#was albrecht like that behind closed doors-

[alteredsilicone]

Lodun's colorful quotes are NOT child-friendly in any way sense or form, so I need to know who is responsible for "One more BUCKET OF PISS splashed in my face for the world to see."

#wf tag #ok i know the tales of duviri werent just for children but still #ah yes #a fairytale #im gonna add this guy who swears like a sailor #was albrecht like that behind closed doors-

[czenzo]

Just an Act

[ao3]

summary: When Lockwood & Co. are called out on a case involving a jealousy-ridden Visitor, Lucy is forced to confront her own tangle of feelings and why it bothers her so much to see someone shamelessly flirt with her boss.

words: 6,360 rating: T

notes: this is my secret santa gift for Mar (@thegirlfromthesea)—I hope you like it! thank you to the Lockwood discord for hosting it again :)

happy holidays!

“So, Mr Lockwood, where’d you learn to use your rapier like that?”

Lucy snorted; she couldn’t help it.

A girl, not much older than Lucy, looked up at Lockwood through thick lashes. She was stereotypically pretty—irritatingly so—and had taken quite the shine to the company leader.

Lockwood smiled politely. “I took lessons as a young boy. Fantastic teachers, they were. Now, er—if you don’t mind, Miss…?”

“Haine,” she said with a smile. “Emily Haine. But, ooh, just Emily is fine.”

Watching Haine stick by Lockwood’s side as he inspected the nooks and crannies of the master bedroom made Lucy think of a limpet. The girl leaned in further and ogled his figure in that slightly too tight suit of his; it negated the explanation she gave of wanting to ‘learn the tricks of the trade’ when they first encountered her. They were only an hour into their work for the evening, and Lucy had already held back several scoffs.

Lockwood awkwardly cleared his throat. “Miss Haine, if you would be so kind as to give us a tad more space so we can work efficiently, that would be wonderful.”

She took a single step back.

George, who had been mid-tea sip, spluttered. “Christ. Lockwood, I’ll go and get a head start on the other room readings while you deal with this. Luce, do you want—”

Lucy scooped up her bag and held the door open for him. “Yes.”

Once the door swung shut behind them, George turned to her with a knowing look. “Not too keen on her, are you?”

She gave him a sidelong glance as they advanced down the hallway. “You don’t seem to be, either.”

“Anyone—or anything—that hinders our work is a nuisance in my book, sweet young girl or not." He paused to clean his glasses on the hem of his jumper then added with a chuckle, "She batted her eyelashes so much I thought she’d fly away any minute.”

Lucy held back what she was sure was a very ugly bout of laughter. “I can’t believe Mr Albrecht is letting his staff run around all willy-nilly while we’re trying to work.”

“I doubt that's the case,” George said. “This place is massive. He’ll have loads of staff, but she’s the only one we’ve come across. There must be a reason for it.”

Lucy’s reply tapered off as she eyed up the closed door they were distancing themselves from. Lockwood was on the other side of it—and now, with a lack of audience, Haine was likely to throw all shame out of the window. Lucy shook away the mental image of her idiotically cuddling up to him. Lockwood had self-respect and at least a shred of common sense, she reminded herself. He would keep turning down her advances despite being alone, surely?

“Luce?”

She blinked and turned to George, only to find they were no longer walking. “What?”

“You trailed off and stopped. Everything okay?”

She looked back to the door again, for what she told herself would be the last time.

“Ooh, she’s really gotten under your skin, hasn’t she? Tell you what, how about we get some recordings of this…” he pushed open the door beside him and it opened with a menacing creak, “lovely little bathroom—god, it looks like it’s never been used—and then we can crack open the biscuits?”

Biscuits were a good solution to (or rather, distraction from) many problems. Not that Lucy had any in that particular moment—Lockwood could fend for himself, Haine’s pursuit of him was not her concern—but she wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to dig into the digestives.

The bathroom wasn’t far from the size of Lucy’s bedroom at 35 Portland Row, and George hadn’t been kidding when he first peered inside: it was squeaky clean. When Mr Albrecht, their filthy-rich client and owner of the property, had given them one last briefing before hightailing it out of the place, Lucy recalled he had mentioned something about eight bathrooms. At the time she’d brushed it off in favour of focusing on the important info—i.e., the Visitor that was disturbing his family and targeting staff—but as she swept her gaze across the pristine porcelain and sparkling tiles, it came back to her with clarity. Eight bathrooms between its three non-staff occupants… no wonder this one looked as if it had been pulled straight from a catalogue.

