to be contentious but trying to understand. He still remembered their hike her first morning in Jabariland... she had said she was done with all that.

Asha sighed, "I was. But I spoke to her, laid my frustrations and grievances at her feet and she listened, without judgement. She pushed me, challenged the things I always believed. I don't know. I stopped praying because I thought she stopped listening. But she never did, she just knew I was asking for the wrong things."

Silence fell over them for a while before M'Baku responded, "You truly believe I was chosen for this?"

A small smile settled on Asha's face. His tone, the look in his eyes was of a child wanting to be told he was good enough... worthy enough. Asha wondered if this was the great juxtaposition of their relationship - both grew up wanting what the other had and neither appreciated what they had. Neither thought they were chosen when their worthiness was so clear and evident in the other’s eyes. In reality, it seems they were destined for this task and perhaps destined for each other.

"Yes. I do. I know you have never felt like it but it is clear to me. Your dreams... your leadership in this tribe. Those are no coincidence. Hanuman and Bast could have chosen anyone to have that dream and wander this mountain and find these herbs. But they chose you. That means something."

The weather was getting colder, the winds stronger, the higher they walked up the mountain. The loud winds forced their conversation to die off as it howled loudly around them. Even Asha was starting to feel the sharp bite of the cold weather. It was not enough for her to regret her choice of light clothing, her internal furnace just had to do a bit of extra work.

The sun started to set, stealing the minimal light they had on the path. The darker it got, the more ominous the walk got as well. Not long after, snow started to fall on them, growing heavier by the second.

"How much farther?" Asha asked quietly.

"A few hours. But soon we won't be able to see anything with the snow. We should find shelter."

Asha looked around wildly, incredulously. "Shelter? Where? We are on an uninhabited mountain, M'Baku. Where in Bast's name would we find shelter?"

"I d - sh!" M'Baku quickly silenced her and himself as he heard rustling in the trees by Asha. Asha had little time to think before he pushed her behind him and raised his knobkerrie.

However, Asha was no damsel in distress, she was a fighter. She moved from behind him and summoned flames around her hands, though they struggled to stay alive due to the cold winds, ready to strike whatever came out of the forest at them.

They both stared into the black abyss between the trees beside them. First there was nothing, the pair starting to let their guard down. But before they allowed themselves to relax too much, Asha let out a soft gasp. Where there was nothing but black, there were now two amber eyes staring back at them.

M'Baku raised his weapon higher but Asha lowered hers, allowing the flames to cease and held his arm with her normal hand. She couldn't explain it but she knew this wasn't dangerous. Whatever the creature was, it would not hurt them. She took a step forward despite M'Baku's urgent whispers to not get too close. As she moved with bated breath, a paw emerged from the darkness, giving way to a full-grown panther slowly walking toward her.

M'Baku stood stunned as Asha dropped to her knee before the Panther. This was a message from Bast... they were on the right track.

The panther stared at her for a moment before turning and heading back through another set of trees. Asha immediately fell into step behind it. She felt her body tugged back by a strong grip and turned to find M'Baku looking more fearful than she had ever seen him.

"Panthers can't survive up here. It shouldn’t be up here. What are you doing?"

"I am following it. You have to trust me, M'Baku. You just have to," she begged him, eyes pleading with him to let her follow this animal. All the senses in her body yearned to go after it for she knew it was leading them exactly where they needed to go.

M'Baku didn't understand why following a wild panther would help them, unless she desired a trip back to the Planes. But he knew his logical brain was simply trying to overpower the feeling in his gut that agreed with her: the panther knew the way.

He let go of her arm and nodded, both quickly catching up to the panther who was waiting for them a few paces ahead. They followed it, snow heavily falling and winds whipping their faces for 10 minutes. Asha's resolve never wavered, this panther knew where it was going.

Sure enough, minutes later, just as M'Baku was cementing his idea to demand they return to the path, the panther stopped in front of the mouth of a cave. It flopped down onto its belly, licking the snow melting on its limbs while Asha and M'Baku walked past it. It was dark and damp but it was shelter, a reprieve from the harsh winds and snow outside.

They huddled inside, shielded from the winter elements outside.

"This will do for the night. Do you want to make a fire? I can go get wood," M'Baku offered.

Asha shook her head, sliding her backpack and sleeping bag she didn't think she would actually need off her shoulders.

"The sleeping bag is insulated. It heats up according to your body temperature. And I can make heat if we need it. Are you cold?"

M'Baku shook his head but couldn't hide the obvious judgement that clouded his eyes, knowing exactly what made the sleeping bag operate like that.

"Sorry, I forgot you all distrust vibranium. I shouldn't have men-"

He shook his head, silencing her. "It is fine, don't apologize. I suppose I must get used to vibranium if we are going to be a part of Wakanda."

They both unrolled their sleeping bags next to each other before sliding in. Silence fell over them as they stared at the dark gray, damp walls of the cave, listened to nothing but their own breathing and the soft drops of water dripping onto the floor.

Asha wondered if he felt it too, the urge to finally talk. She wondered if the spirits haunting this mountain were finally attacking her brain, for she had wanted nothing but to avoid this difficult conversation since she woke up this morning. But this felt like their time, their moment.

Bast and Hanuman pulling the strings yet again, she thought to herself.

There were no interruptions, no distractions. They had all night. They were in their element, in the mountains where the rest of the world fell away and they could be the best versions of themselves.

Another stolen moment? she wondered. But she knew that wasn't it. This was the first interaction that didn't feel stolen, it felt as if it was designed for them... made for them.

Asha felt like so much of the last few weeks were destiny, her love for M'Baku included. Asha was in love with him, she wanted him and would choose him if he was still willing to have her. All signs pointed to that, after all, why else would he go on this journey with her? If this was truly Bast's plan, why waste her opportunity? Suddenly, she had no desire to go another night without being his if that was the path she was on. They... she wasted so much time already fighting for something that she didn't even truly want.

But first, she knew there was something she needed to say, apologize for. She rejected him, for good reasons at the time, but it was rejection nonetheless. And he was still here, still fighting for her and her family without any assurance that she wanted him in return. It was a selflessness she questioned whether she actually deserved.

"Can I say something?" she inquired, her fear of broaching this subject evident in her voice. Thankfully, without a fire for light, it was pitch black so she knew he couldn't see it. Her question was met with silence but she took that as permission to press forward.

"I-I'm sorry."

He side-eyed her suspiciously in the darkness, not understanding what the woman beside him had to apologize for.

"I am sorry for choosing him. I thought I had good reasons, thought it was the right choice. At the time, it felt, he felt, like the only choice. Yet, I still pursued something with you, knowing I couldn't choose you. That wasn't fair. I-It was selfish. And I am sorry."

There was silence for a while. Her anxiety was at an all-time high as she waited with bated breath for him to say something, say anything back to her. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to hear.

"I want to see you. Like that first night."

It was a simple request, one that didn't need additional explaining. Asha's small hands curled into tight fists. Unlike that first night where she had little control over her body and her powers, she had grown since then. The flames instantly grew large enough to swirl themselves into a tight ball, vibrant oranges and yellows dancing in an invisible encasing.

She pushed the ball out and it floated away from her, dancing gracefully through the darkness as it slowly illuminated the cave around them, bathing them in a soft glow. Her hands repeated the motion until the cave was filled with light and heat of her own making, sourced by a dozen balls of fire.

M'Baku stared up at them for a few minutes, just as mesmerized by them and her as he was the first time around. He watched them gently float through the air, their heat warming him in a way his sleeping bag never could. He looked over at her, illuminated by her own magic, looking like the goddess he knew her to be.

"No it wasn't fair. But I also pursued you when I knew you were taken. That was equally selfish. But I do not want nor will I accept an apology. The path was rugged but it got us here. I wouldn't change it."

"Except maybe the part where I almost died. I would happily change that," she added. She smiled at the belly laugh M'Baku let out at her words, which echoed throughout their makeshift shelter. His smile and laugh filled her soul in a way no else could ever have.

"Yes, definitely that part. So the journey got us here. Where is here?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I want you. I choose you, I know that much. But everything else... what this means for us, the Jabari, Wakanda? That I don't know."

"Why does that matter?"

She shifted to her side, looking at his profile.

"B-because you are the leader of your tribe, I am the princess of our country. What we do with our lives has greater implications than our happiness. You said it yourself. If our happiness had anything to do with it, we wouldn't be here. It is our duty."

He shifted to sit up slightly, his hand reaching out to find hers, interlocking their fingers together.

"Yes. But our lives are still our own. All the other things work out on their own. They should not stop us. They won’t stop me. I want to be with you."

Asha smiled, "So we are really doing this? You wish to date me? A vibranium-obsessed lowlander?" she teased.

M'Baku couldn't help but notice something else under her teasing tone, uncertainty. She still needed confirmation that he wanted her. He would give that to her every day for the rest of his days if it helped her.

He tugged on her arm, beckoning her to join him in his over-sized sleeping bag. She slid in next to him at his prompting, warmth spreading through her in new ways as they laid skin to skin. His knuckle stroked her cheek as he stared at her for a few minutes.

"Yes. Because I am in love with you, Asha Udaka. I have been since the moment you walked into my throne room and will be until my last breath."

His rough thumb wiped away the tears that fell down her face.

"I love you too," she whispered, feeling the weight of holding that in lift off her shoulders. It felt good to say it, even better to feel it freely and openly. Asha had never felt this light before... weighed down by secrets of her powers, of her family, of her love for him. In a few short weeks, she went from being crushed under the sheer weight of it to being free from them all.

His lips quickly captured hers before she could say another word. It started out gently but soon turned desperate as the couple tried to make up for lost time, tried to cram weeks of subtle touches and looks into this moment. M'Baku quickly shifted his body weight to be on top of her, her legs instantly wrapping around his waist as they kissed. His lips made their way to her neck as his hands roamed the rest of her willing body. She let out a breathy moan as he sucked her neck and his hands massaged her thighs, inching dangerously close to her core.

Despite her heart literally doing back flips in her body, her logical mind couldn't help but demand she pump the breaks on this lust-filled tryst in the woods. She wanted him... Bast, she wanted him more than she wanted anything in this world. He was her drug and she was officially an addict. But he would be her first and she had heard enough from Nakia and Okoye to know that the first time can come with some unpleasantness among the pleasure. It only took two days in Jabariland to know that this was not his first time. She heard the staff gossip as she moved through the Great Lodge, the Lord of Jabariland knew his way around a woman's body and had many opportunities to practice. She was somewhat embarrassed by her lack of experience compared to him. But she knew enough about him to know, if he knew, he wouldn't judge her. He would just slow things down to put her at ease and ensure she was comfortable. And she wanted that.

"M'Baku," she breathed, pushing against his shoulders. "M'Baku, wait." It was almost painful to ask him to stop, it went against every natural urge and instinct in her body.

He immediately stopped, his hand coming to her face to cup her cheek, his eyes instantly apologetic. He took it too far, he knew it. He had just wanted this so bad, yearned for her like no other woman in the world. But after only agreeing to date five minutes prior, he should have known she wanted to take it slow.

"I-I am sorry, Asha. I lost my head for a minute. That was inapp-"

She captured his lips, kissing him deeply before sucking his bottom lip and breaking it off.

"It is not that. I enjoyed it and I want to continue. I-it is just that, I have never been with anyone before. I thought you would want to know before w-we do this."

M'Baku sighed, the better man in him winning out as her words sunk in. Regardless of how desperately he wanted this, this was not the way. He shifted them so they were both laying on their side again. Asha looked perplexed and slightly put out, taking his abrupt ending as rejection.

"Why did you stop? I want to."

"I do too. But your first time... our first time together, should not be in the cold on a hard cave floor. That is not what I want for us. We have waited this long, one more day until we get back to a real bed will not kill us."

Asha sighed, partially with relief that his reasoning was not rejection.

He chuckled before kissing her on the forehead before she settled on his chest, her own sleeping bag cold and forgotten.

“Good night, usana. Sleep well,” he whispered.

And she did, going to sleep truly at peace for the first time in years.

****

A/N: I mean FINALLY! These two are finally free and ready to stop tiptoeing around each other. We love to see it! Thanks for reading!

Tag list: @destinio1 @muse-of-mbaku @jellybean531 @skysynclair19 @ashanti-notthesinger @gloriousgam3r @archivistofwakanda @leahnicole1219 @mygirlrenee

#Black Writers #black panther #black panther fanfiction #black panther imagines #m'baku x reader #m'baku x oc #m'baku smut #m'baku imagines

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sugalattaes · 4 years

Text

❛ you were ringless ❜

✦ VALIANT ✦ CHAPTER ONE ✦

pairing: kim seokjin x reader

genres: angst // fluff // prince!seokjin // bodyguard!reader // european medieval setting

warnings: infidelity // jin with a mommy kink // eventual smut in series

word count: 2,697

summary: months of professionalism is thrown out through the window as the Prince appeals himself in a vulnerable way to you

Grimacing, you followed the Prince into his quarters, glancing over your shoulder warily. If anyone were to see this they would think so wrongly of the Prince, but especially of you. You were already aware of the foul words thrown at your back by the other female guards at the castle, all along the lines of infidelity.

Your eyes snapped open to the low inquiry of your Prince, “Why don't you look me in the eye, (Y/N)?” Jin's voice was a melody, a soothing breeze that wore down your worries and blanketed you in warmth, but you were diligent enough to shake off the cozy feeling. Stubborn enough to deny the obvious effect he had on you. When the Prince heard no response from you, he sighed loudly, “Am I a chore to you, (Y/N)?”

The door clicked shut as you turned to face the Prince, head tilted down as no guard dared to lay their eyes on the royalty. You watched his shadow slowly slink away from you, only to return soon with its owner dragging a plush chair of velvet in tow.

“At least take a seat,” Jin gently coaxed, pushing the chair against the wall.

You bit your lip, despite your defiance to his questions and acts of kindness, you couldn’t go against what he requested of you. So you pulled the baton at your hip out and set it on the floor to sit in the chair comfortably, eyes still trained on the smooth tile floor. “Are you ignoring me?” Jin complained, his words articulated in a cute manner. “Before you would at least lift your head..”

The tall man wasn’t even close to you, yet you could pick up his musky and woodsy scent from where you sat. You donned yourself in mint when he was around in hopes of staying undistracted and unbothered around him.

His feet came into your view, his toes that poked out of his slippers almost against yours. And with a sudden plop, Prince Kim Seokjin himself was on his knees in front of you, a position that forced you to look at him. Your eyes widened, “Prince, what are you doing?”

Jin dismissed your rational question, returning a small smile with his pursed plush lips, “I heard you have a child, how come I never knew?” You inwardly groaned, his tendency to prod about your personal life became something you had grown used to blocking out. But his innocent gaze made it harder this time.

It was like he was out to get you into trouble. The amount of torture the royal court would put you under if they saw you, a mere guard, in such close proximity with the Crown Prince. And to think of your child, what would happen to your little tyrant, Chenyoung, if you were punished?

“She's two, right? What's her name?” Jin persisted.

You lifted your head up a little, your eyes boring into his sweet, espresso ones. “My shift ends in thirty minutes,” you simply answered.

You were here for pay, not to befriend the Prince. They appointed female guards inside the palace for male royalty so that not only would the Princes be protected from harm but unwanted courtship from the women of the palace. It worked vice versa for female royalty. However protocol dictated explicitly that guards were to stand outside the door until the sun disappeared and to return to their manor house to exchange places with a guard who worked at night. Instead of allowing you to guard outside his door, Jin had other ideas, insisting you to sit inside his room. He tried to figure out what you liked, where you came from. You couldn't help but wish he would just fuck off.

As a married woman, with a child you weren't easily swayed by his charming looks. No matter how many times you saw him catch his bottom lip between his teeth, you found yourself waiting to leave the Prince's quarters.

“Oh, come on, (Y/N),” Jin whined, forming a pout. “I asked to see your child and the ladies told me you specifically asked them to not let me see your child! Are you purposely pushing me away from you? After I have doted on you for so long?”

Jin let out a huff, his scent making you shift. You could feel his fingertips gently pressing at the feel of your foot to keep your attention, but all you could think of was the amount of affection he held and how he was a complete contrast from your husband at home.

Your husband was a harsh man with one useless arm and another that only held cigarettes. All he did was ask for a quickie and money for change at pubs. He gambled and smoked. There was no reason for infidelity though, he gave you a roof to live under and a child you loved. But Jin made it impossible to not fall for him as he became a vulnerable heap at your feet.

No, you wanted your child far away from Jin. You refused to see Jin in a state where he'd look like the perfect father and husband. You refrained from daydreaming of Jin and your child’s laughter mingling on a warm day. You refrained from imagining Jin's surname alongside your childs. Kim Chenyoung.