“I’d bet good money we’re the only human contact this room’s seen, besides the installers,” George sniffed, pulling out his notepad. “I’d bet those digestives that nothing’s here, but we ought to take readings anyway.”

They went through the motions. Lucy checked temperatures (nothing out of the ordinary, as suspected) and Listened for disturbances (the pipes were a bit squeaky, but that didn’t count as a psychical threat), while George jotted everything down. Once they were done, they wasted no time in retrieving the biscuits and thermoses from the depths of their bags.

For the first time that evening, Lucy took the skull jar out. It sat between them in their small iron circle (made more out of habit than necessity) and immediately began pulling faces at George. It had formed an annoying habit of waffling while clients spoke and shouting random numbers as she took readings, so for the sake of her own sanity she’d kept the jar shut tight.

Up until now.

“I reckon if you bludgeon that soppy little fool you could hide her body in this bathtub and it’d be years before anyone found her.”

George looked at Lucy expectantly.

“It doesn’t like Miss Haine,” she translated. George simply nodded and dunked a biscuit in his tea.

“That was some shocking paraphrasing, Lucy. I never said I didn’t like the girl—I said I’d be completely at peace if you caved her skull in and made the body disappear. Two very different things, I tell you.”

Lucy decided that didn’t warrant a reply. “What do you think about the case, George?”

His face lit up at the chance to delve into it again; it was so charmingly George that Lucy felt a sudden surge of fondness for him. “The staff’s reports of a detailed apparition makes a Spectre quite likely. One mentioned it looked like a young man, so I researched deaths on the property while at the archives—and sure enough, a few poor sods have met their end here. An ancestor of Albrecht’s from the 19th century got shot just outside, a lad who used to work here not long ago slipped down the main staircase, and a burglar recently got caught in the act and had a heart attack when the police apprehended him. What a way to go, eh?”

“Would any of them have a reason to return, though?”

George shrugged noncommittally. “In one way or another. The ancestor’s death stopped the ownership of the property transferring to him, the ex-staff might’ve been unhappy with how he was treated here, and the burglar… well, if I died in those circumstances, I’d be pretty miffed. I’d come back to haunt the place as a distraction from that embarrassment.”

“Your whole life’s an embarrassment.”

This time, it was Lucy’s turn to splutter mid-sip.

“What? What did it say?”

She shook her head. “Nothing important.”

George narrowed his eyes, but soon let it go. “Another biscuit?”

“Go on, then.” Lucy reached for the proffered sleeve but froze when an ear-splitting shriek echoed down the hall. She shoved the skull jar in her bag and discarded the tea and biscuits in favour of bolting in the direction of the scream, with George not far behind.

Lucy threw open the door, rapier in hand.

The skull, half-sticking out of her bag, peered over her shoulder and cackled. It let out a comment so crude Lucy would have winced if she weren’t so distracted by the way Haine had her arms wrapped around Lockwood.

George panted heavily beside Lucy. “What happened?”

Haine held on for a moment longer, then had the gall to look sheepish as she slowly pulled away. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr Lockwood! I could’ve sworn I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, and oh, it looked awful, and I knew I could count on you to protect me from it.”

“Pah! What a trollop.”

Lucy, rapier still raised, looked to Lockwood. His face was pointedly blank as he considered the blushing girl beside him. In the blink of an eye, one of his trademark smiles appeared—to Lucy’s relief, it wasn’t one of the charming or flirting variety, but instead one of careful politeness.

“I’m glad you feel you can put your trust in us,” he said, “but I can assure you there’s certainly no psychic activity in this room, according to the readings we got. Not a single death glow, either. There’s a slight draught in here—perhaps the movement you saw was the curtains.”

“The atmosphere seems to be taking a toll on you, Miss,” Lucy said. Her knuckles ached from her grip tightening around her rapier hilt. “We should get you set up to stay somewhere else for the night, so we can work without you getting in the—er, without you being at risk.”

“Nice catch, really smooth. Though personally, if I cared enough about dear old Locky, I would’ve just told the bint to sod off.”

Haine eyed Lucy with disdain. “What on earth is that thing sticking out of your bag?”

“Nothing,” Lucy said, shoving the jar further in and out of sight. She hadn’t the time to flick the lever in the same motion, so the skull’s cries and colourful insults were still audible. She prided herself on her ability to keep a poker face as it described, at length, where exactly Miss Haine should shove it.

Lockwood swiftly moved the conversation on. “Good idea, Luce. Mr Albrecht mentioned he usually has a team of night staff—where are they tonight, Miss Haine?"

“Most stayed home. The few who didn't get the memo in time and showed up anyway were sent to a nearby hotel for the night... But it’s so late now, they wouldn’t possibly take me in.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you join them?”

“Ah, well, when he informed them all of the arrangements, I was preoccupied.”

“With what?”

“I was—er, ah… I was polishing. The bathrooms. You saw how clean they were, yes?”

George peered at her over his glasses. “We assumed it was because no one used them.”

“Oh no, they do. And I clean them—a lot! So I missed Mr Albrecht’s instructions. And then I stumbled upon you three!”

“Four.”

Lucy frowned. “If she gets hurt, Lockwood… We’ll be liable.”

“Yes, that is true,” Lockwood said, his smile now laced with a hint of uncertainty. “Time’s ticking, though, and we need to get a move on. Since we’ve deemed this room safe, we can keep her in here. The two of you can help me quickly fortify the room, and then we can resume work. Is that alright with you, Miss Haine?”

Lucy had never seen her expression look so sour. Her short reply of “Yes” was not convincing at all, but the trio got to work laying out protection for her nonetheless.

“All sorted,” Lockwood said, clapping his hands together. “You shouldn’t be disturbed in here, but just to be safe, don’t leave this circle. If you need anything at all, give us a shout.”

“There’s some tea in that thermos,” George added, “and I’ve generously donated a few biscuits. That’ll keep you going til dawn, I reckon.”

“Thank you,” Haine said stiffly.

Lucy plastered a smile onto her face, though she couldn’t manage the same amount of fake politeness as Lockwood. “You’re welcome.”

Without the hindrance of a fourth unqualified person, Lockwood & Co.’s efficiency skyrocketed. Lucy lost count of how many rooms they took readings in. The place was eerily labyrinthian, and she was grateful that George had the mind to print out a map beforehand.

The evening grew darker, and after locating the area with the most psychical red flags—the staff quarters, a small series of rooms in the basement—set up their own iron circle in preparation for any oncoming manifestations.

After filling Lockwood in on his suspicions, George sat cross-legged and leaned back on his hands. “I’m surprised we haven’t heard a peep out of Haine yet.”

“I thought she’d be calling out for her knight in shining armour in minutes,” Lucy said, an amused smirk creeping onto her face.

Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you’re referring to me?”

“‘Course I am. She was all over you.”

“I wouldn’t say that… ” He averted his gaze. “But she did seem rather fond of me.”

“God knows why. I’d rather neck a street rat than look Lockwood in the eye.”

Lockwood frowned as he watched the skull’s ghostly mouth move. “What is it saying?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Should we let Albrecht know one of his staff’s gone rogue?” George said, straightening to stretch his back with an odd groan.

Lucy wasn’t sure why every fibre of her being was advocating for the girl’s downfall. After a moment’s consideration, she chalked it up to being ‘hangry’—as Bobby Vernon once used to describe George in a heated conversation—and grabbed another biscuit.

“Legally, it would be the right thing to do,” Lockwood mused. “But I’d hate to be the reason the poor girl loses her job. If she keeps shtum for the rest of the night, I’m happy to let it go. Is that fair?”

George shrugged. Lucy made a noise of vague discontent. The skull voiced its own unpleasant opinion.

“Great,” Lockwood said with a grin. “It’s settled.” He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and checked his watch. “Miasma’s setting in. We ought to be seeing activity soon… Have you heard anything yet, Luce?”

As a matter of fact, she had—the skull’s voice notwithstanding. “The occasional word. I can’t make out what it's saying, but it’s definitely a young man’s voice. It’s steadily increasing in volume and frequency.”