You could practically see your child jump in excitement as she was being loved by a father who gave her attention.

Your thoughts were interrupted as Seokjin repeated his inquiry. “You'd like it, wouldn't you? If I asked for another guard? It'd be easier for you, I can request any other royal male to be your next appointment so you wouldn’t have to put up with me.”

He looked up at you, by now your eyes were searching the intricacies of the ceiling. “Look at me,” he leaned closer. You carefully allowed your gaze to meet. He looked so domestic with his silk tunic stretched across his large chest and his raven locks covering his brow. You resisted the temptation to cup his cheeks which were plump and rosy. The best description you could give on Prince Jin was that he had the head of a Samoyed and the body of a Doberman, a silly way you came up with the say he was a soft child in the body of a built man.

“No, Prince, I don’t mind,” you replied, looking away. “Twenty more minutes.”

“You're manipulating me, darling, that felt like five minutes not ten,” Jin retorted, wrinkling his nose slightly. He gently allowed his hands to sidle their way up from your heels to either sides of your thighs. You didn’t allow yourself to bite your lip or tense up, it was unprofessional to hint at being bothered.

“Fine, twenty five minutes,” you agreed half-heartedly.

Maybe three minutes of silence passed, your eyes scanning over anything and everything except Jin. A fourth minute passed by, marked by the way he gently set his chin onto your lap, his legs folded underneath him. His broad shoulders were an expanse that you wished you could hold. You couldn’t help but envy the thought of his future wife who would have the ability to relax in his comfort.

You caught his fixed stare, your anxiousness peaking. The thought of someone coming into the room and seeing this scene was terrifying.

“Prince, get up,” you insisted. In return you got a shake of the head and silence. “What play is this? At this point I may as well walk around saying I have two children.”

“Would you, Mommy?” he dully rebuked.

You raised an eyebrow at the term of mockery. “Eighteen minutes, honestly it should be sixteen since I have to do rounds in the hall before I leave. Come on now, Prince, get up. It's the least you could do for me.”

“The least?” he glanced up at you, not moving his head from your lap. “That's a lie. The least I could do is give you comfort, yet you push me away everytime. Look at you, you have me at my knees.”

You furrowed your brows, “Prince-”

“Half a year, half a year you've had to follow me around in the palace and you still call me Prince. Jin. My name is Jin.” His voice seemed curt now, giving you the glare of a wounded animal.

“Prince,” you murmured, “Don't give me angst.” You gently slid your fingers underneath his chin, attempting to lift his head from your lap. You succeeded, only for him to rest his elbows on top of your thighs instead. Your breath hitched slightly, becoming acutely aware of the lack of proximity between the Prince’s chest and your legs.

“It's not like you'll attempt to discipline me, Mommy,” his voice was now teasing, deliberately letting his breath warm your fingers.

“Your r-right, fourteen minutes,” you stuttered, you tore your focus from him and glanced at the door as your ears slowly became a dark shade of pink. Had he noticed your voice give away?

Maybe it was the way he ever so slightly traced the seam of your black pants with his forefinger. Or the way his smile was so lopsided, you could practically read his intentions. “Please, Prince, now is not the time to be…” You trailed off, not wanting to say anything out of line.

“Be what?” Jin pushed mischievously. “You seem so confident with that baton of yours while walking behind me. Why does it dissipate when you're in front of me?”

Your hands began to shake slightly, not from the weight of his head, but from the tension that you could no longer ignore. This is why you were supposed to be stationed outside of the door, so incidents like this wouldn't occur. You didn't know how to respond, simply hanging your head as you dumbly observed the way his large hand enveloped your thigh.

You started to get even more anxious, paranoid that someone would open the door. Your concerns were confirmed as you heard the footsteps out in the hall. “Jin,” you looked at him with a pleading voice, you practically whimpered, “This isn't appropriate, Prince.”

“That makes it even more exciting,” Jin whispered in return. Your heart pounded as the footsteps became louder, closer. “Do you mind if I touch you?” Jin slowly slipped his hands up to your hips, lifting himself ever so slightly.

“I don’t- I shouldn’t,” you stumbled over your words, “Prince someone is coming-”

“So you don’t mind if I kiss you, Mommy?”

The door slammed open, but Jin was faster, getting up on one knee, cradling your cheek with one hand, and pressing a light kiss to your lips. Your blood froze, closing your eyes so you didn't have to see the intruder.

“What is going on here? Prince?! Are you alright, Prince!?”

Your shame quickly ebbed away as you felt his smile against your lips. You parted your mouth allowing him to kiss you deeper.

“Prince!? Are you drunk?”

Jin growled, addressing whoever had burst into the room. “Get. Out.”

When you heard the door hesitantly close, Jin's lips returned to yours. You sat there, pressed into the chair, with awkward hands. As if to guide you, Jin lifted up your hands so they rested on his shoulders. Kissing Jin was like falling into a pit of fluffy pillows, how long had been since you kissed someone? Your husband never asked for kisses or gave any for that matter.

But soon, reality settled into your stomach and you felt the shame and guilt crash upon you, cheating was below you. To your own disappointment, you slid yours hands to his chest. Pushing him away from you, when there was a gap between your faces you ducked your head down, “S-stop, Prince.”

He looked at you with a soft frown, his hands still cupping your face. “Did I make you feel uncomfortable?”

You couldn’t bear to look at him as your hands fell from around his neck. “I'm still a married woman, Prince.”

His glossy lips formed a ‘o’ and you shamefully thought how good his lips looked with your saliva on them. You squeezed your eyes shut, erasing your sinful images and pushed Jin again, in order to stand up.

Jin stepped back, his slippers sharply skidding on the tile. “You didn't have a ring, (Y/N), I thought..”

He didn't know himself what overcame him. You were so exotic to him, such a young beauty who was so charismatic with a baton in her hand and a child at her hip. He hadn't thought to ask if you were married, thinking that your ringless fingers were enough to make a move. His cheeks were burning, his neck a shade of cranberry. “I'm sorry, I.. Understand if you wish to leave...”

You couldn’t bear to lift your head and acknowledge him, so you just reached for the doorknob, “Mercy, Prince. Sleep well.”

“Wait- ! Could you tell me about your child at least.. Her name perhaps?,” Jin bit his lip and hung his head. Kicking the floor and holding his hands behind his back, he resembled a child who received scolding.

“Chenyoung,” you gave in, twisting the knob.

You didn't understand his troubled expression as he looked vacantly at your feet. “Do you not wear your ring?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, “I don't have a ring.” You noticed the way his shoulders slumped. “Don't, Prince, it would be in my way of my baton, anyway,” you continued nonchalantly.

“I was teasing you before, I respect you, really. I didn't mean to call you M-” he turned around, his vast back hiding his embarrassment “-It was aslip of the tongue.”

“It's fine, Prince,” you said dismissively.

“I wasn't teasing when I told you to call me by my name though,” he said in a quiet tone. “It’s suffocating, hearing ‘Prince’ from everyone makes me feel vain.”

“Fine,” you went back to kneading your hands. You still felt the warmth that Jin had left on you.

“Fine, what?” he gently asked.

You nodded, “Fine, Jin.”

To some degree, Jin felt like he had won. Hearing his name fall from your elegant lips was all he could ever want and more, it was a stroke of luck that he was able to kiss you, able to be so close with you. In all honesty, Jin knew everything about you, your child's name, your lame husband. It was his job to know about people, he could remember you from two years ago. Jin wondered if you thought that he had forgotten about you.

You wore burlap pants, then, and you had no child at your hip. Tears threatening to fall down, you had scratches on whatever skin was exposed. “Prince, can't you give me a job.” Jin had you go to a speaker so you could flush out your problems, when reporting to Jin to speaker the horrible things that you had gone through.

Now he could not see the face of the woman who had pled for help in the stoic statue that was now you. Your change was shocking, Jin hadn't even recognized you for a while. You had been hiding your hair in the uniform's hat and the black uniform was a stark difference from the burlap pants he had seen you in. And the child.

Before he would think Chenyoung was adorable, but he slowly got envious. Someone as dismissive as your husband shouldn't have been able to give you a child, nonetheless, he was fond of your kid. He told nurses to give Chenyoung rock candy in the afternoon and would deliver sweet buns to the nursery himself so that all the kids could have soft bread.

You solemnly bid him goodnight again, “Goodnight, Jin.” You didn't bother to listen to Jin's response, gently closing the door behind you as you left.

Jin groaned, smacking his head against the wall. “Fuck, what have I done.” Jin hated this, he hated that he was able to get frivolous nothings, but when he wanted something so dear he couldn’t. He was ready to give up anything for you.

#bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #seokjin fanfic #seokjin imagine #seokjin fluff #jin imagine #jin fanfic #jin fluff #bts fanfic #fic: valiant #repost

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turtle-paced · 6 years

Text

Revisiting Chapters: A Ghost In In Winterfell, ADWD

Possibly my favourite of all Theon’s chapters.

The story so far…

Back in Winterfell, Theon’s witnessed a wedding and worse, and now he’s unwillingly wrapped up in a murder investigation. Not like he has anywhere else to go.

Horror Movie

This chapter starts with a suspicious accident - a corpse found in deep snow at the base of Winterfell’s inner wall. People quickly decide that he slipped and fell while pissing off the wall, which, fair enough, provided you don’t think about it too hard. Theon thinks about it too hard.

But Theon Greyjoy found himself wondering why any man would climb the snow-slick steps to the battlements in the black of night just to take a piss.

The second corpse to show up is dismissed in a similar fashion.

Ser Aenys put it about that the man had drunk too much and gotten lost in the storm, though no one could explain why he had taken his clothes off to go outside. Another drunkard, Theon thought. Wine could drown a host of suspicions.

The third corpse turns up within a few hours in-universe and a mere sentence on the page. This one was kicked to death by a horse, definitely, and not clubbed to death by persons unknown. Theon smells a rat, and more importantly, he sees how this is what happened to him when he took Winterfell.

It’s the fourth corpse that kicks things into gear, since this one can’t be explained away as an accident. The previous three victims were killed in private places, one of them naked, but this victim was one of rapist Ramsay’s favourites, and murdered in a way that definitely suggests a retaliatory aspect: the man’s penis was cut off and stuffed into his mouth hard enough to break several teeth.

Towards the end of the chapter, Theon is summoned to a meeting on the issue, under suspicion from some quarters of committing these murders. He denies it. By way of corroborating evidence, Barbrey Dustin makes Theon show his maimed hands to the assembled lords, establishing Theon’s inability to grip anything (and that it was Ramsay’s work). Roose Bolton agrees.

“Strength aside, he does not have it in him to betray my son.”

Roose can see just how traumatised Theon is. It’s also articulated in an undeniable fashion to Theon.

There’s not just a horror movie aspect to this, in the end, but a detective novel aspect. The last conference between the Boltons and their “allies” gives me a distinctly Murder on the Orient Express-y vibe, not because I think they all conspired to murder people, but because all of these people have damn good reason to start shanking Bolton men in this enclosed environment. As they themselves make clear - including Hosteen Frey’s outburst over his relatives, last seen alive receiving parting gifts from Wyman Manderly, and (unbeknownst to the Freys) last seen dead in some wedding pies. When, in the meeting, the finger is pointed at Manderly or his men, Barbrey Dustin and Roger Ryswell point it out to Aenys Frey:

“And Lord Wyman is not the only man who lost kin at your Red Wedding, Frey. Do you imagine Whoresbane loves you any better? If you did not hold the Greatjon, he would pull out your entrails and make you eat them, as Lady Hornwood ate her fingers. Flints, Cerwyns, Tallharts, Slates…they all had men with the Young Wolf.”

“House Ryswell, too,” said Roger Ryswell.

“Even Dustins out of Barrowton.” Lady Dustin parted her lips in a thin, feral smile. “The north remembers, Frey.”

In other words, if the Freys insist on suspecting Wyman Manderly for these murders, they better start suspecting everyone. Roose tries to put a lid on it, but the conflict’s past this. The Ryswells and the Dustins are the best friends Roose Bolton has, and even they make it clear they loathe the Freys. The Freys have no future here.

Theon solves his mystery in the final part of the chapter, as he prays in the godswood for his name back. Holly, who approached him earlier, and two of the other ‘washerwomen’ (Mance’s assistants) accost him in the godswood. Holly brings out a knife.

“Kill me.” There was more despair than defiance in his voice. “Go on. Do me, the way you did the others. Yellow Dick and the rest.”

Holly laughed. “How could it be us? We’re women. Teats and cunnies. Here to be fucked, not feared.”

They were totally overlooked. Even Theon, lowest of the low, was suspected before these women.

Under Siege

That’s inside Winterfell. What’s outside Winterfell is just as worrisome in its way. Possibly more.

Endless, ceaseless, merciless, the snow had fallen day and night. Drifts climbed the walls and filled the crenels along the battlements, white blankets covered every roof, tents sagged beneath the weight. Ropes were strung from hall to hall to help men keep from getting lost as they crossed the yards.

Several of Winterfell’s gates are frozen shut, portcullis, drawbridge chains and all, contributing to the sense that the men inside are trapped. When a freerider says something that could be construed as sympathetic to Stannis, Ramsay has the man thrown from the battlements into the snowdrifts eighty feet below. The freerider survives with a broken leg. In hindsight this is clearly setting up Theon and Jeyne’s jump. On top of that, Roose Bolton’s controlling entry and exit to the castle tightly.

The horses aren’t having an easy time of it either, with a strong possibility of mass horse death. The stables are too crowded, leaving the rest of the horses outside. They don’t handle fire well, and so people have to change the blankets over them regularly.

Somewhere out there in the snow, Stannis is approaching. Whether he’s worse than the snow is up for debate by the common soldiers, as is whether the men inside or outside are cursed. Nobody’s sure where he is, or what he might be able to do in the inclement weather. But they’re at least sure that he’s on his way, and the knowledge is exacerbating tensions inside Winterfell. These are not the usual petty frustrations of people cooped up together too long, oh no.

Lord Wyman Manderly slapped his massive belly. “White Harbour does not fear to ride with you, Ser Hosteen. Lead us out, and my knights will ride behind you.”

Ser Hosteen turned on the fat man. “Close enough to drive a lance through my back, aye. Where are my king, Manderly? Tell me that. Your guests, who brought your son back to you.”

This conflict between Hosteen Frey and Wyman Manderly (Hosteen quite rightly suspecting that Wyman had his relatives murdered) threatens to spill over into violence. While Barbrey Dustin and Roger Ryswell calm this incident down, Theon notes that Roose Bolton’s saying nothing and looking almost afraid. Later, attempts to get some singing going fall flat - the horses get scared, and even the singing along is riven by factionalism, Northmen usually refusing to sing with Freys. When the murders are discussed, one theory is that Stannis has a man on the inside.

At last, when Theon’s walking the walls following his attendance at the whodunnit meeting, he hears a horn.

A long low moan, it seemed to hang above the battlements, lingering in the black air, soaking deep into the bones of every man who heard it. All along the castle walls, sentries turned toward the sound, their hands tightening around the shafts of their spears. In the ruined halls of Winterfell, lords hushed other lords, horses nickered, and sleepers stirred in their dark corners. No sooner had the sound of the warhorn died away than a drum began to beat: BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. And a name passed from the lips of each man to the next, written in small white puffs of breath. Stannis, they whispered. Stannis is here, Stannis is come, Stannis, Stannis, Stannis.

You’d think judgment itself had come upon Bolton Winterfell - the fury of a man just past the point of wisdom. It’s one hell of an entrance. Nevertheless, this arrival signals the end of anticipation and the start of a fight, and a fight is something that can be planned for. Regardless of the creepiness when Theon and the sentries look out and see nothing but more snow. Theon’s got some of the practicalities in mind:

Roose Bolton would welcome such an [aggressive] fight, he sensed. He needs an end to this. The castle was too crowded to withstand an extended siege, and too many of the lords here were of uncertain loyalty. […] It was the girl who held them here, Lord Eddard’s blood, but the girl was just a mummer’s ploy, a lamb in direwolf’s skin. So why not send the northmen forth to battle Stannis before the farce unravelled? Slaughter in the snow. And every man who falls is one less foe for the Dreadfort.

Interestingly, Theon adopts Roose Bolton’s perspective of the situation first. Also interesting is the fact that Theon considers it inevitable that the ruse with Jeyne will be discovered.

Spectres

This chapter, Theon is haunted. He’s the titular Ghost in Winterfell, a shadow of his former self, forced to witness what he’s wrought. This weight builds up over the course of the chapter. It starts fairly innocuously, when Theon speaks to Holly (unbeknownst to him, Holly of the Free Folk).

[Holly] was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with shaggy blonde hair in need of a good wash and a pair of pouty lips in need of a good kiss. […] Once he might have laughed and pulled her into his lap, but that day was done.