“Good, we’re on the right track. George is probably spot on with the Spectre assumption. And considering where we are, it’s likely to be the lad who used to work here.” He eyed up the room around them, and Lucy followed suit. 

Presumably, this was where Albrecht’s staff spent their breaks, away from the demands of the filthy-rich family. They were in the ‘lobby’, so to speak, of the staff area. It was a small room with sparse seating, various mops and brooms propped against the far wall, and an old radio next to some stale refreshments. Branching off from the main room was a restroom and a dingy bedroom containing the flattest mattress she’d ever laid eyes on. It was so far from the life of luxury the Albrechts lived it almost felt like a different building entirely. It meant George was probably correct about yet another thing—the deceased staff member might have returned seeking revenge against his stingy employer.

Lockwood’s narrowed eyes suggested he was having the same train of thought. “What I am wondering, however, is why now? You said he died a year or so ago, George, but Mr Albrecht said his staff only started complaining in the past few months.”

“Can’t say for sure. Maybe someone disturbed his Source while working?”

The skull let out a cackle. Lucy’s gaze snapped to it. “Do you know something?”

“Maybe I do.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “And?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“There’s no need to be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult, it’s just” —it let out an elated cry—“this is hilarious. You’re so close to the truth! I’d bet good money you can’t get it through your thick skull, though.”

“What?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Lockwood leaned forward. “What’s it saying, Luce?”

“It knows something. Said we’re close to the truth, but doesn’t have faith we’ll work it out.”

“No no, I said you. Cubbins’ll be on it in no time, I reckon. He isn’t riddled with the same distractions as you are.”

She carefully repeated its words, and George’s face lit up. “Oh, now I really want to know what it’s going on about.”

“Are you talking to a jar?” An annoyingly familiar voice said from the entrance.

Three heads whipped around in surprise, one haunted skull cackled gleefully, and one Spectre manifested in the middle of the room.

Haine screamed as Lockwood leapt forward, rapier slicing through the Visitor within seconds of its appearance.

Lucy and George scrambled to their feet. With the skull as a distraction, Lucy hadn’t noticed the disembodied voice becoming more prominent, but now it had her full attention. The pressure in her head made her wince and let out a hiss of pain. George gently placed a hand on her shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles in a silent moment of understanding.

Lockwood hauled Haine into the iron circle. “What—and I say this out of concern for your safety—the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Miss Haine? We asked you to stay inside the circle. You could’ve been killed!”

Haine was deathly pale, and it took far longer than expected for her to voice a reply. “I… I know him.”

“You recognised the Visitor?” George said. The skull continued to laugh.

She nodded shakily. “His name is Adam. He works—worked here. We… had a thing, so to speak. He was lovely. But one day he… he—oh, god, he—”

“Slipped and fell down that huge staircase in the foyer?”

Haine let out a choked sob.

The voice had quietened; Lucy was able to think clearly again. “You said you ‘had a thing’?”

“His return could have something to do with that,” George said.

Lockwood nodded. “It’s likely. Now, Miss Haine, I beg you to stay inside these chains. We’re dealing with a dangerous Type Two that has personal ties to you. He may target you. Please let us work unhindered.”

“Or, if you do get in the way, at least make your death entertaining.”

“Unfaithful…”

Lucy tried to discreetly whisper to the jar she’d left on the floor. “What?”

“I said, if she does get in the way—”

“No, no, not that. The other thing.”

“That wasn’t me, Lucy. All this time being your partner in crime and you can’t even recognise my voice?” It scoffed. “Those biscuits have a higher IQ than you.”

“Mine…”

The words were a welcome distraction from the way Haine clung onto Lockwood’s sleeve. “I can hear him. I can make out the words.”

“What is he saying?”

“Unfaithful. Mine.” She paused, and then, “Cheat.”

Haine tightened her grip. “Adam said those things?”

“Oh,” George said. “Oh.”

“What did I say, Lucy? I bloody knew he’d catch on first! Oh, I’m a genius. I deserve some kind of award.”

“What?” Lockwood said, somewhat impatient.

“Miss Haine,” George said slowly, “are you naturally flirtatious?”

The sudden change of topic startled her. “Well, I wouldn’t say that… But if a man’s good-looking, I’m not going to ignore it.” She glanced at Lockwood for a split second. “Take Richie, for example—he started here earlier this year, and I know we’re colleagues, but you only live once. I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to—”

“When did he start working here?”