It’s a bit of a contrast to Theon as we were first introduced to his PoV. We see that he’s still got the core of the impulse, but he doesn’t act on it. (Not unrelated: Theon’s a straight man who’s having trouble expressing his sexuality now that he’s been mutilated.) Instead, he’s looking for the trick, as he most certainly was not when Asha tried something very similar on him in ACoK.

Later, up on the walls, Theon considers escape himself, not through any secret passage but by a far simpler route.

I could jump, he thought. [The freerider] lived, so why shouldn’t I? He could jump, and…and what?

The answers he comes up shows us another one of Theon’s spectres: Ramsay. Ramsay, and what he did to Theon, overshadows his decisions. The two don’t directly interact this chapter, but the terror and the thrall Ramsay holds him in is apparent when some of Ramsay’s men speak to Theon. When he’s informed that Ramsay wants to cut Theon’s lips off, all Theon can do is reply “as you say,” and leave when told to.

It’s as he runs when we get one of the more memorable encounters in this chapter, a very brief conversation between Theon and a man in a hooded cloak, who calls him Theon, but also Turncloak and Kinslayer.

“I’m not. I never…I was ironborn.”

“False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?”

“The gods are not done with me,” Theon answered. […] Oddly, he was not afraid. He pulled the glove from his left hand. “Lord Ramsay is not done with me.”

The man looked, and laughed. “I leave you to him, then.”

Very brief indeed, but this encounter serves as something right out of A Christmas Carol, Theon’s personal Ghost of Christmas Past (though he looks more like the Ghost of Christmas Future) come to remind him of his mistakes. Theon cannot fully explain his denial of the accusation of kinslaying, and so emphasises that he was ironborn. What he cannot deny is that he was false, and he lives still only because of the whims of others.

When Theon climbs to the top of the battlements, he cannot see anything from their height through the snow, and reflects.

The world is gone. King’s Landing, Riverrun, Pyke, and the Iron Islands, every place that he had ever known, every place that he had ever read about or dreamed of, all gone. Only Winterfell remained.

He was trapped here, with the ghosts. The old ghosts from the crypts, and the younger ones that he had made himself, Mikken and Farlen, Gynir Rednose, Aggar, Gelmar the Grim, the miller’s wife from Acorn Water and her two young sons, and all the rest. My work. My ghosts. They are all here, and they are angry.

Without the distractions, and with the time and space to think clearly, Theon sees the line between his actions and their outcomes. He’s aware, here, of the injustices he’s committed and the reasons that the dead might wish to harm him. Beaten down and traumatised as he is, he’s thinking in terms of being ‘trapped’ and escaping from his guilt, rather than facing it head-on, but this too is a far cry from his ACoK self.

That, and he’s realised something else about Winterfell.

It was my home, though. Not a true home, but the best I ever knew.

While Theon is not eager to die - rejecting the idea of jumping from the battlements because the outcomes are death or Ramsay’s anger, outright afraid of Stannis giving him to Jon Snow to behead - he nevertheless considers a “man’s death” to be “the sweetest deliverance he could hope for.” By implication, there are sweeter deliverances, just not any ones realistic for him.

He goes to the godswood to pray, then, the drumming of Stannis’ arrival following him all the way.

Remember Your Name

Theon has seven chapters in ADWD, and only the last is titled “Theon.” “A Ghost in Winterfell” is the sixth. Through the previous five we’ve seen Theon try to hold on to the Reek identity for self-protection, even as Theon reasserts himself. By the opening of this chapter, he refers to himself as Theon Greyjoy.

In this chapter, how other people address him is also a pertinent issue. Though Theon, the titular ghost in Winterfell, is largely ignored by others, a few people do address him directly. Holly refers to Theon as “m’lord,” in an attempt to butter him up. We also see a short conversation he has with two nameless guardsmen.

“I want to walk the walls,” he told [the guards], his own breath frosting in the air.

“Bloody cold up there,” one warned.

“Bloody cold down here,” the other said, “but do as you like, turncloak.”

An epithet, rather than a name. And as seen above, he talks himself down from a daring escape attempt with the reminder to remember his name. Ramsay’s people call Theon Reek in the middle of the chapter. Steelshanks Walton calls him turncloak, as does Roger Ryswell. Roose does not use Theon’s name at all.

When we get to the hooded man, he addresses Theon twice, calling him Theon Turncloak and Theon Kinslayer.

At last, though, when Theon is in the godswood, the leaves of the heart tree call him simply Theon. Accordingly, Theon asks the gods who know him to let him die as himself, as Theon Greyjoy of Pyke. Oddly, he sees Bran’s face in the tree for a second.

Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. “I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me…laughed at me…they…”

And this shows how far Theon has left to go, when it comes to guilt. He did hurt Bran and Rickon, in hurting the people at Winterfell, and in driving them from their home. The minimisation of his actions in murdering the miller’s sons with the word “only” also shows some callousness and selfishness.

Fittingly, that’s when the washerwomen come out of the woods to make fun of this shallow version of remorse.

“Theon Turncloak.” Rowan grabbed his ear, twisting. “You had to have two heads, did you?”

“Elsewise men would have laughed at him,” Holly said.

As they say, they’re a gift from the gods, or at least from the author, while they mock the idea that the pain Ramsay inflicted on Theon is a cosmic punishment for his crimes (it’s just Ramsay getting his jollies).

“Did the Bastard hurt you?” Rowan asked. “Chopped off your fingers, did he? Skinned your widdle toes? Knocked your teeth out? Poor lad.” She patted his cheek. “There will be no more o’that, I promise. You prayed, and the gods sent us. You want to die as Theon? We’ll give you that.”

Barring Theon falling back into Ramsay’s hands, this would seem likely to be true. Eventually.

Chapter Function

Really interesting chapter, bringing together elements from Jon’s, Asha’s, and Davos’ PoVs even as it advances its own. There’s also the bit where Bran is almost certainly speaking through the weirwood to Theon.

This is the other side of the conflict shown in Asha’s PoV chapters, detailing their military aims and potential complications and conflicts, as the actual fighting starts in this chapter (with the psychological warfare of the horns and drums outside the walls). In particular, we see that infighting amongst the Bolton side is growing worse, helped along by the murders. Ramsay’s violence has made him unpopular with Lady Dustin; the Freys are of course the Freys, and there are plenty of people out for their blood. Thanks to Davos’ PoV, we know more about the Manderlys and their plans than the Boltons know.

The murders, meanwhile, were committed by the Free Folk sent by Melisandre on Jon’s behalf to rescue “Arya” from Ramsay. They’re stoking the ill feeling inside Winterfell and still looking for access to Jeyne herself.

Theon’s character development is the background to all of this. He’s back, not just to thinking of himself as Theon, but by the end of the chapter, to asking to be Theon again. When Roose said Theon didn’t have it in him to betray Ramsay, this chapter forces Theon to look back and see the reasons he has for doing so. He’s not quite up to acting against Ramsay yet, but he’s sure looking down at the snowdrifts beneath the walls and thinking I might survive that fall.

Miscellany

It’s been a while since we’ve had so much detail given to us on Winterfell, and Winterfell under the Boltons is a deeply unpleasant place. As the opening paragraphs of the chapter make clear, not even the dead are safe from depredation in the Boltons’ Winterfell, with the dead man’s body dug up and partially devoured by Ramsay’s dogs. Where snow in other chapters lends a sense of purity and cleanliness to a setting - such as in Sansa’s final ASoS chapter - here the snow is a muffling blanket, contributing to the atmosphere of claustrophobia and paranoia. The new Bolton-built stable collapses under this snow and kills horses and people alike. Later in the chapter, we see that Winterfell becomes outright squalid under Bolton occupation.

The reek within the Great Hall was palpable by eventide. With hundreds of horses, dogs, and men squeezed beneath the one roof, the floors slimy with mud and melting snow, horseshit, dog turds, and even human feces, the air redolent with smells of wet dog, wet wool, and sodden horse blankets, there was no comfort to be found amongst the crowded benches…

This is not what Winterfell is supposed to be like.

While we’re talking about who’s referring to who by which name, Barbrey Dustin calls Ramsay “the Bastard” in front of his father. She also makes sure to remind the room of Lady Hornwood’s fate.

Clothing Porn

Kind of? Theon wears heavy wool and greasy fur and goes for a walk:

…his legs were caked with snow to the knee, his head and shoulders shrouded in white. On this stretch of the wall the wind was in his face, and melting snow ran down his cheeks like icy tears.

He’s dressed as the ghost in Winterfell.

Food Porn

Blood sausage, leeks, and warm brown bread. Stale bread in bacon grease for the men, bacon for the lords and knights. Pease porridge and stale bread for the men, and another including ham for the lords and knights. Rare horsemeat with roast onions and neeps, shared regardless of class. This chapter makes very clear that your social status determines your provisions.

Next Three Chapters

The Soiled Knight, AFFC - Reek III, ADWD - Jaime VI, AFFC

#ASoIaF #revisiting chapters #cw: violence #theon greyjoy #roose bolton #a dance with dragons

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5questions · 5 years

Text

Joselia Hughes

Joselia "Jo" Hughes is a Black 1.5-generation Cuban-Jamaican-Guyanese-American writer and artist from the Bronx. She lives with Sickle Cell Disease (HBSC) and ADHD.

Where did you find the 3rd grade poem? How did you decide to include it? What other collage or found art/poetry do you like?

The 3rd grade poem was from a collection of student works, Witch’s Brew, released by my grammar school, Horace Mann. I have two issues from 2nd and 3rd grades. Both of my works were quartered in the “Fantasy” section. There was another section called “Feelings” and, I think, The Sky more accurately suggests a feeling. Scratch that: it explicitly discusses a feeling. This misidentification by academic administration/curatorial staff (which doubles as a political demonstration) is telling. I think it explains a lot about the root confusion between what I have felt/feel to know as Experientially True versus what I’m told to know as The Truth. When considering the emotional and material lives of Black femmes, we must remember Black femmes have been historically disallowed, disavowed and dispossessed of creative virtuosity. Too often, we are strapped in the monolith of stereotyped caricature dictated by the manifested destiny written into commandments/constitution of misogynoir. Black femme virtuosity is reappropriated, regesticulated and worn like some earned bloody body wisdom by the Opps (Oppressive Forces). While I didn’t have those terms as a child, I experienced the consequences of misogynoir in conjunction with dis/ableism and classism, which aren’t separate entities but necessary vices that amplify asphyxiation. Is disabled Black femme loneliness only permissible when classified as fantasy? That shit don’t sit right in my spirit. I also used the poem because the title is Witch’s Brew and my zine, Heartbeats But No Air (HBNA), is a kind of exorcism. A few years ago, I pieced together that my maternal grandmother was a covertly practicing Bruja. With the widening reclamation of ancestral wisdom by BIPOC, in an effort to decolonize our existences, I was tapping into that tender tendon of wisdom.

Understanding my grandmother’s practice reminded me that she wanted to name me Darthula Verbena (daughter of God, enchanting and medicinal). I started referring to myself as DV, my pre-name, and inspected my childhood. That’s been a remarkable endeavor. I had to teach myself to play again. Through play, I learned how to feel. Learning feeling meant learning the qualitative and quantitative nature of the labyrinth of my thoughts. Once I learned some of the turns of the labyrinth, I could feel to know how to navigate the terrain without fear and engage in the rigorous study that’s always characterized my central self. Play is a code switch. I often think of code switching as a means to subvert/refigure power differentials. To hide in plain sight by retooling “seeing” to perception/sensing. How much are we perceiving/sensing? How often do we mean perception/sensing yet default to “sight”? Perception/Sensing adds dimensionality that isn’t always articulated with and through “sight” and “seeing”. Ralph Ellison’s identification of “lower frequencies” and J. Halberstam’s configurations of Low Theory do this work. I toy with these multiplicities in the zine. I work low to the ground which means I work close to my heartbeat, my central drum. I work meta; I go beyond. I like to sprinkle codes, tickle clues, tuck in questions, sew in wisdoms so I know what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, who I’m doing it for and to always remember the fun of FLiP (Feeling, Learning, iPlaying).

Some of the works/folks who’ve helped me FLiP are Dana Robinson’s meditative and piercing collages; Zulie’s mind bending, heart wrenching, time suspending zines; Nikki Wallschlaeger’s I HATE TELLING YOU HOW I REALLY FEEL; Seth Graham’s tattoo practice/paintings/unbounded love of outer space (they’ve done 3/4 of my tattoos); Amanda Glassman’s razor sharp poetry and encyclopedic curiosity; L’Rain's music has literally helped me scale the side of a mountain and carried me through hospitalizations; KT PE Benito’s multidisciplinary liberation praxis and collaborative friendship; Zoraida Ingles' holistic creative prowess (a conversation with her is why Heartbeats But No Air, as a title, exists); and Marcus Scott Williams’ writings/video/sculpture work that readily embraces the persistence of ephemera. This isn’t an exhaustive list—I have a solid library of books and papers and zines and tunes at my crib—but, genuinely, I’m inspired by everyone I’ve had the honor to encounter.

There are themes of love and race and beauty and culture and self-transformation in this book. Paired randomly, some pieces may not make as much common sense together, but as a whole, it feels powerful and cohesive. What was the structuring process like for this chapbook? Each zine is different, right?

It is one zine. I find it cool that you consider HBNA a chapbook made up of many zines. The word chapbook had never crossed my mind. I walked into the process with DIY zine logic and HBNA was printed using office photocopiers. I think the feeling of cohesion you mention is what happens when you witness a lot of parts of one person. In this case, you’re witnessing a lot of different parts of me, my thoughts, my actual labor. Whole is the goal ‘cuz people are whole. I am whole. I consider HBNA a single revolution of myself— one big twirl around a fire, a sun. I was in a very strange place. I’d alleviated, with the help of acupuncture and CBD products, a significant amount of the chronic pain I’d been experiencing since August 2014. I fell around love with someone and rose in love to myself (thanks Ms. Morrison and Ms. Stanford!). I was in an unfamiliar painless trance. I created and tinkered with all of those pieces during a very short period of time from Summer 2017 to Summer 2018. HBNA was originally named Girl Pickney (the prose pieces were written under that moniker) and before that NggrGrl (a nod to Dick Gregory). I wrote the poetry in an even shorter period of time—March to July 2018—and the poems are actually part of a full length collection that I wrote in those four months. I didn’t decide on the layout of the zine until I was with two friends formatting it for printing two days before I was going to read at The Strand and sell it. I kept all the pages, the puzzle pieces, in a folder. A lot of book structuring, for me, is based on emotional knowing—when to slap, when to pound, when to breathe, when to confuse, when to stun, when to anger, when to tell, when to soothe. All of my structuring decisions are fly about to get swatted dead but fast enuf to fly away first intuitive. If I’m channeling that intuition, I know I’m in running in the proper heat and lane.

You were in an MFA program at one point. How does this chapbook contrast with your style from before that program and during that program? Did that program have an effect on your writing? This doesn’t feel like the most MFA-y writing, which is why I ask, and which I mean as a compliment.

I’ve attended a few schools. I’ve completed fewer than I’ve attended. Until my late 20s, I was shy and desperate for people, those noun-verbs, to stay. This desire for people to stay meant I spent an inordinate about of time and energy relegating the difficult parts of myself to the margins of the margins and continually stepped into social/academic shoes that did not fit. HBNA was the first fitting of the bespoke shoes I can now emotionally afford to make. The first copies I sold had typos! I misspelled my own pre-name and that’s exactly what I needed to happen. It needed it to happen because I’m full of mistakes and yet! I try! I understand HBNA as a radical refutation of embarrassment. Depending on when you purchased a copy, you’ll see I used white-out to make a few corrections. No two zines are the same; only 80 copies exist. I’m printing 12 more copies (they’ve already been claimed) and then on to new pastures! The zine was printed in three different places (two offices I don’t work in and a local printing shop) and I was lugging around 800 individual sheets of paper that I stapled, numbered, indexed and decorated with stickers by myself…standing barefoot on the carpet of Staples in Co-Op City, listening to Ryo Fukui’s Early Summer on repeat until I finished and then I jetted to the Strand to read. HBNA was how I knew to embody my physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual labor. I’m a goofball with zany ideas, an indifference to external definitions of relevancy, sickled cells and a lot of chaotically grounding love. I write for myself first. Of the school lessons I did receive and learn, there weren’t many I didn’t later disassemble to rebuild, freak unfamiliar or completely misunderstand. J. Halberstam calls this “failing”. Rejigging failure has been such a gift to me. How wonderful! A failure AND still happening? Fuck yeah! I was a wildly uneven student whose knees buckled at mere thought of rigid academic authority. After years of shame and refusal, I can finally admit I am an autodidact. I intentionally get lost and navigate in and to the direction of my own senses. School didn’t teach me to write for myself and that’s who I always have to write for. If that’s selfish, so be it. I am my first audience. If I’m sus of me, then me and myself got foundational problems. I know my writing is non-institutional and that lack of institutional alignment and support, while scary as shit, pushes me to make and take risks to believe beyond the immediate demands/plans/remands of whatever external force I am facing. My writing is constantly colliding into A New I can’t predict. I’m fully committed to unfolding, unraveling, for curiosity’s sake.