“Er… A few months ago, I think?” Her irritation was visible as she spoke to George; it was a stark contrast to how she behaved with Lockwood. “How is this relevant?”

“There we go,” George said with satisfaction. “Adam still has feelings for you, and isn’t particularly pleased to see you moving on.”

Haine let out a small, dumb, “Oh.”

Lockwood whistled, long and slow. “Visitors with romantically oriented returns tend to be the most aggressive. Stay on your guard, everyone. And once again, Miss Haine, do not—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, though everyone surely knew what he planned to say. They were all too distracted by the Spectre’s return to dwell on it, however.

He stood—or rather, floated a few centimetres off the ground—near the iron circle, and now Lucy could get a closer look at him. He was faded and blurry around the edges, but she could still make out the inner details. He wore a similar getup to Haine, with the dark trousers and a slightly wrinkled white button-up. His attire, combined with his red hair and thin face, made him look alarmingly like a fusion of Lockwood and Kipps. What caught Lucy’s attention the most, however, was the ugly bruising circling his neck. It was a grim reminder of how he met his untimely death.

He was so young. He couldn’t have been much older than Lockwood or George. Emotions were distracting; Lucy let out a shaky sigh and tried to let it wash over her. Meanwhile Haine, untrained and vulnerable, broke out into a fit of sobs.

“How are we dealing with this, Lockwood?” George said, ready to leap into action with his rapier in hand.

“Miss Haine, I’m sorry to ask this when you’re feeling so delicate, but we need to locate Adam’s Source. Do you have any idea as to what it could be?”

Haine sniffed and ungracefully dragged a sleeve across her damp face. “No. I haven’t got a clue, I…”

Lucy felt a pang of sympathy. It was almost enough to make her forget what had irked her about the girl earlier. “It could be anything with sentimental value to him, or something involved in his… passing.”

The skull scoffed. “Don’t start going soft on her now.”

Haine turned away from the Spectre and curled further in on herself. “He wasn’t a materialistic person. Never let me get him gifts. But—oh. Oh! He was working when he fell, he…” Her eyes swept the room and stopped when they found the mops. “He was using one of those! Oh god, you don’t think…?”

Lockwood nodded solemnly. “It could be one of them, yes.”

Adam’s voice was still audible in Lucy’s mind. “He’ll pounce the second we step foot out of these chains.”

Haine moved closer to Lockwood. In the blink of an eye she was leaning into him, one hand resting gently on his arm. “I’m so scared. What if he—”

A cry ripped from Adam’s throat as he rushed forward.

Lucy flinched and stumbled backwards. She crashed into Lockwood, who caught her and set her upright. “Miss Haine, try to keep your hands off our boss. Your late ex isn’t very fond of him.”

“He sees Lockwood as competition? By far the worst case of insecurity I’ve ever seen.”

“He sees Lockwood as competition,” Lucy murmured, then repeated it louder as it dawned on her. “Lockwood’s riling him up. If we can get Adam to disregard him, he might calm down long enough for us to reach his Source.”

“Good thinking, Luce,” George said.

Lockwood took a careful, wide sidestep away from Haine. “How are we pulling that off?”

“You’re a real threat to him if you’re single,” Haine said. “You are single, aren’t you?”

Lucy’s head pounded as Adam’s voice boomed.

“Er,” Lockwood said eloquently.

“Not any more,” George declared, before pushing Lucy and Lockwood together. They collided and instinctively grabbed onto one another to avoid tumbling out of the chains.

As Lockwood looked down at Lucy, George’s intent dawned on her. She adjusted herself so one hand wrapped around Lockwood’s torso, and leant into him like she’d seen Haine doing all evening. Slowly, Lockwood’s hand reached up behind her and rested at the nape of her neck, toying with the hairs there like it was second nature. Lucy’s stomach did strange flips while the skull feigned retching and loudly voiced its complaints.

Haine made an odd noise. George smiled like the cat that got the cream and turned to face Adam triumphantly—only to find he was no longer there.

“Give it a minute,” he said. “Miss Haine, try coming onto Lockwood again.”

“You can’t force those kinds of things,” Haine insisted.

“Try it anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mr Lockwood, you’re looking rather dashing in that waistcoat.”

“Blind as a bat, she must be.”

Lucy turned her head to look at the waistcoat in question and was met by a familiar smell she’d come to associate with the feeling of home; for a brief second, she almost forgot she was out on a case.

The waistcoat did look nice, albeit a bit snug.

“Oh, I’d gouge my eyes out if I had any.”

George was tense in anticipation, but relaxed after a few moments of nothing. “I dare say I think it worked. Adam seems happy that Lockwood can’t possibly be interested in Miss Haine if he’s preoccupied with Luce.”

“‘Preoccupied’ is an odd way of putting it,” Lockwood said. His thin fingers continued to drift along the back of Lucy’s neck, and it was a whole world of distraction. She struggled to think straight and subconsciously tightened her grip on Lockwood’s waist. If he noticed she’d brought him closer, he didn’t let on.

“Stay there,” George said, holding his hands up as if they were jittery animals. “I’ll have a look at the mops.”

“It would be pure comedy gold if Cubbins kicks the bucket while you’re busy fondling each other. God, Lucy, you’re only supposed to be acting. Dial it back a bit, you desperate ninny.”

Lucy watched with bated breath as George cautiously stepped over the chains. He held his rapier aloft in anticipation and in a few large steps reached the far wall where the mops stood. Keeping his back to the wall, George stayed alert as he passed a hand over each mop. He violently flinched upon making contact with the last; it teetered and fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Got it. It’s freezing cold.”

Lucy held tightly onto Lockwood. His hand had steadied on her shoulder; the weight kept her grounded as she Listened for oncoming danger. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Haine alternating between giving her strange looks and watching George.

The skull faked a yawn. “Just get on with it already.”

The sound of its voice mingled with Adam’s whispers—he was still present, still watching, and had taken notice of George’s movements.

“Hurry, George,” Lucy murmured. Her hand came to rest on a salt bomb in her belt.

From the depths of his duffel, George had to retrieve one of their largest silver nets. It came out snarled and scrunched, and for an excruciatingly long moment, he stood there untangling it.

“God, this is painful,” Haine said. She watched for a second longer before huffing and stepping out of the chains towards him. “Here, let me—”

“CHEAT!” roared Adam; he materialised mere feet away and wasted no time in rushing towards Haine with outstretched arms.

Lucy and Lockwood moved synchronously. Together they leapt, Lockwood brandishing his rapier and Lucy taking aim with a salt bomb, and landed in the space between Haine and her enraged lover. Lockwood’s blade swung and the bomb soared from Lucy’s hand; both hit Adam with a vicious hiss of ectoplasm and a ghostly howl.

Not a moment later, George unceremoniously dropped the silver net on the mop.

Lucy’s ears popped and her jaw ached as the effects of the Visitor’s presence lifted. She didn’t mean to lean into Lockwood as her shoulders slumped, but neither of them moved away, and at some point his hand had returned to her shoulder.

“That was possibly the most boring outcome,” the skull lamented. “I was hoping to at least see Lover Girl croak. Not you, Lucy, the other one.”

“That was simple enough,” George said, nudging the sides of the net inwards.

Lockwood grinned. “Good work, you two. And as for you, Miss Haine”—his smile faded as he turned to her—“we’ll have to inform Mr Albrecht about what went down here, which means telling him you, er…”

“Went rogue,” Lucy supplied.

“Rogue, yes.”

Haine’s gaze was unflinching. “Perhaps I should tell him the true nature of your company, then.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Being involved with your employee isn’t a good look, Mr Lockwood,” she said, with a hint of smugness.

Lockwood scoffed and exchanged glances with Lucy and George. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Are you kidding?” She nodded to him and Lucy, who suddenly became minutely aware of how much of Lockwood’s body was pressed against hers. The warmth of his hand seeped through the layers of her clothes. “It’s obvious that relationship distraction wasn’t an act at all. Tell Albrecht I was here and I’ll tell him what you two really got up to in his bathrooms tonight.”

“Oh. I’m starting to warm up to her, actually.”

*****

As they waited for a taxi outside Albrecht’s manor, Lockwood shivered and turned up his collar. “I can’t believe she blackmailed us with a complete lie.”