What’s a typical day like for you?

My day to day life is as predictable as it is unpredictable. I am formally unemployed and have been for awhile. I live on very little cash and am kept afloat because my mom is a gem and hasn’t kicked me out. My days are 100% influenced by the weather and I spend a good portion of my time negotiating how to minimize the occurrence of vaso-occlusive crises and other complications from the disease I have, Sickle Cell. Between January 2018 and January 2019, I was hospitalized three times. Each hospitalization was about a week long and recovery took significantly longer.

Here’s a sketch of what I call a really great day: I wake up before 10. If the night’s sleep was especially restorative, I can comfortably rise at 8. Depending on how my body feels, depending on how much pain I’m enduring, how much fatigue is shrouding/clouding my faculties, I decide if I have the energy to take a shower. I do the bathroom routine, get a cup of orange juice and take my medications (Endari, sometimes Adderall, Folic Acid). I use the first hours of wakefulness to connect with loved ones via text-phonecalls-DMs and browse the internet for headlines-news-updates-new smiles. I wear my fits comfortable. I call comfort my uniform—upend normcore to body sensible—sweatpants/leggings, pullover, one earring (although I’m leaning to pairs again), handy dandy baseball cap and sneakers. I keep it simple. If the weather is aight—if it isn’t too cold or too hot and if precipitation is mostly at bay and air quality isn’t extremely poor—I go outside and get some living exercise. When able, I take extremely long walks. Once I walked over 50 miles in a week! It’s my preferred form of meditation. Walking/body movement grounds my ADHD symptoms more effectively than stimulants, strengthens my body for potential Sickle Cell episodes and satiates my unyielding need to feel connected to other people. I’m at my best when outside and happening. Illness can create an inescapable interiority. Inside reminds me of the hospital and my relationship with the hospital is, at best, fraught. Walking allows me to follow myself. I engage in peek-a-boo with babies, witness accidents, smile at strangers, duck the eyes of leering people and learn how to love differently too. I go to playgrounds and swing. I take photos and notes. If I’ve got a lil cash, I ride the subway for fun. I poke into shops, admire graffiti and other street signs. I have one woman dance parties on sidewalks. I rest on park benches and read. I pick up grub from hole in the wall spots—you know—I live my life and embrace as much as I can while centering kindness and gentle flow. The walks are my favorite part of my job, which I do not have. When I return home, I rest then get to crafting which I sometimes call spelling. Crafting/Spelling can be anything from adding to my I-Box, spitting verses from the abstract (poetry), spinning short stories, detailing journal entries, doodling, painting, knitting, researching & studying, dancing & stretching, bugging out on Twitter or reading. My bedroom is my studio so I work small yet widely. I intentionally provide myself with many targets so I can a) keep my thoughts and feelings flowing b) find the connections between all of my actions and c) mitigate the stress that sits in the heart of a lone project. I am a multifaceted, multifauceted being. Why not turn on all the taps?

The more long form prose pieces in here have the feel of nice punch-y flash fiction. Are you writing a fiction collection without poems and collage in it? I want to read that, too :)

Hahaha! You’re onto me! Yeah, I am writing another book of poems, a manifesto zine and a collection of fiction. I’ve been writing a collection of fiction since 2012. I had a lot of the difficultly writing the fiction because I was too attached to the title, the characters I conceived needed to grow up with me, and I experienced many years of unremitting and improperly managed mental and physical illness. I was holding onto and telling lies. The shame woven into those lies kept me silent and scared. All of that shit needed to get integrated or dropped. I couldn’t enter the prose/fiction I’m currently writing without learning how to survive myself and the world and bottom-belly-believe in survival too. I’m getting there— healing with primary, secondary and tertiary intentions. Won’t say much about the fiction pieces of than: ~15 stories, lyrically speculative fiction, capital B Black, disabled, and queerfemme parables of creation and destruction and maintenance. My website is in flux but I do readings and performances. Hit me up on Instagram , Twitter or email me at [email protected]. Might take a minute for me to respond because I’m thoughtful yet questionably organized. Now go play, ya’ll!

Unintentionally wrote a poem in the interview. I call it A.B.B in Lieu of A.B.C

beyond

fly, about to get swatted dead but fast enuf to fly away first,

always believe beyond

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yanagi-uxinta · 6 years

Text

The Ghost of You (Dragon Age) Chapter 12

Available on FanFiction.net at: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6891181/12/The-Ghost-of-You

Rating: M

Status: Multichapter, chapter 12

Pairing: Fem!Hawke/Fenris

Wordcount: ~8,500

Summary: He knew he should have torn his old master’s heart out when he had the chance. Now, Fenris and the woman he loves are paying the price for his folly. They are enslaved, powerless, but Hawke refuses to forget him… even if he has forgotten her.

Notes: Written in March 2012, fic completed May 2016. Some minor tweaks to correct now-incorrect lore aspects, along with punctuation issues.

“...You’ll be supervising her training from now on, along with several guards of course. You are not to train unless at least three guards are present, and you will use practice weapons. I want her to be able to at least put up a decent fight for several minutes by the end of the month. You’re to do three hours of training a day; more if your schedules allow and the guards are available. The training does not excuse you from your regular duties. Am I clear, pet?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Now, leave. My new apprentice will be here soon, and after that I’ll be in my workshop for the rest of the day, so I expect you to make good use of the ample time available to you.”

“I will, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Keeping his head inclined in a bow until he had backed out of Danarius’ office and closed the door, Fenris paused outside of it in thought, before heading off down the corridor.

Why Danarius wanted to train Hawke with weapons all of a sudden, Fenris didn’t know. But it was an opportunity to spend more time with her, so he couldn’t complain even in private.

By the end of the month... the only notable event at the end of Parvulis was the Masquerade for the new magister. Perhaps Danarius intended Hawke to act as a secret bodyguard? Such a large, populated event would be the perfect opportunity for an assassination; and any decent assassin would be able to pick out Danarius’ armed guards, and Fenris himself of course, and plan for them. But would they take note of a simple house hold slave? A fragile scrap of a woman, there only to look pretty and pour the wine? Hawke could be ideally placed to counter a surprise attack.

Or to take the hit herself, the grim, pragmatic side of him noted.

Either way, Fenris reflected as he absently side-stepped a red-haired woman heading in the opposite direction he was, Danarius had seen it fit to appoint him as Hawke’s trainer.

He didn’t know if that should worry him or not. Did Danarius suspect they’d met each other – several times, in fact? Or was he aware that if he appointed a guard as her trainer, Hawke would learn nothing; instead having to fight off their advances or endure their mindless criticism and jeering the whole time? At least Danarius knew Fenris would teach her how to fight, not just make it a necessity to survive the hours relatively unscathed.

Fenris was unable to decide which was more likely. He was certain they’d been discreet in their meetings – he was positive that last night, at least, no one had seen either of them entering the slave quarters, nor him leaving.

But that first day, in the courtyard – there had been plenty of people present; walking between jobs or standing guard. Anyone could have reported them – he wouldn’t be surprised if Danarius had asked his guards to inform him if they saw Fenris and Hawke interacting at all.

Some part of him argued that Danarius wouldn’t have waited this long to act on the report, but Fenris knew his master could be patient. Once, when Danarius had been in a particularly fine mood, he had deigned to explain why – not that Fenris had asked, but the magister had a habit of gloating when in a good mood. Apparently an assassination attempt Danarius had been masterminding for the past five years had finally been carried out flawlessly. Danarius had loathed the magister targeted, but he had been quite capable of waiting half a decade to kill the man, just to make sure the plan worked. If Danarius could wait that long to kill a political opponent, he could easily wait a few weeks to deal with an errant slave.

Even if it hadn’t been the meeting in the courtyard, there were all those times in the hallways, when she’d been avoiding him... Danarius could have seen her turn and begin walking in the opposite direction... or he could have seen the frustration it caused Fenris, whether Fenris was aware he’d shown it or not.

There were too many possibilities to consider. All Fenris could do was tell Hawke so that she was aware of what Danarius may or may not know, and exert even more caution. He’d have to ensure their interactions were those of strangers, so that the guards had nothing to report other than orders dutifully being carried out.

First, however, he had to find Hawke.

The slave quarters were empty at this time of day; everyone was out working. There was no list of who did what chores, obviously – it would be useless to most of the slaves even if they were allowed to look at it – and Fenris had no idea what jobs Hawke had been assigned.

His only clue was the time she’d been summoned to Danarius’ office the night after the guards were killed. She’d been cleaning the entrance staircase, and one of the ballrooms before that – the west one, he remembered.

He’d check the staircase first.

He planned on snagging any slave he passed on the way there to ask if they’d seen Hawke and shorten his time searching, but corridors tended to be cleaned first thing of a morning or last thing at night, so the only slave he saw on the way to the staircase was at the far end of the corridor, and they’d turned into a side passage and vanished into a room by the time he reached the place he’d seen them.

When he reached the grand staircase, there was no sign of Hawke kneeling on the stairs or attacking the banisters with a cloth, so Fenris called up to a young elf on a mountainous step-ladder, polishing the individual crystals on the magnificent chandelier.

“Tu, puer, vidistis Hawke?”

The boy jumped, the crystal ringing out in surprise as he turned on his precarious perch.

“Qui?”

“Hawke,” Fenris repeated, giving a quick description when simply speaking louder only drew a blank look.

“Ah! Etiam, ambulo istac. Recidivus victualia,” the elf replied in serviceable but amateur Tevene. The boy must have been a foreign captive, learning the native language. He pointed down one of the many corridors containing stock rooms with an oddly wide, companionable grin for such a simple message. Fenris nodded his thanks, hiding his bemusement, before heading down the indicated route, hesitating outside the door, remembering Hawke’s explanation about the ‘system’ the slaves had worked out.

With a quick glance around from beneath his hair for guards, Fenris copied the actions he’d only half-noticed at the time; waiting patiently for the single knock that admitted him into the room.

Hawke had already turned away from the door, and was standing on one of the lower shelves of a storage unit and stretching up to reach the top one, a large, heavy jar in her outstretched hands. An upturned bucket, lower than the shelf she was standing on, lay abandoned on the floor.

“There we go,” he heard her mutter under her breath as she finally got the bottom of the jar above the level of the shelf and nudged it further back with her fingertips.

“Tu opus aliquid, Vasilia?” she asked over her shoulder, her words slow and badly-pronounced as she carefully stepped down from the shelf. Fenris walked around her as she cautiously clambered down her make-shift ladder, staring in concentration at the shelves, leaning in close to them to avoid pulling the whole unit down.

He couldn’t help but grin when she jumped at the movement in her peripheral vision, clutching at a wooden box full of cleaning rags and half raising it as though to crack him over the head with it, the cloths tumbling out like disturbed, half-asleep bats, before jumping again when she recognised him, hissing a decidedly Common curse in alarm that only made his mouth curve further.

Easily tugging the box out of her shocked, unresisting hand, Fenris couldn’t quite resist the little comment that sprang to mind.

“Sorry to disappoint, Hawke, but I’m not Vasilia. And while I don’t need any cleaning utensils, I do need to speak with you. Preferably in Common; I won’t subject you to a full conversation in Tevene just yet,” he smiled, quite pleased that she was speechless, and not simply refusing to talk for once.

When she could finally articulate a response, it was a retort.

“Give me some credit; I’ve only had a few months to learn! At least I know what I’m saying now, instead of just repeating random phrases I heard and getting odd looks,” she said, altogether defensive, but from the way she folded her arms and smiled around her words, he could tell she wasn’t truly offended.

He chuckled, conceding with a nod.

“And you seem to be doing remarkably well, all things considered.”

“Being stranded in a foreign country is quite a motivator,” she agreed mildly, pointedly avoiding all references to being enslaved. No need to dampen their good moods, after all.

“I imagine so,” he replied, storing the box back on its designated shelf as Hawke snatched up the fallen cloths and deposited them back in their container.

“You know so,” Hawke muttered as the last cloth dropped silently onto its fellows, catching the surprised lift of Fenris’ head with a mischievous grin. “Come on, Fenris, I didn’t teach you Common or Qu-” she clamped her jaws shut on the words, her hand half-shooting to her mouth before the motion became redundant. Fenris, however, had heard enough.

“Hawke? Were you about to say Qunari?” he asked suspiciously. She fidgeted for a moment, whispering a berating tirade at herself under her breath that Fenris heard every word of, before sighing and saying so sheepishly it was almost a question, “shanedan, Fenris.”

He opened his mouth to ask what she had just said, before the meaning crashed into his mind, followed by a deluge of other words, sentences, a whole language.

Yet not one image or sound of where he’d learnt it.

“Fenris?”

He nearly jumped when he blinked and Hawke was at his side, looking concerned. He’d been utterly unaware of her moving closer, nor of her hands hovering inches away from his arms as though to steady him in case he fell. From that alone he guessed some of his shock had shown on his face.

“I am... well. Just... sorely confused. It is an odd experience, to recall a whole language at once,” he murmured, sounding the slightest bit shaky to his own ears. Evidently Hawke heard the fine tremor as well, as she grimaced in sympathy and gently rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Again, he expected pain and it didn’t arrive. He relaxed under the gentle pressure with a sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he forcefully ordered his thoughts. He could explore this new language later; for now he had a job to do.

“It is fine, Hawke. I came here to deliver a message, and I’ve delayed long enough,” he said, injecting some firmness into his voice as he straightened. Hawke was already drawing back, seemingly having read his decision simply through the contact with his shoulder, or perhaps his body language. All he knew is that she was reining her concern back almost before he had collected himself.

“Master Danarius has ordered that you complete at least three hours of combat training a day, and I’m to be your supervisor. Of course, we ourselves will be supervised by the guards,” he added, finding just an edge of unexpected bitterness in his tone.

Why should he be bitter? Danarius had every right to have them guarded; they were his slaves. Simple property. The lack of freedom or even privacy had never concerned him before.

“Combat training? Me?” she gaped at him when Fenris nodded, feeling slightly wary at how incredulous her voice had become. “Is that old git insane?” she hissed, plunging into a burst of action, throwing her hands up and pacing, utterly ignoring or oblivious to Fenris choking on the shock, reprimands, and – if he were honest – stunned laughter of their master being addressed as such that queued up in his throat at once.

“I mean, if I get to fight, I won’t complain, but – oh, shit-” the violent curse that left her, along with her abrupt whirl to face him made Fenris even more edgy, suddenly unsure of how Hawke would react. She’d always been unpredictable, but not like this. Before, it was because she was apt to run at the slightest thing. Now, Fenris could detect a distinctly predatory excitement about her, as though instead of run, she was more likely to lunge forward on the offensive.

“You’re to be my supervisor? He specifically said you would be?” she pressed, switching from distracted shock to an intense focus that Fenris couldn’t help but relate to a warrior.

Solemn, already knowing what Hawke had realised, he nodded. She swore again, returning to pacing – or stalking in the short space.

“How did he find out we’d met again? Why else would he put you as my supervisor? Why does he even want me trained again anyway? It’s utterly pointless. I’m never going to be in a situation where I’ll need to fight; he knows I can’t use it against him... ” The growl in her voice grew throughout her agitated theorising until she gave a suppressed, wordless scream of frustration, her hands dragging at her unbound hair, her eyes unfocused but darting across the floor as though chasing invisible spiders.

“Hawke.” Fenris’ sharp demand cut into her disquiet, and she slammed to a stop in the middle of the room, rocking on her feet as she drew her balance back while her momentum tried to drive her forward. She closed her eyes, visibly drawing calm around her, before opening her eyes. She didn’t look at him, but he knew that small motion as a sign to continue.

“I don’t know if Danarius knows about us-” Why did that sound like they were illicit lovers? “-but he mentioned the end of Parvulis. He wants you to ‘be able to put up a decent fight for several minutes’ by then. He didn’t say why, but the only notable event at the end of the month is-”

“-the Masquerade,” Hawke intoned along with him, waving away his curious look. “Slaves hear everything, word gets round. Why does he want me to fight by then?” she murmured this last to herself, her brow furrowed in thought.

Fenris gave a tired, one-shouldered shrug.