“It was either that, or find yourself on the front page of tomorrow’s Times,” George said.

“Lovebird agents shag in millionaire client’s bathtub,” the skull chuckled. “What a headline.”

“We should have found another way around it,” Lucy said indignantly. “Albrecht deserves to know the truth of what happened tonight, whether Haine threatens us or not. Besides—who’s to say he’d even believe her, anyway? She’s only one of… many staff.”

“We can think of something after a good night’s rest.” George yawned. “All the stairs in that place tired me out.”

He fell asleep in the taxi, notebook open in his lap and pen still poised to continue writing his notes. Lucy carefully placed them back in his bag, then caught Lockwood watching her from the passenger seat. His smile was small but tender. It was the one he usually reserved just for Lucy, the one that never failed to make her heart flutter.

“I need to talk to you before you turn in for the night,” he said. He looked at George, then back to her. “Privately, if you don’t mind.”

She suddenly felt as tense as she had been in the iron circle. “‘Course. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about.” He flashed her one of his bigger smiles, then turned back around to face the roads swathed in the light of the ghost-lamps.

Despite Lockwood’s reassurance, it still niggled at the back of Lucy’s mind the rest of the way home. She gently shook George awake as they pulled up outside 35 Portland Row and bid him goodnight before he began to trudge upstairs.

After dropping the skull jar off in her room, she found Lockwood in the kitchen turning the kettle on. He set out two mugs and turned to lean his back against the counter. When his eyes met hers, he smiled. “Luce,” he said, quietly. “Tea?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Her feet ached from the long night; she hopped up to sit on the counter near him. “What did you want to talk about?”

For a moment his brows furrowed, his gaze drifted to the side, and he seemed as if he were trying to recall something—as if he’d planned out exactly what to say, and was now struggling to find it again. Lucy restlessly shuffled her weight around, trying to make herself comfortable on the cool granite.

Lockwood took a breath. “What Haine said… it bothered me.”

“Well, yeah. She blackmailed us with an outright fib—she’s a nasty piece of work.”

“No—I mean, yes, that was awful, but that’s not what I’m talking about right now. She said it was obvious that us being together ‘wasn’t an act at all’, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said slowly. “But it clearly was. She’s probably as thick as she is manipulative.”

Lockwood’s gaze flicked up to the ceiling; a subtle wince passed across his face before he spoke. “Was it?”

“What?”

He looked back to her, face utterly sincere. “An act.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, Lockwood.”

Lockwood’s mouth opened and for a second, he appeared on the verge of saying something uninhibited. The kettle clicked, snapping him out of it, and he got to work putting their drinks together. “It was unprofessional. A complete lapse in judgement. I wanted to apologise to you, Lucy, in case it made you uncomfortable.”

“Er… Well, it’s not like there was an alternative. And George was the one who orchestrated it, anyway.”

“That can’t have been our only option,” he insisted. “I shouldn’t have gone along with it. I should have looked for another way for us to deal with the situation.”

“Lockwood, it’s fine. It was fine.” She leaned to the side, putting herself in his line of sight. “You’re fine.”

“Am I?” His usual smile and bravado were gone, leaving nothing but worry etched into his features. “I’m concerned I’m blurring the lines too much in my relationship to you. Yes, I’m your friend, but I’m also your employer. I forget how much power I technically hold over you.” He let the spoon clatter into one of the mugs. “Accidentally using it against you would be my worst nightmare.”

“You haven’t. And even if you did— though you wouldn’t—we both know I wouldn’t let that slide. If you think I can’t stand up for myself and give you a good kick to the backside if you need it, you’re sorely wrong, Lockwood.”

“No, I know. You’re good like that. I just…” He sighed. “I hate how quickly Miss Haine got the wrong impression of us. We were just doing our job—in a slightly unconventional way, yes, but it was for the sake of the case—and she so easily twisted it into something else. What if she thought I was manipulating you, in some way? What if I was, and neither of us realised?”

“Lockwood, you’re being a bit silly.” She took one of the mugs in both hands and soaked up its warmth. “It’s late, you’re tired, and you’re overthinking it.”

He leaned against the counter and stared into his own mug. “You’re probably right.”

“Besides”—she took a sip, winced at how it scalded her tongue, and surprised herself with the words that fell from her mouth—“I never said it made me uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Stop jumping to conclusions.”