“I couldn’t say. Perhaps he wishes an extra body guard; one he can disguise as a simple domestic slave? I’ve heard him say that he’ll but surprised if fewer than ten assassination attempts occur at the masquerade; it will be a huge venue, and the centre of public attention. The perfect place to make a political statement. He may believe he will be the target of such an attempt. He hasn’t survived this long without such paranoia.”

Hawke gave a low huff and a grimace of what could only be disappointment. Fenris tilted his head, curious.

“You... dislike our master?” he asked carefully. Hawke simply gave him a flat stare, as though he’d stated the painfully, stupidly obvious, but then some of her old worry crept in, oddly belated. She looked away again, chewing on her lip in what Fenris recognised as her ‘debating over an answer’ expression.

“I resent having my freedom stolen from me,” she finally replied, her words slow, deliberate. She carefully avoided mentioning Danarius in person, Fenris noticed.

He shifted, uncomfortable. He’d never been able to understand the captive slaves’ attitudes towards their new master.

“He is a magister. It is his right to own slaves,” he muttered, feeling inordinately uneasy, as though he were insulting her. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was staring straight at him again, a new coldness in her eyes – but not for him, he realised.

“It is no one’s right to own another person, Fenris. It’s abhorrent,” she said quietly, with untarnished conviction. Despite the odd thrill that tore down the inside of his spine and spread across the back of his throat, Fenris looked down again, ashamed and conflicted. The magisters owned slaves, it was that simple. They always had. Slaves were meant to be owned. They were property.

But we’re also people, something tiny inside him insisted.

Hawke broke him out of his reverie, stepping closer and peering under his hair, her eyes uncommonly tender when compared to the glacier they had just housed.

“Hey,” she murmured, giving him a small smile, the sadness in the motion somehow negating the lightness of that single word, giving it a solemn gravity. “Don’t ever feel embarrassed by what he’s done, Fenris,” she urged him gently, slowly reaching out to brush his hair behind his ear. He couldn’t quite stop his eyes from trying to close; or from leaning against her hand when her fingers skated down behind his ear and the side of his face. “-Including how he’s made you think,” she finished with a smile as his eyes half opened again, meeting her gaze evenly.

His lips quirked up in the smallest, yet most sincere of his smiles.

“I’ll try,” he murmured, sighing as her thumb whispered underneath his eye, soothing the skin there.

There was no tension, no inexplicable urge. It just felt utterly normal – right, even – to close the gap between them and gently ghost his lips across hers. She responded instinctively with the lightest pressure, then stilled for a moment in delayed shock, only to relax again with a soft sigh of what might have been relief. It was simple, sweet, as comforting as it was romantic, but right then it was all either of them wanted.

It was such a curious sensation to have her lips curve up into a smile against his, that he found himself smiling with her, before both of them laughed softly, eyes opening to see each other chuckle.

With a low hum of humour, Hawke rested her forehead against his briefly, feeling secure for the first time in three months. Idly, Fenris realised that his arms were wrapped loosely around her, while hers rested over his collarbone, untroubled by the coolness of his breastplate.

They both held onto the comfort for a few seconds more, reluctant to break it, but eventually Fenris sighed and shifted. Hawke was already starting to look up, her eyes resigned but gentle as they pulled apart.

“We should make our way to the training ring,” he murmured, even his hushed tone seeming rudely loud in the quiet solitude they had built. “No doubt Mas-” he was cut off by Hawke’s fingertips coming to rest against his lips, refreshingly bold as she replied with a rueful twist to her voice.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmured wryly. “He’s not going to ruin this, too.”

Fenris frowned, bemused, but Hawke simply smiled, dropping her hand to kiss him softly again, savouring it, before stepping back, facing the door and rolling her shoulders as though bracing herself for a brisk winter wind.

“Ready? I believe you said something about training,” she smiled back over her shoulder. With a slightly helpless shake of his head, Fenris started to nod, but paused.

“Hawke?” she turned; her hand resting lightly on the handle, but attentive. Fenris shifted uncomfortably, hating to spoil what had just happened. “When we’re out there, we’ll have to act as though we barely know each other. We can’t be... familiar with each other, at all,” he muttered, reluctant but practical. The fear that Danarius would discover these meetings with Hawke festered and simmered at the back of his mind, driving his words. But while he’d imagined Hawke to be disappointed or upset, she simply gave him a thin, knowing smile.

“Don’t worry, Fenris. I think you’ll find me to be a more than satisfactory actress. I’ve been lying through my teeth to Templers since I could talk, after all,” she laughed. Fenris’ head jerked back in surprise.

“You’re a mage?” he asked, utterly disbelieving and, if he acknowledged the coil of fear dripping around his spine, slightly panicked. Hawke smiled sadly and shook her head, however.

“Not me. Father was, and my little sister Bethany. They were apostates – I had to lie to protect them from the Templars. If we hadn’t, Father – a practicing apostate – would have been killed or made Tranquil, Bethany taken to the circle to grow up there.” Here, Hawke gave a bitter little laugh. “Not that it made much difference, in the end. Father still died, and Bethany still ended up in the Gallows. Ironic really.” Fenris watched her, observing the grieving tilt of her head towards the door and the hopeless drop of her shoulders. Before he could say something he hoped would be more supportive than tactless, Hawke gave herself a small shake and lifted her head, pushing her shoulders back pointedly.

“But we’re not here to chat about my family. We should go,” she said with forced brightness, this time opening the door without giving him a chance to object.

By the time he had followed her out of the door; her expression had been completely rearranged.

She looked confused, slightly nervous and... intimidated? Suddenly, he realised that she looked the same way most of the other slaves did when they spoke to him.

Clever girl.

He led her down the corridors, Hawke only half a step behind and just visible in his peripheral vision, so he saw when she started worrying her lip again – a sure sign she was about to say something she didn’t particularly want to. But he pretended not to notice this small clue, waiting for her to speak before glancing around at her, and eyebrow half-lifted in question.

“Um, Fenris? I, er... I can’t fight in these clothes.”

Fenris blinked. Of all comments, this he hadn’t expected.

“Those... clothes... ?”

She nodded sheepishly.

“The skirt, really. It’s too long – impractical to fight in. I’d need either a shorter skirt or a pair of breeches. Preferably breeches. If that could be arranged,” she added hastily, dipping her head meekly, her eyes darting across the floor that passed beneath them.

She really could act.

Fenris turned to face forward again, thinking.

“It should be acceptable. We should be able to find some spare breeches in either the laundry room or one of the guards’ supply rooms, correct?” Hawke nodded. In addition to it being the place where the slaves cleaned the clothes and sheets of the whole estate, it also acted as a store room for surplus linens and clothes.

They detoured to the laundry room, where Hawke rifled through the excess uniforms, finding a pair of breeches that more or less fit and closing herself in the storage closet to change, emerging with a spare shirt and pair of soldier’s boots as well as the breeches, though her thick belt remained. Fenris raised his eyebrows at the additions, but didn’t comment, instead allowing Hawke to hide her own clothes in a discreet corner before leading her out to the training field.

He couldn’t help but notice the unusual confidence she had as she walked, utterly comfortable in the trousers and knee-high boots.

According to her, they had spent time hunting slavers somewhere called the Injured... no, the Wounded Coast. So she must have at least some skill in fighting, he assumed. He was admittedly curious to see just how well trained she was – by looking at her, he would have doubted her ability to even lift some weapons, never mind wield them with any level of efficiency.

There were several guards in the arena, sparring, shooting at targets or simply socialising, if the groups standing around the perimeter were anything to judge by.

A gruff voice calling ‘elf’ drew Fenris’ attention to the captain of the guard, who approached the pair with a disgruntled air.

“I’m told you’re going to train this... woman,” he stated, the last word rolling in something between amusement and disgust. Fenris merely remained silent and nodded, carefully controlling the affronted roil of anger in his gut as the captain continued. “And some of my men are to be your babysitters until you’re done?” The captain was outright scornful now, evidently seeing this as an utter waste of time, and quite possibly an insult to his ability. Fenris held his gaze evenly, purposefully keeping his tone neutral.

“If you object to Master Danarius’ wishes, I’m certain you could ask to speak with him and arrange and alternative solution,” he intoned, picturing the rank-smelling scorch mark on the floor that would be left if the captain actually had such gall. From the man’s withering look, he knew what the consequences of questioning Danarius would be too.

“Don’t get smart with me, elf. You can spar. My men will watch. Don’t expect more than that,” the captain growled through the sneering shape of his slim-lipped mouth, seeming even more frustrated by Fenris’ calm nod of acceptance. With a last glower at the two of them, the man strode off towards a training dummy, snagging a sword from near the wall as he went before starting to hack at it with unnecessary violence.

Fenris glanced over at Hawke, noticing now that she had her head down – presumably to make the captain think she was scared or submissive, but Fenris had an odd suspicion that she was struggling not to laugh.

When she lifted her head, however, she was perfectly composed, if shooting wary glances at the soldiers around them.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Fenris lead Hawke over to a large bench, upon which assorted weapons lay, all blunted or wooden for training.

Before Fenris could ask her preference, Hawke had dived for a pair of blunt steel daggers; simple, straight blades, no decoration. The moment she had them in her hands, she relaxed, an easy smile passing briefly across her face as she tested their balance.

“Not bad,” she muttered, giving the two several experimental flips, to Fenris’ surprise.

To disguise the errant emotion, he started to set aside the greatsword Danarius had provided him with, reaching instead for a training one when Hawke shook her head.

“You don’t have to do that. Use – you can use your own one if you like,” she offered, obviously biting her tongue on an unconscious order. Despite the temptation, neither glanced around to check if she’d been heard – it would have only broadcast that they had done something they shouldn’t. Instead, Fenris nodded and resettled his usual blade against his back, though he did silently resolve to be more cautious about his attacks. He didn’t want to accidentally kill her because she was too slow to dodge.

Hawke started rolling her shoulders and flexing her hands, the only warm-up she allowed herself. It was more than she usually got during the numerous ambushes she’d experienced in and around Kirkwall, and she’d learnt to adapt to the sudden jolt into rapid action without warning her muscles. Her comparatively weak physical state concerned her – she was sorely out of practice, but she couldn’t really help that.

Still, having the reassuring weight of a pair of daggers back in her hands calmed her immeasurably, and she found herself settling easily into her sparring stance, Fenris doing the same opposite her.

Luckily, she had the advantage of prior knowledge here. Although Fenris was vastly stronger and most probably faster than her by now, even without using his markings, he no longer knew her fighting style. Hawke, however, knew his every move, his every ‘tell’, as Varric would call them. She knew what slight tremor of muscle meant he was about to lunge or jump or feint, what subtle quirk of his mouth or tiny frown said about his confidence against his opponent.

His wide eyes of surprise when he feinted left then swept around to try and cut her right leg off at the hip and she easily leapt back and parried the blow was so satisfying, Hawke couldn’t help the wicked grin she shot him as she darted forward, insistently pressing him back with quick jabs and sudden twists to strike at his side or back. But even startled as he was, Fenris didn’t allow it to cloud his instincts and recovered quickly. He strafed around a well-timed combination of an overhand swipe at his sword arm and jab at his neck, bringing his sword around and over his head in a strike that could easily cleave her in two. Instead, Hawke spun aside, the movement tight enough to bring her almost back-to-back with the elf. He leapt forward before the two daggers could strike his kidneys, turning sharply and, instead of swiping again, he kept his shoulder lowered and used his momentum to charge forward, trying to surprise the rogue and knock her clean off her feet.

She wasn’t where she should have been, having rolled sideways as he turned, and instead he felt a helping hand on his back and an extended leg against his shins as he ran past her. He caught his fall with one hand, managing to keep his sword arm extended so he didn’t cut himself to pieces on the greatsword as he followed the movement through and forward rolled, coming straight up on his feet and turning in time to block her mid-air strike at his head and throat.

Both of them were grinning as they blocked and parried, and soon they were turning around the ring, ducking and spinning around each other, forgetting that this was meant to be an experimental spar only.

Yet barely five minutes of intense fighting had passed before the strain really took its toll. Her breath was already heaving as she shoved Fenris back a step, attaining some desperately needed room. With a jolt of self-disgust, she realised her arms were trembling with the effort of holding the blades aloft.

She saw Fenris watching her carefully, saw his stance loosen slightly, on the verge of offering a break.

With a snarl, Hawke threw herself forward again, funnelling her frustration with herself and her almost manic rage at Danarius for reducing her to this into her screaming muscles and lungs instead of oxygen. Fenris fell back under the surprise onslaught, his eyes once again wide for a second until he blocked and knocked her back, gaining ground and an equal footing in the spar again before Hawke, her breath deep gulps of ragged air interspaced with furious growls that stretched into something more like screeches, launched forward again.

Fenris allowed it for another few seconds, batting away the weakening yet increasingly desperate strikes with ease as Hawke exhausted herself.

Finally, when she was practically staggering towards him, blades extended in the hope she’d hit something, Fenris knocked her back and planted his blade into the soft sand of the arena, holding his empty hands up before she could fall at him again.

“Take a break, Hawke. You’ll only hurt yourself by continuing like this,” he ordered. For a long moment, she glared at him, as though contemplating ignoring him and lunging again, but finally she nodded, throwing her daggers, blades-first into the sand as well and turning towards the arena wall, apparently only her momentum carrying her the last few feet, upon which she slid down the wall, her head bowed between her knees, shoulders still heaving.

Only slightly winded himself, though with an unexpected new respect for the woman on the ground, Fenris gave her a minute to berate herself – he’d heard her vicious hissing under her breath as she’d walked away – as he went to the well and drew up one of the buckets stacked by the ring of curved stone blocks.

By the time he returned to Hawke, bucket full of shade-cooled water, she had sat back so her head rested against the wall and had stopped talking to herself, but was still glowering at the burning Tevinter sky. She only looked around when Fenris set the bucket down next to her before sinking down the wall to sit with her, gesturing at the bucket when she just looked at him.

“You first,” he muttered, letting Hawke cup the water in her hands to drink or pour over her head. When she sat back, the collar of her borrowed/stolen shirt wet and her breath finally calming, Fenris took his own drink, listening patiently when Hawke started muttering again – to him, this time.

“I’m sorry for this. It must seem like a waste of your time, only being able to spar for six or seven minutes at a time. It’s pathetic,” she said savagely, one clenched fist beating the ground beside her ineffectually, before sighing in frustration.

Fenris couldn’t help snorting. When Hawke glanced over at him, surprised and – despite her own declarations of weakness – slightly hurt, he quickly shook his head, eager to avoid any misunderstandings.

“Forgive me, but I have to disagree with you. Your stamina may-”

“Be abysmal?” Hawke suggested; which Fenris all but ignored except for an amused quirk of his mouth.

“-need improvement, but your skill with blades is excellent. If you were in top form, I’d be exceedingly wary of actually fighting you. You’d be a dangerous opponent, at the very least.” Of all the compliments to make a woman smile like a bashful teenager, Fenris wouldn’t have picked that one, but there was Hawke, grinning awkwardly and staring at her boots.

Before the quiet could become uncomfortable – or charged, which could be just as bad, given their present company – Fenris straightened up, falling back into a training mindset.

“But obviously, you are out of practice, and your muscles are severely atrophied.” At this assessment, Hawke sobered and looked up, her expression level but open. “I think a lot of your training will be simple stamina and muscle building, along with resistance training – the skill is still there, but the support it needs isn’t. Your diet may need adjusting as well, if possible, although... ” Here, Fenris trailed off, and Hawke grimaced in understanding. He was barely fed enough to sustain his current strength, denied meals often for the slightest fault, and he was Danarius’ personal bodyguard. As a domestic slave, Hawke must find it near impossible to get any decent food.

Danarius would be expecting a report on her progress and Fenris’ initial assessment, however, so Fenris could list Hawke’s lack of nutrition as a severe detriment to her ability to fight. If Danarius was in a pleasant mood, he might even avoid a punishment for impertinence.

Pushing aside his concerns about Danarius’ reaction, Fenris returned his focus to Hawke, sitting with her eyes half-closed against the sharp sunlight.

She lifted her head when she saw him move, attentive once again.

“Master Danarius said you’re to do three hours of training a day, in addition to your usual duties,” he said, trying not to let a note of apology into his voice when Hawke simply closed her eyes, resigned and exhausted. “To make it easier, try taking the jobs downstairs; or less strenuous ones if you have the choice. I know your work is tiring, but try not to work yourself too hard, otherwise we’ll have no hope of doing three hours each day – you’ll only cripple yourself with exhaustion or torn muscles,” he suggested as Hawke opened her eyes again.

She nodded, rubbing her temple wearily. “I’ll try and arrange it. I’m more concerned about the ‘every day’ bit. Does he know that training every day can do more harm than good?”

Fenris shrugged, uncertain. “He may. However, if Master wishes us to work that hard, we will. I’ve done so before, so it is possible,” he offered in an attempt at support. Hawke snorted.

“You never lost all your toning, Fenris. Trust me, I’ll struggle,” she said bluntly, not allowing embarrassment or anger to cloud her voice. She sighed, looking out at the ring, her eyes narrowed against the sun reflecting up from the sand. “I’ll do it though. What Master wants, he gets, after all,” she murmured softly, her tone far too bitter for Fenris’ comfort.

To distract them both he stood, purposefully ignoring the irritated glare of the guard captain.

“Come, we’ve rested enough. Are you ready?”

Hawke grimaced, her nose wrinkling like a displeased lion’s, but she nodded and hauled herself to her feet with a low mutter.

“No, but the sooner three hours pass, the sooner I can go to bed and collapse.”

Varric sat back from the maps, documents and speculation scattered across his table, sighing and closing his eyes, ignoring the pile of mail left at his elbow by a disgruntled Edwina.

Three months. Three; and still no leads.

How the two could just vanish like that astounded him. Ancestors knew, even he would struggle to find two more distinctive people in this circus of a city.

At first, he and the others had simply thought the two had locked themselves in one of their mansions for several days, and only he and Isabela would even dare to imagine interrupting that little liaison.

But after two full days had passed, Bodahn Feddic had arrived at the Hanged Man, wild-eyed with concern. Varric had had to shove a drink into the man’s hands to stop them wringing.

According to the dwarf, neither Hawke nor Fenris had returned to the mansion since the night Danarius died. After the second day had passed with no word from Hawke – unusual, for her, seeing how considerate of her staff she was – Bodahn had gone to Fenris’ pit of a mansion and found it deserted.

Varric had reassured the manservant that the two had probably gone on an impromptu trip somewhere outside the city, to put the haggard man’s mind at ease.

As soon as Bodahn had left, however, Varric had walked towards the door, intending to grab Isabela and tell her, when the pirate herself had entered his room, none of her usual swagger present.

Varric hadn’t even commented on her eavesdropping, simply looking at her for a moment.

“Time to grab Blondie and Daisy?” he’d suggested.

Isabela had nodded.

“No need to get Aveline’s smalls in a twist just yet – they could have just ran away for a few days,” she’d said, though they both could hear the doubt there.

They’d collected Anders and Merrill – deciding it was best not to mention anything to Hawke’s family, Aveline or Sebastian until there was real cause to worry – and had headed for Fenris’ home, Isabela briefly retelling her conversation with him the last night anyone knew the pair were still in Kirkwall.

As Bodahn had said, the mansion was empty, with only one set of recent footprints in the thick layers of dust in the foyer. Even the main room upstairs – the one Fenris lived in – had only the dwarf’s prints, and the cold air of a place unlived in had already encroached from the other areas of the mansion.

When the group began looking closer, they started to worry. Anders recognised magic scorches on the floor and walls; Isabela and Varric found splintered, blistered craters in the table and floor, possibly from mauls or hammers. Merrill found the blood.

A small stain, mistakable for wine at first, in a dried-out puddle on the floor. Then other, smaller drops – sprayed against the wall, across the table.

By the time the four had left, everyone was visibly shaken, even Isabela.

“It definitely wasn’t like that when I left. And I saw no one, Varric, not one person when I left. If I had, I’d have gone straight back in, long-overdue making up be damned, and warned them... ” she said, a trembling arm around Merrill’s shoulders as the young elf sobbed, her huge eyes magnified by the tears in them.

“It’s not your fault, Isab-” Varric started; only to be cut off by a distraught wail from Merrill.

“Why would anyone want to do this to Hawke, or Fenris? They’ve never hurt anybody! Well, they have, but not- not, I mean-”

“We know, Daisy. No one should have been able to do this. We’ll find them, if they’re not already out of trouble and on their way back to Kirkwall this minute,” he’d said, trying to keep a supportive look on his face.

From the unusually grave look Merrill gave him, he realised that she didn’t believe him anymore than he did, but she appreciated the effort.

They’d pulled themselves together and split up to inform the others – Isabela going to Aveline, Merrill to Sebastian, Anders to Gamlen (Varric wouldn’t let him go near the Gallows without Hawke there to act as a deterrent) and the dwarf to Bethany.

Within an hour, everyone except Gamlen and Bethany – either drinking away the shock and grief or locked in the Gallows – had gathered at Varric’s suite, all demanding the full story and, in Aveline’s case, why she hadn’t been informed immediately. She’d been only slightly mollified when Varric had reasoned that if it had been a false alarm, she would have been worried for nothing, which could have impeded with her job.

“Rivaini and I only waited to get Daisy and Blondie in case there was an ambush waiting for us, otherwise we would have gone straight there ourselves,” he’d explained.

“I suppose that makes sense,” the guard captain had muttered eventually, before they’d all descended into speculation on what could have happened and who was responsible.

After five hours, several of which took them into the next day, Varric had thrown himself back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and staring at a point on the table to try and convince them to focus again.

“I just don’t get it. If that magister was still around, I’d pin it on him. He’s certainly got the money and the resources, but the Elf took care of him. We all saw that,” he said, looking in particular at Isabela – who’d jumped straight into the fight when it broke out – and Anders, who grimaced at the memory.

“Even if it was him, why take Hawke too? He was only ever after his runaway pet,” the mage grumbled, trying to sound more like he was quoting the magister than agreeing with his assessment. From the varied looks he received from around the table, he’d not succeeded very well.

“A hostage? She got in the way? Or for status – she’s the Champion, for Maker’s sake. Even outside of the Free Marches, that’s not something to underestimate,” Aveline suggested, the almost permanent shadows under her eyes prominent now, her gloves long discarded on the table as she rubbed at her face again.

Isabela sighed loudly, dropping her boots from where she’d kicked them up onto the table, falling to all four chair legs with a resounding thud.

“Look, this is getting us nowhere. Resources or vendettas or not, that wrinkly old bastard’s dead. We’re wasting time thinking about him,” she said firmly, to everyone’s reluctant nods and mumbles of agreement.

“Rivaini’s right. Who else do we have, the sister?” Varric asked. The theory had already been chewed and regurgitated like cud several times now, but they kept bringing up the same topics in the hope that something new would strike them.

“Pathetic. Whiney. No resources, no reputation, no respect. She couldn’t have done it by herself, mage or not, and if Fenris had to send her money to bring her here, then unless she was an extremely popular part-timer at the Rose, she wouldn’t have had the cash to buy the number of mercenaries necessary to take those two down,” Isabela said immediately, ignoring Aveline’s muttered comment on her get-money-fast theory.

“You never know. Magic can balance even the most drastic odds,” Anders countered, more on principle than anything.

“Sweet thing, did she look particularly competent to you? She cowered by the wall and squealed during the whole fight. I don’t think she’s capable enough to organise a violent kidnap like this,” Isabela shot back with raised eyebrows, waiting until Anders lifted his hands in surrender and sat back, even his feathers seeming to deflate.

“So it’s not Fenris’ sister, we can agree on that. How about the Magistrate?” Sebastian asked; his normally neat hair stuck up at odd angles from the number of times he’d ran his hands through it.

“The murderer’s father? Could be. He’s pretty high on my list, anyway. I’d just think that he would have tried something earlier than this. It’s been, what, five years now? That’s a long time to get revenge, especially without even small token attempts before hand,” Varric mused, running a hand over his stubble in thought. “I dunno though, I’ve just got a feeling that it’s not him. Like we’re missing something,”

“But what? We searched everywhere in Fenris’ house, Varric. We can’t have missed anything,” Merrill asked, her tone oddly sharp with desperation for the usually hare-brained elf, even though she was weaving in her seat from exhaustion.

Varric shrugged.

“I don’t know, Daisy,” he said softly, “I really don’t.”

They all subsided into an uneasy quiet, until Aveline sat back with a decisive sigh, reaching for her gloves.

“Well, we’ve talked in circles for hours now. I say we all go home, sleep if we can, then start fresh tomorrow morning. I’ll ask my guards if they saw anything odd on patrol last night,” she said, tugging the gauntlets on as Varric nodded, sitting up at last.

“Good idea. I’ll get hold of my contacts tomorrow, collect on my many outstanding favours. Someone must have seen something in this place.”

“I’ll ask mine, too. I can ask at the Rose, as well.” At the disbelieving stare this earned her from everyone, Isabela sighed and rolled her eyes. “The workers hear far more than you’d think. There’s not much in this city that goes on without them knowing about it,” she explained with exaggerated patience.

“I’ll notify the Grand Cleric also – she may have heard a key confession in the past few days, or she can spread the word amongst the congregation that if anyone has information, to speak to her or myself,” Sebastian volunteered.

“Well, let’s hope she takes a more active stance in this than she has in the mages’ plight,” Anders muttered, loud enough to be heard by everyone.

Sebastian merely met the mage’s challenging gaze evenly.

“The difficulty with the mages is not illegal, Anders. The abduction of two Kirkwall citizens – one being the Champion, no less – is. Elthina will act.”

While Anders huffed and Merrill volunteered to try asking her fellow elves about anything unusual they had seen, the others all stood, stretching and leaving with subdued ‘goodnight’s.

Three months, hundreds of contacts, and nothing except that a ship had possibly left the harbour the night that Hawke and Fenris had disappeared, and that an old man, a foreigner, had been seen in the area earlier in the day. The foreigner was probably Danarius, so Varric dismissed the information. The rest of it told Varric a couple of things, however.

Whoever was responsible was obviously highly organised, highly motivated, powerful, and keen not to be seen. That meant that they were aware of the fallout if it was known who had abducted the Champion of Kirkwall.

It was as he was about to head to bed after another frustrating day when he heard pounding footsteps on the stairs.

He had enough time to grab Bianca warily before Isabela burst into the room, wide-eyed, fuming, a letter clutched tightly in her hand. She paused only to glance at the forgotten pile of mail before letting loose a stream of curses picked up from years at sea, diving at the papers and disregarding Varric’s irritated yell, scattering them across the desk and plucking one from the mess.

“You stupid man, of all the days to not read your mail!” she ranted, shaking his letter in his face.

“Rivaini, what in Andraste’s holy underwear is so special about my mail?” he asked, batting away her hand, trying to avoid a black eye. He froze, however, at three words.

“Hawke and Fenris.”

#my fanfiction #dragon age #Dragon Age II #fenris #Hawke #Fem!Hawke #Danarius #varric tethras #Isabela #Merrill #aveline vallen #Sebastian Vael #anders #TGOY #The Ghost of You #slavery

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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Understanding Catholic Teaching On The Blessed Virgin Mary - Part 3

Written by: Tom Perna

Mary, the Mother of God

The Nestorian Heresy

The genesis of the Nestorian heresy begins with Nestorius, Bishop of Constantinople. Nestorius was a well-educated monk known for his great preaching ability. He was trained in Antioch, a city fundamental in the organic growth of the Catholic Church in the early centuries. Because of Nestorius’ great skills as an orator, Emperor Theodosius II, in AD 428, elevated him to the See of Constantinople. Nestorius was fifty years old.

As Nestorius begins his new role as bishop, he speaks to the emperor about the routing of the many heresies that still remained in the city of Constantinople. He also writes to Pope Celestine I about the many challenges he faced. In one of his letters to the pope, Nestorius speaks of this particular issue that has arisen among good orthodox Catholics, monks, and the clergy in Constantinople: the “meaning of the belief that Christ is God.”

In his letters to Celestine I, Nestorius writes about how the people don’t properly understand the great mystery that Christ is equally God and man. He says that the people think the humanity of Christ was divine, and that they believe God was both born and buried. He continues to say that the people profess that Mary, the ever virgin who brought God forth, is the Mother of God, the Greek term Theotokos.

Simply, the Nestorian Heresy claimed that Jesus Christ was two separate persons, and not one person with two natures: divine and human (which would become the doctrine known as the Hypostatic Union). Nestorius believed that Christ was only a human person who was joined to the divine person (Son of God) and Mary was only the mother of Christ’s human person. Nestorius’ incorrect Christological understanding led him to an incorrect understanding of proper titles for Mary. Nestorius claimed that we shouldn’t call Mary the Theotokos, God-Bearer, but rather Christotokos, bearer of the human person of Jesus Christ. A correct understanding of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ leads to a correct understanding of the motherhood of Mary. Correct Christology safeguards proper Marian titles.

The Church Answers

As Nestorius was prophesying his false doctrine, St. Cyril of Alexandria became aware of it and engaged him in a series of correspondence. The exchange of those letters did nothing to change the mind of Nestorius and actually led to some serious malcontent between the two men. These battles with the pen were not just about the right doctrine of the Church, but proved to be competitive because of the two rivaling patriarchal sees.

After minor gatherings in the West (St. Cyril requested assistance from Pope Celestine I) and minor gatherings in the East (Nestorius went to Emperor Theodosius II to plead his case) did nothing to remedy the false doctrine that clearly attacked the Incarnation of Jesus Christ and the motherhood of Mary, a council was convened in the city of Ephesus.

Leading the charge for the Church at the Council of Ephesus was St. Cyril of Alexandria. Educated in the city of his name, St. Cyril lived as a monk for some time in the desert before serving as bishop for thirty-two years in Alexandria. He was considered a holy terror while his holiness remained hidden. He was forceful, dominating, and impatient. He had some enemies because of his personality, but as he gained in age and wisdom, Cyril learned to control his temper, and when needed, he showed that he could make concessions for the good of the Church.

Although Pope Celestine would not attend the council in Ephesus, he sent legates, papal diplomats, in his stead to hold fast to the position of St. Cyril and to condemn Nestorius’ teachings.

A Dogma Declared

The Council of Ephesus began on Pentecost Sunday in the year AD 431. Although the papal legates were still en route from Rome, and other bishops were not in attendance, St. Cyril opened the council in the Church of Saint Mary where he assumed the executive position. Nestorius and his supporters protested, refusing to attend this council, and convened their own anti-council.

As the Council of Ephesus proceeded, the letters of both St. Cyril and Nestorius were read aloud. In the end, all in attendance unanimously condemned the false doctrines professed by Nestorius. Following the lead of and in union with St. Cyril of Alexandria, the bishops at Ephesus stated,

If anyone does not confess that the Emmanuel [Christ] in truth is God and that on this account the Holy Virgin is the Mother of God [Theotokos] in as much as she gave birth to the Word of God made flesh . . . let him be anathema.

As a result, Nestorius was immediately excommunicated and unseated from his see as Patriarch of Constantinople. On June 22, as the bishops returned to their quarters for the night, the Catholic faithful living in Ephesus gathered and supported the decision with great zeal, shouting: “Praised be the Theotokos.”

The proceedings of this council were a bit irregular. The council would not officially close until the late summer months of AD 431, and the papal legates would not arrive until after the council had declared its teaching. Once the papal legates did arrive, however, the emperor had both St. Cyril and Nestorius incarcerated while the situation was sorted out. In the end, the Church would allow the statements and doctrines declared to stand. The Council of Ephesus defined three important teachings of the Church. First, it articulated the dogma of the Theotokos (God-Bearer); second, it stated that the two natures of Jesus Christ, human and divine, cannot be separated but are united in one divine person; and third, the council not only defined Christology, that is to say who Christ is, but also took an important step in clarifying Marian theology (referred to today as Mariology).

Motherhood Defined

The doctrine that teaches Mary as the Mother of God was solemnly declared a dogma at the Council of Ephesus. The motherhood of Mary is an important aspect and one that some of the early Church Fathers focused on in their writings. So why is motherhood so important?

A woman, by an act of love, gives her offspring the exact nature that she holds. This gift is given by conception, gestation, and birth. The child is the fruit of this process, not just a body. The gift of motherhood refers to the same nature given to the child and also includes the complete human person. In the case of Mary and Jesus, Mary did not give Jesus His divine person-hood and nature, since they had always existed. Mary did give Jesus His indistinguishable human nature that was equal to her own. Through the hypostatic union, Jesus’ divine and human will are united as one. Mary truly gave birth to Jesus who is truly human and truly divine. Mary gave to Jesus “an immaculate human nature.”

The key to her motherhood is, simply, that the human nature of Jesus is inseparably connected to His divine nature. Mary gave to Jesus a nature of her own that is identical. Mary gave birth to a Son who is truly God, and therefore Mary is rightly called the Mother of God.

The Mother of God in Sacred Scripture

The Sacred Scriptures reveal Mary’s role as the Mother of God in three places: Luke 1:31–35; 43 and Galatians 4:4. Let us examine each one carefully.

In the Gospel of St. Luke, at the Annunciation of Our Lord, the Archangel Gabriel appears to Mary and professes, “Behold, you shall conceive in your womb and shall bring forth a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. . . . therefore, the child to be born will be called holy, the Son of God.” The divine message from the heavenly Father delivered by Gabriel states two points. First, Mary, because of her Immaculate Conception, has been prepared by God to become the mother of Jesus; and second, the true and only son of God is Jesus. Understanding these two points, we come to the conclusion that if Jesus Christ is God, and Mary is the mother of Jesus Christ, therefore Mary is the Mother of God. Being that Jesus is the true and only Son of God, and Mary is the mother of Jesus (frequently stated in the Scriptures: cf. Mt 2:13, 20; Jn 2:1, 3; Acts 1:14), we conclude that the Mother of God is Mary.

The second Scripture verse that focuses on Mary as the Mother of God is Luke 1:43, the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. We see Mary’s cousin Elizabeth say the words, “mother of my Lord.” This title used by Elizabeth to describe Mary is united to the dual mysteries of Jesus’ divinity and the divine maternity of Mary. The term “Lord” in this context and in verse 45 always means God. Therefore, when Elizabeth says “mother of my Lord,” she knows that Mary is the Mother of God.

The third Scripture verse that speaks of Mary as the Mother of God is found in St. Paul’s Letter to the Galatians. In his letter, St. Paul confesses, “When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman” (4:4). St. Paul is saying that since Mary gave birth, and her flesh, to the Son of God, she can rightly be called the Mother of God.

The Mother of God in Sacred Tradition

Not only do the Sacred Scriptures reveal Mary as the Mother of God, but Sacred Tradition also sheds light on this first important dogma. The Apostles’ Creed is a first-century doctrinal creed that predates the Nicene-Constantinople Creed (AD 325–381) and is commonly believed to hail from the Apostles themselves; hence its name, “the Apostles’ Creed.” This creed states that the early Church’s faith believes in “Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary.”

Furthermore, beginning with St. Irenaeus of Lyons in the middle of the second century, many early Church Fathers such as Origen, St. Athanasius of Alexandria, St. Cyril of Alexandria, St. Augustine of Hippo, Pope St. Gregory the Great, St. Peter Chrysologus, and many others declared in their writings that Mary is the Mother of God. The Church was aided in large part by these writings in defining what she believed during the early years of Christianity.

Decades before the Council of Ephesus, St. Athanasius of Alexandria, in his document On Virginity, uses the term Theotokos and states, “Christ being God, became man for our sake and was born of Mary, Mother of God, to free us from the devil’s power.” In Against the Arians, he also states, “It is for our sake that Christ became man, taking flesh from the Virgin Mary, Mother of God.”

From his Fourth Homily at Ephesus against Nestorius (ca. 428–431), St. Cyril of Alexandria says,

Hail, we say, O holy and mystic Trinity, who have called us together in this church dedicated to Mary, Mother of God. We hail you, O Mary Mother of God, venerable treasure of the entire world, inextinguishable lamp, crown of virginity, scepter of orthodoxy, imperishable temple, container of him who cannot be contained, Mother and Virgin, through whom it is said in the holy Gospels: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord” (Mt 21:9)

St. John Cassian responds to Nestorius in his Seven Books on the Incarnation of the Lord (ca. 420–429), and says,

And so you say, O heretic, whoever you may be, who deny that God was born of the Virgin, that Mary the Mother of God of our Lord Jesus Christ ought not to be called Theotokos, i.e., Mother of God, but Christotokos, i.e., only the Mother of Christ, not of God. For no one, you say, brings forth what is anterior in time. And of this utterly foolish argument whereby you think that the birth of God can be understood by carnal minds, and fancy that the mystery of His Majesty can be accounted for by human reasoning, we will, if God permits, say something later on. In the meanwhile we will now prove by Divine testimonies that Christ is God, and that Mary is the Mother of God.

Paragraph 495 of the Catechism of the Catholic Church quoting the Sacred Scriptures and the Council of Ephesus states,

Called in the Gospels the “mother of Jesus,” Mary is acclaimed by Elizabeth, at the prompting of the Spirit and even before the birth of her son, as “the mother of my Lord” [Lk 1:43; Jn 2:1; 19:25; cf. Mt 13:55; et al]. In fact, the one whom she conceived as man by the Holy Spirit, who truly became her Son according to the flesh, was none other than the Father’s eternal Son, the second person of the Holy Trinity. Hence the Church confesses that Mary is truly “Mother of God” (Theo-tokos) [Council of Ephesus (431): DS 251].

#understanding catholic teaching on the blessed virgin mary

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 7 years

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Word Count: 1531 Author’s Note: from @malindacath: I keep playing in my mind of the reader and Jim getting married. Since they both know what the other is wearing, the reader decides to write Jim letters like her grandmother did the day she married her grandfather. One would be on the pillow when wakes, etc; he would find them in places he was not expecting all the while he had done the same after hearing his grandparents did the same; kind of like vows before the marriage vows??As to my letter writing vows, I think that Spock and Scotty would be hiding hers while Uhura and Bones would hiding his with help from each team. I imagine Bones being the one to give her away. Maybe even Pike marrying them. I loved this idea. I don’t normally like the idea of the Enterprise crew being married. I don’t know why. But I loved this idea and really enjoyed dredging through the romantic I keep locked up in the back of my head to make it sweet. I hope it worked. I’m not super romantic :D

You yawned and stretched, the sensation of waking on your own time strange and luxurious. You turned your head to check the time and were mildly amused that it was only ten minutes past when your alarm usually went off. You stretched a second time, and groaned, feeling your shoulders and wrists pop. Your hand dropped onto Jim’s pillow, and met with a paper envelope and you smiled. So old fashioned. You’d never expected it from him when you first met, but Jim was a man who loved the past, even as he boldly pushed forward into the future. When he’d suggested the letters as a way to personalize a wedding day that by Starfleet regulation needed to be very structured, you’d thought it was a sweet way to make the day truly belong to you both. As your hand slid across the crisp envelope, you realized it was utterly and completely romantic.

You sat up, and pushed your hair out of your face. Leaning against the wall, you slipped your finger under the edge of the envelope and broke the seal, pulling out a small notecard.

“I still remember the stardate when we first met. But I’ll remind you of the earth date. It was May 18th. You had just been assigned to the Enterprise despite requesting a research vessel, and you were attempting to convince Spock he didn’t want you on board. You were fire, and indignation and more passion in your pinky finger than anyone I’d ever seen before. I knew, without a doubt, you were going to add a certain risk to any mission you were part of. Just because I wanted you there.”

You pressed the card against your chest and smiled, wondering if Jim had found your letter yet.

Jim groaned and reached out to pull Y/N against him, forgetting that even though you would know what the other was wearing, you’d insisted you not see on another all morning before the ceremony. He drew his arm back with a heavy sigh and rolled onto his back, before turning to check the time. Propped on the edge of the clock was an envelope, his name scratched across it in your careless script. He smiled and picked it up, tearing the envelope down one side and shaking the card out onto his bare chest.

“Jim, you ridiculous creature. I never would have anticipated the famous, or should I say notorious captain of the Enterprise catching my eye, let alone returning my feelings. You were so overwhelming and larger than life. Discovering your nuances has been one of my great pleasures.”

He grinned and pushed himself up. There was a lot to do before the ceremony.

Uhura had insisted on helping you with your hair and make-up, and you’d gratefully accepted. You were always wobbly with eyeliner, and while your daytime look was good, you hadn’t had a choice about the dress, you had to wear your dress uniform. The only way to punch it up to wedding mode was to make sure you were stunning. Nyota was just finishing her breakfast when you arrived at her quarters, she pointed you toward the desk on the far side of the room. There was a steaming cup of coffee waiting for you, and beside it, another of Jim’s envelopes.

“I find it ironic that I realized exactly how important it was to protect you at all costs right as you showed me you needed no protection. In old Earth wedding ceremonies, husbands are called upon to protect, and honour their wives. I honour you by recognizing you are capable of protecting yourself. I will further honour you by recognizing your ability to share equally in the work of protecting our family.”

You bit your lip and smiled. You weren’t as eloquent in your ability to write, and were worried your notes would fall short of what he was expecting.

Jim found his next card beside the replicator when he got out of the shower. It looked a little thicker, and he wondered what all Y/N had written. He ordered a coffee and leaned against the counter as he read the letter.

“My favourite books as a child were the Anne of Green Gables books. Don’t look at me like that, Jim. I know you’re looking at this card like I am a mad woman, but I have a point. Anne didn’t know Gilbert was for her the first time she saw him. It took years before she was able to see that he was her most kindred spirit. Similarly, I might not have taken your interest seriously, when you first pursued me. But just as Anne came around, I saw the light in the moment you attempted to trade your life for my own. Unsuccessfully, I might add, but it was the thought that counts. Anne refused to write love letters unless her pen was just right. I find this one is scratchy, and the ink doesn’t flow particularly well, but I’m also just not terribly romantic, so it will have to do. It isn’t difficult to honour an honourable man. You’ve made the job of loving you an easy one.”

He reached behind him to the replicator and took a sip from his coffee, before moving off to place the second card with the first.

Uhura slipped a final envelope into your hand wordlessly, along with your uniform gloves. You smiled, tracing your finger along the careful letters of your name.

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. I hated Shakespeare, Y/N. I hated him because I couldn’t understand this stupid goddamn poem. What did it mean? Of course people change when they are in love, what was he thinking? Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks upon tempests and is never shaken. What kind of idiot would suggest that love is undoubting? And then I fell in love with you. And I get it. I haven’t changed myself to gain your love. And you haven’t changed to fit my expectations of love. We’ve both remained steadfastly individual, true to ourselves. And that has made you my perfect match. We are strong as individuals, which makes us unbeatable as a team. We will look on tempests, and never be shaken. We will bear it out, even to the edge of doom. I have loved you. I do love you. I will love you.”

You felt tears well in your eyes as you stood in the hall waiting your cue to walk down the makeshift aisle to him, wondering if your final card to him had had a similar effect.

Leonard handed Jim the third card as he finished buttoning the collar of his dress uniform. He slipped it into his pocket and headed to the lounge where the ceremony was going to take place. As he waited at the front of the room, he pulled the envelope off the final card and drank in the words.

“Jim. I joined Starfleet with a mind to change the world, but that plan never included love, or marriage, or even companionship. What a surprise to have all three given so freely by so remarkable a man. You are my perfect fit. I’m sure there is some kind of poetry that could articulate my feelings better, but I thought I’d try my own hand at some free verse.

I want nothing more, my love,

Than to wake up

And eat eggs

And bacon

And wear your scent on my skin

And share my heart with you.

I’ll let you take the larger share

Of the bacon

And the eggs

And my heart.”

Jim let out a soft laugh and looked up as the doors slid open.

The doors slid open, and there Jim stood, your final card in his hand. He looked up, smiling, and you could see tears shining in his eyes. He wagged the card subtly, and quirked an eyebrow and you gave a slight shrug and winked, before walking forward to meet him. He slipped the card into his pocket and took your hand.

“It is Starfleet tradition to allow the Captain to perform wedding ceremonies,” Jim said. “So I have turned to con over to Sulu for the next 48 hours so that we might have some time to celebrate our marriage uninterrupted by duty. I have also given you concurrent time off.”

“And here I thought you’d just stand here and announce the deal done,” you teased. He shook his head.

“No jokes,” he promised. “I can’t give you a traditional wedding, but I can give you the proper protocol.”

Sulu stepped forward and cleared his throat. He read the standard marriage protocol from the regulations document on his PADD and after you repeated your oaths, he pronounced them binding to the furthest extend of Federation law.

“In traditional ceremonies, now is the time when the groom kisses the bride,” Sulu remarked. Jim leaned forward and brushed his lips against yours, chastely.

“Hello Mrs. Kirk,” he murmured as he pulled away. You leaned forward and stole another kiss.

“Hello yourself, Mr. Kirk.”

#imagine star trek #star trek imagine #james t. kirk #jim kirk #james t. kirk x reader #jim kirk x reader

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thaliaarche · 7 years

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Lies (or Literalism)

This fic was 100% inspired by the Campania arc, so I’ve re-edited and posted it for day 1 of @queenofsebaciel’s Sebaciel week-- “Book of Atlantic.”

Ships: Sebaciel Rating: T+ Word count: ~1.5K Content warnings: mental health issues, discussion of suicide, 100% not-recommended medical advice Summary: When Sebastian comes closer to dying than ever before, Ciel invokes the full power of the contract's "truth-telling" clause to obtain answers for his questions.

The reaper attacks with a ferocity that somehow surpasses the rumors. Even with five butter knives lodged in her torso, she growls and rushes at Ciel, aiming her scythe straight at his head. When Sebastian materializes in between, the blade pierces his breastbone and his spine before emerging on the other side. He crumbles to the ground, and brightly-colored reels depicting this contract burst from his chest, throwing glimmering specks of light upon his face— his closed eyes, his strangely serene smile.

The reaper flees a moment later, yet Ciel remains still, holding his breath, staring at Sebastian until his eyes flutter open once more. The demon’s expression contorts first into something like rage before settling into a perfectly blank mask.

For the second time, Ciel gives his butler the day off.

Ciel spends hours plotting in his study, then enters the servants’ quarters after dinner. Sebastian lies still on his bed, eyes closed, fresh bandages faintly visible under a crisp white shirt, his mangled tailcoat hanging from the bedpost.

“I apologize for destroying yet another wool coat,” his butler murmurs as he surveys the scene. “With your permission, I will use magic to repair it . . .”

“Absolutely not, this is your day off,” Ciel interrupts. “And you didn’t destroy the coat anyway. This new reaper’s scythe did.”

“I placed myself in the way of her scythe, and so I bear responsibility for its destruction.”

Ciel snorts. “I’m amused to hear a demon take responsibility for a problem, but I see no need for you to. You had no choice but to throw yourself in front of me, did you?” Receiving no response, he continues, “How have you enjoyed your sick day?”

“I look forward to returning to my duties.”

“Are you well now?”

“This body has largely repaired itself.”

“I see.” Ciel glances at his butler’s chest, rising and falling in a perfect approximation of human breathing, a bloody chasm just yesterday. “I rather feel I should thank you.”

“As your loyal butler, I require no thanks.”

“Would my gratitude matter to you if I gave it?”

"It would only be fitting for a loyal butler to appreciate a token of his master’s favor.”

“You could have died, Sebastian—” Ciel’s tone suddenly turns to ice— “one more bloody casualty of my revenge. Am I right? Were you truly at risk of dying last night?”

“I did not die . . .”

“Did you know you wouldn’t?”

“I realized fairly early on the blow would not kill me.”

“And how early is ‘fairly early’?”

“Why fixate on words, young master?"

“It’s a simple enough question.”

“The moment was rather chaotic, who could remember each detail . . .”

“You could.” He pauses, eyes narrowed. “Need I give an order?”

“About half a second after the blow fell.”

Ciel gapes for several seconds before recovering his voice. “And . . . And did you throw yourself in front of me simply because of the contract’s magic?”

Sebastian opens his eyes, pushes himself up with only the slightest wince, and chuckles. “Are you sure you’re asking the questions you want answered?”

“I’m sure I’m not. Now answer.”

“No.”

“What did you just say?”

“No.”

“Stop refusing to— oh. So you didn’t block the scythe just because of the contract. Is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“Why did you block the scythe?”

“Because the angle and speed of her scythe would surely end your life, without outside intervention, and the intervention I provided would allow me to suffer the blow instead.”

“I bloody well know that,” Ciel scoffs. “And you know what I meant.”

Sebastian replies in the pedantic manner of “Professor” Michaelis, over-articulating his words. “I cannot possibly know exactly what you mean. Language is a terribly imprecise tool, and I have misused more languages in my lifetime than you can even name.”

“So you’re using language to pretend ignorance,” Ciel groans. “What would happen if I commanded you to answer my questions as you think I intend them, not just as I articulate them?”

“The result would depend on your exact wording, and on your state of mind, and . . .”

“Give me your most plausible guess.”

“You would storm out of here with poorly concealed tears in your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because I would tell you that I did not act as I did because I feel your mortal feelings, nor because I return your human ‘love.’”

“You—” Ciel nearly lunges forth but stops himself, exhaling slowly, eyelids floating closed and open again. “Say that again, just as you did.”

“Because I would tell you that I did not act as I did because I feel your mortal feelings, nor because I return your human ‘love.’”

“Can you— can you feel anything like mortal feelings?”

“I have not in what seems like an eternity, even to me.”

“And can you ever return human ‘love’?”

“I have never done so before.”

Ciel looks down at the ripped coat. “And how did you know that . . .” He trails off.

“That you do love me? Let me count the ways. I smell it in the dark and dirt and pain your soul now holds, while blundering in vain . . .”

“Shut it.”

“With pleasure.”

“What—” Ciel exhales, trying to keep calm. “Then what motivation compelled you to block the blow?”

“I wished for it to not hit you and to hit me instead.”

“And what deeper motivation are you trying to hide with that unhelpful answer?”

“As a millennia-old creature, I have many deep motivations for this, and almost all my actions.”

“Tell me the first, clear, deeper motivation that came to mind when I asked my question.”

“I wished for it to hit me.”

“What— but you thought it might kill you.”

“Indeed,” he says with a smile in his voice.

“Did you wish to die, then?” Ciel scoffs.

“No more than usual.”

“Do you value your life?”

“Yes.”

“Do you value your life more than mine?”

“No.”

“Do you value your life more than, say, Elizabeth’s?”

"That depends on the particular standard by which I judge.”

“What would you have done, if Elizabeth had been standing in my place?”

Sebastian contemplates. “I would have pulled her out of the way.”

“That was a viable option?”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“Then what the hell were you thinking?” Ciel bursts out. “Really, at the moment of impact, what were you thinking?”

“I was wondering whether this blow, which seemed fiercer than Undertaker’s on the Campania, would unearth Cinematic Records from before this contract and yet leave me alive. Of course, it did not."

“Did you want that outcome?”

“Not particularly.”

“What’s in those records that you were so afraid of?”

He frowns. “I felt no fear in that moment.”

“Then what did you not want seen?”

Sebastian makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. “I doubt there would be much to see. They’re cluttered with events, of course— balls, riots, wars— but I suspect those would all blend together on the film.”

“So, even if the blow had revealed more of your past, we’d still have seen nothing but a colorful blur?”

Silence.

“Sebastian?”

“I have doubts about ‘colorful,’ my lord. My previous life seems far more likely to be rendered in monochrome.”

“Like Madam Red’s?” Ciel intones.

“If you search my history for a grand tragedy, you will be disappointed.”

“A series of small griefs can do as much damage as a single tragedy,” he shoots back. “Do you often wish to end your existence?”

“I have no intent to commit some flamboyant suicide . . .”

“Do you often wish your existence would end?”

"It . . . does grow tedious, from time to time.”

“And?”

“I do not intend to burn the earth and sky down in search of death, as others of my kind have. I have no serious suicidal intention at all.”

"Only dreams of suicide?”

“I have had dreams of starving and undergoing sublimation,” Sebastian smirks. “Of simply closing my eyes, melting to smoke that quickly wisps away.” He inhales deeply, pausing for dramatic effect . . .

“I feel that’s a rather common sentiment, actually," Ciel cuts in.

“You know not of what you speak.”

“But here is what I do know, Sebastian. The record you describe sounds as sad and gray and pitiful as Madam Red’s, from when she fell into her depression. And frankly, I find this half-hearted grasp at suicide quite pitiful in its own right.” Ciel’s voice rises. “I have questions, Sebastian. Why am I still alive? Why have you left me alive? I was no trained lawyer drawing up our contract; if you chose to attack it with the full power of logic and wordplay and language you demonstrated today, then you could find at least five loopholes to exploit, ending the contract immediately. You could claim that my father’s activities as the Watchdog brought this ruin on me, and that my revenge is already complete, that the person responsible is already dead. Is this correct, Sebastian?”

“I do believe it is, young master. A fascinating idea, and I am surprised to hear you lay out it so clearly for me . . .”

“You thought of this the day our contract started,” Ciel snaps. “Probably by the second minute. And yet I am alive. And yet—” he advances along the side of the bed— “your memories of this contract, as I’ve seen three times now, are clear and bursting with color. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to say that you can’t feel human emotion and human love, because those possibilities are in sight for you, now, for the first time in millennia.”

Ciel drops down and grips Sebastian’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling him up, drawing his lips close. He breathes, “So don’t you dare think you really want to die.”

Sebastian simply stares, motionless, as Ciel’s own jaw trembles. He straightens once more and proceeds towards the door, only stopping to say, “This is an order, Sebastian. Try to be happy.”

He sweeps out of the room.

In that second, Sebastian sees a good five ways to circumvent that order, or abuse it. He knows Ciel has seen them too.

Still, he leans back, ignoring the coat still torn on his bedpost, and lets the smile spread across his face.

#sebaciel #sebacielweek #my fic

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lodelss · 4 years

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Mia Armstrong | The Marshall Project | August 2019 | 9 minutes (2,400 words)

This article was co-published with The Marshall Project, a nonprofit news organization covering the U.S. criminal justice system. Sign up for their newsletter, or follow The Marshall Project on Facebook or Twitter.

Niccole Wetherell and Paul Gillpatrick were engaged in 2012. The state of Nebraska has prevented their wedding ever since.

Wetherell is serving a life sentence for first-degree murder, housed in a prison about 50 miles away from her fiance, Gillpatrick, who is serving a 55-to-90-year sentence for second-degree murder.

The pair, who met in 1998, have come to accept they cannot marry in person. Instead, they want to wed via video conference, and they want an end to a prison policy that forbids Nebraska inmates from marrying each other except in “special circumstances.” Wetherell and Gillpatrick argue they have a “fundamental right to marry.”

In June, U.S. District Judge Robert Rossiter affirmed that right. The case is now in appeal. But the legal precedent Rossiter cited has a quirky history that involves an infamous co-ed prison, an impromptu wedding, a soon-to-follow divorce and a U.S. Supreme Court decision.

That decision, Turner v. Safley, established how courts should weigh the constitutionality of prison regulations, and has formed the legal basis for prison weddings across the country—most often between one incarcerated person and someone on the outside. It opened the doors for a niche industry of officiants who specialize in prison weddings. And its clear articulation of marriage as a fundamental human right was even cited in Obergefell v. Hodges, the landmark Supreme Court decision that in 2015 affirmed the right to marriage for same-sex couples.

It all started in 1980 at a prison in Missouri.

* * *

Renz Correctional Center was a three-story white building nestled in the Missouri River bottoms north of Jefferson City, about 120 miles west of St. Louis. Designed as a minimum security prison farm for men, by the 1980s Renz had turned into what corrections officials called a “complex prison”: one that housed both women and men.

Renz Correctional Center in March 1986. The prison closed after being destroyed by flooding in 1993. COLUMBIA MISSOURIAN

The women were mostly medium- and maximum-security inmates. Many had been convicted of killing abusive husbands or boyfriends, and were sent to Renz after an inmate stabbed the superintendent of an overcrowded and violent women’s prison in Tipton, Missouri, in 1975.

By 1982, Renz housed 138 women and 90 men, according to reporting from the Kansas City Star at the time. That created a “mixture of security problems and volatile problems, such as rivalries between competing suitors” involved in love triangles, prison officials said then. Attorney Henry Herschel, who represented Renz superintendent William Turner on behalf of

Missouri’s attorney general, remembers male inmates passing coke bottles containing semen to try to impregnate female inmates.

“Superintendent Turner was constantly trying to stop women from getting pregnant,” Herschel said.

State officials also worried that Renz lacked adequate security features, so to keep order Turner turned to regulation: He implemented a strict “no touching” rule. Male and female inmates interacted only for about an hour each day. Turner also implemented strict policies to regulate mail and marriages between inmates.

* * *

That was the situation at Renz in 1980, when Leonard Safely, who was serving a short sentence for writing bad checks, met Pearl Jane “P.J.” Watson, there on a 23-year sentence for killing a former boyfriend.

The two got to know each other in the prison’s exercise yard—a nd, the Kansas City Star reported, “romance seemed to blossom.”

But a romance novel it was not. Shortly after they began a relationship, Safley and Watson had what court documents describe as a “noisy lovers quarrel.” Safley was sent to a different prison, and later to a halfway house. The two tried to stay in touch via letters.

Missouri, however, mostly allowed letters between inmates only if they were immediate family members.

Safley did his best to get around mail restrictions at Renz. He opened a post office box under the fake name “Jack King,” and recruited his mother and friends to mail letters for him. Some made it to Watson, but many were refused. When Safley went to Renz to see Watson on a weekend pass from his halfway house, his visit, too, was refused.

Safley and Watson also wanted to get married. At the time, the Missouri Division of Corrections was not required to help an inmate get married, but also was not specifically authorized to prohibit inmate marriages. At Renz, however, marriage requests were often denied.

Fed up, Safley sued prison officials in 1981, challenging the marriage, mail and visitation rules.

“I’ve never fought for anything so hard or wanted anything so much as to marry P.J.,” Safley told Richard M. Johnson, a staff writer at the Kansas City Star, in 1982.

Watson seemed to feel similarly.

“I love Lenny. I’m going to marry Lenny,” she told the newspaper. “To me, it’s wrong for them to do this. I sit in here, wondering how he is, and when he writes me I don’t get it. I was just really getting depressed.”

Leonard Safley in his room at the Kansas City Honor Center, in a 1982 clipping from The Kansas City Star. DAN WHITE/KANSAS CITY STAR

Shortly after filing their lawsuit, Safley and Watson found a workaround. At a preliminary injunction hearing in March 1982, Safley’s attorney Floyd Finch offered Judge Howard Sachs the opportunity to resolve the case quickly.

“We’ve got an officiant here, and we’ve got the wedding ring and a marriage license. So if you wouldn’t mind letting us use your courtroom, we can go ahead and get this case resolved right now,” Finch remembers telling Sachs.

The attorney for the state objected. But Sachs told The Marshall Project he remembers being surprised and amused by the marriage proposition, and saw no “substantial state interest” in preventing it.

In that courtroom in Missouri, with Finch serving as the best man and giving away the bride, Safley and Watson wed.

“Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” said the Rev. Johnny Blackwell, a methodist pastor who officiated the wedding, as Safley placed a ring on Watson’s finger, according to the Kansas City Star.

They exchanged vows and a kiss—it all lasted about five minutes. Afterward, Finch remembers the couple was allowed to sit together for about 10 minutes. There was no honeymoon.

* * *

Standard living quarters for female inmates at Renz Correctional Center resembled college dormitory rooms in August 1978. COLUMBIA MISSOURIAN

Not long after the wedding, Finch and attorney Cecelia Baty visited Renz. They wanted to see if other inmates had complaints about the marriage and correspondence rules. What they found helped them construct a class action case.

Inmates told the attorneys their letters had been returned, and several women had been denied permission to marry because Turner believed it was not in their best interest or because of their relationship history. One woman’s request was denied “because she did not know enough about” her fiance, according to court documents from the state. Another inmate couple was denied in part because the woman had “an extended sentence for her crime and was from an

abused situation which contributed to her imprisonment for murder.” One woman was denied permission “because she was in protective custody and could not identify any of her enemies.”

In December 1983, in the middle of the class action lawsuit, the Division of Corrections changed its policy on inmate marriages. Whereas the old policy did not require the division to facilitate marriages but didn’t give specific permission to prohibit them, the new policy required a superintendent’s approval for inmates to marry. Prison officials were only supposed to approve marriages “where there are compelling reasons to do so.”

The new regulation did not define what would constitute a “compelling reason.” But testimony made the definition clear: pregnancy or a child born out of wedlock.

The trial on the class action suit began February 23, 1984, and lasted five days.

Representing Safley and the other inmates, Finch and Baty argued that the regulations at Renz were an unreasonable restriction on inmates’ fundamental First Amendment and marriage rights. Turner’s rules, they argued, were born out of a protective attitude toward the women under his custody.

Herschel, representing the state, argued that the restrictions were necessary for Turner and the Renz staff to fulfill their obligations to rehabilitate inmates and keep the facility secure.

I’ve got a right to look forward to a better life. I’ve got a right to plan on something after this institution.

A few months after the trial, Judge Sachs used a legal standard known as “strict scrutiny” to rule the marriage regulation unconstitutional, calling it “far more restrictive than is either reasonable or essential for the protection of any state security interest, or any other legitimate interest, such as the rehabilitation of inmates.”

Sachs’s ruling said the decision by two adults to marry was a personal and private one. “Even inmates have the right to make their own mistakes,” he wrote.

Sachs also ruled the prohibitions on inmate-to-inmate correspondence were “unnecessarily sweeping” and had been “applied in an arbitrary and capricious manner” that infringed on First Amendment rights.

The state appealed to the Eighth Circuit, which upheld Sachs’s rulings that the mail and marriage prohibitions were unconstitutional. So Herschel petitioned the Supreme Court to hear the case. At oral argument in January 1987, Justice Antonin Scalia questioned the value of a prison marriage in the first place, citing what he called the attributes of an “ordinary marriage” that are missing in prison.

“Well, Justice Scalia, if you asked the inmates here why they want to get married, they give, in my opinion, a compelling response,” Finch answered. “Because they want to spend their life with someone, even if it’s only by mail.”

Scalia wasn’t satisfied.

“Couldn’t they make that commitment just as well by sending them a fraternity ring?” he asked.

There was laughter in the courtroom before Finch was able to respond.

“I don’t think that the religious attributes of a marriage ceremony can be fairly equated with a fraternity ring,” he said. “…the important thing about the marriage decision is that the inmate is standing up and saying, hey, while I may be incarcerated, I’ve got a right to look forward to a better life. I’ve got a right to plan on something after this institution.”

* * *

Trades, such as sewing, were taught in the educational wing at Renz Correctional Center in August 1978. COLUMBIA MISSOURIAN

The justices decided the case in June 1987. In the majority opinion written by Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, the court upheld Missouri’s mail regulations because they were “related to legitimate security concerns,” not restrictive of “all means of expression” and content neutral.

On the other hand, the “almost complete ban on marriages,” the court found, was not “reasonably related to legitimate penological objectives.”

The justices acknowledged that the right to marry “is subject to substantial restrictions as a result of incarceration,” but determined that many benefits of marriage—emotional support, religious significance, legal and property rights—w ere “unaffected by the fact of confinement.”

Herschel wasn’t particularly surprised by the ruling on marriage, which he acknowledged was the state’s less compelling argument.

“It was weak,” Herschel remembered, “because we were telling adults, however many mistakes they have made, what to do.”

But the most significant part of the Turner v. Safely decision was the Supreme Court’s determination that prison regulations that infringe upon inmates’ constitutional rights must be “reasonably related to legitimate penological interests.”

The court laid out a test to assess reasonableness, including considering whether the rules are rationally connected to a legitimate government interest and whether inmates have alternative ways to exercise their constitutional rights.

Justices John Paul Stevens, Thurgood Marshall, William Brennan and Harry Blackmun concurred with the majority striking down the marriage restriction, but dissented on the approval of the correspondence regulation and the application of the reasonableness standard.

“Application of the standard would seem to permit disregard for inmates’ constitutional rights whenever the imagination of the warden produces a plausible security concern and a deferential trial court is able to discern a logical connection between that concern and the challenged regulation,” Stevens wrote. “Indeed, there is a logical connection between prison discipline and the use of bullwhips on prisoners.”

The decision was in some ways a pyrrhic victory for Safley and Watson. Sometime between the Supreme Court’s oral argument and when the ruling was issued, they were divorced. The legal precedent their marriage set would last for decades, but the marriage itself only a few years.

“These marriages may not all work out,” Finch had told the justices during oral argument. “But at least they’ve got a right to try to make a better life for themselves.”

* * *

Gillpatrick and Wetherell, the two Nebraska inmates, are still waiting to be married.

The Nebraska attorney general is appealing the district court’s decision that prohibits prison officials from denying the couple’s request for a e-wedding ceremony, according to a spokesperson who offered no comment on the case when reached by The Marshall Project. The Nebraska Department of Correctional Services also said it could not comment on pending litigation, but confirmed that the policy preventing marriages between inmates except in special circumstances is still in place.

That’s the policy the district judge d eclared “facially unconstitutional under Turner v. Safley.”

The department has thus far refused to facilitate an e-wedding ceremony based on its interpretation of a state law that it believes requires couples be physically present during wedding ceremonies, according to court documents.

Prison officials are not alone in their opposition to the marriage.

“I live with my son’s death every day, and don’t think anyone that lives with a life sentence deserves this right,” said Denise Abts, the mother of Wetherell’s victim, in a 2014 statement to KETV in Omaha.

“I don’t think we need to spend a lot of money litigating this for these people…” said former CNN host Ashleigh Banfield in a 2014 Legal View segment discussing the case. “You lost your liberty. Deal with it. So did your victims, for a lot longer and a lot more painfully.”

Gillpatrick and Wetherell did not respond to a request for comment sent via their attorney, Amy Miller of the ACLU of Nebraska.

Miller said that while the couple was happy with the June ruling in their favor, they “also had the tempered awareness that the state was probably going to continue to fight them.”

Three decades after Safley sat in the Supreme Court and 25 years after flooding closed the prison where his love story started, “this isn’t an issue that’s going to go away,” M iller said. “Especially in a country that continues to have a mass incarceration problem.”

* * *

Published in partnership with The Marshall Project.

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