Lockwood’s body stilled, and his gaze flicked to her. “What do you mean?”

She sucked her teeth and decided to throw all caution to the wind. “When George contained the Source, I could’ve let go. I had more than enough space to back away from you. Did I?”

“…No?”

“I held on. I leant into you.”

“You were weary.”

“I enjoyed it,” she said. It was an admission to both Lockwood and herself; part of her wanted to curl up and hide as it dawned on her that she had thoroughly loved being so close to him, and that Haine hadn’t just been annoying, she’d been… competition?

Something clicked, and suddenly Lucy understood Adam.

“You enjoyed it,” Lockwood repeated quietly.

“And hypothetically, if we had to do something like that again, it’d be fine. I’d be fine.”

“On the job, of course.”

The corner of her lip twitched upward. “Of course.”

“And hypothetically,” he spoke slowly, edging away from the counter and closer to her, “if something like that were to happen outside a working environment, how would you feel?”

Her words came out close to a whisper as anticipation flushed her cheeks. “Why don’t you find out?”

“Oh.” Lockwood stopped in front of where she perched on the counter. They were almost at eye level. He held her gaze for a moment before faltering, then spoke with uncertainty: “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never—should we—”

“Me neither,” Lucy said, then pulled him in by the waist to kiss him. He stiffened for a second before melting into her touch; she parted her knees for him to move closer.

Lucy’s grasp softened at Lockwood’s sides when he reached up to cup her face. A small noise escaped her before she leant further into the kiss.

Time seemed to warp—though their lips parted after a few moments, it felt as if a whole hour had passed while they were engrossed in each other. They pressed their foreheads together as their quiet gasps for air filled the otherwise silent kitchen.

Someone cleared their throat by the door.

Lucy and Lockwood’s heads clacked together as they startled, warranting identical hisses of pain as they jerked their heads in the direction of the noise.

George leant against the door frame, clothes rumpled and hair unruly—it was clear he’d fallen straight into bed after coming home.

“Got peckish,” he said, adjusting his crooked glasses. “I see you’ve sorted things out. Took you long enough.”

Lockwood was the first to snap out of the shock. “What?”

“Kipps reckoned it would take another few months, at least,” he said, rummaging through the cupboards. “I had more faith than that.” He poured himself a bowl of cornflakes and drifted back out into the hall. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight,” they both replied, though it came out sounding like a question.

Lockwood caught her eye, and they fell into a fit of laughter. Her head fell onto his shaking shoulder; the rush of giddiness had her feeling wide awake.

For a brief moment, she was not an agent in a Visitor-infested world, she didn’t have to frequently put her life on the line for work, and she hadn’t lost her best friend because of a system that let her down. Instead, she was a normal teenage girl getting flustered over a teenage boy, giggling into the warm fabric of his shirt and hoping he didn’t notice how red her cheeks had become.

Lockwood brushed her hair away with a gentle swipe of his fingers, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “We really are fantastic actors.”

Lucy burst into laughter all over again.

*****

end note: right before posting this I realised I gave Haine almost the exact same name as Metric’s lead singer?? I swear that wasn’t on purpose lol I love u Emily Haines

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co fic #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #locklyle #czenzo.fic

[plague-of-insomnia]

WIP Wednesday: Synchronize, Ch 4

Hey, all! I am so close to finishing the next chapter, and wanted to share another little snippet with you. I absolutely am in love with Tanaka & Seb in this fic, and I hope you’ll enjoy this tender scene between them as much as I have.

“Jiji. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” Tanaka asked without looking up, focused on Sebastian’s lower leg now.

“For . . . this. For ruining your retirement.”

That made Tanaka stop. He set down Sebastian’s leg, placing a pillow under his knee to support it. Then he draped the blanket over it so Sebastian wouldn’t be cold, before perching on the edge of the mattress. He took Sebastian’s hand in his, smoothing his fingers over the polish as he smiled warmly.

“You may not be my blood, but you are my child in every sense of the word, and if I could lay my life down here to restore your health, I would do it without a second of hesitation.”

Sebastian felt his breath catch. He could see Tanaka was dead serious. He meant every single word.

“You shouldn’t have to.” Sebastian’s gaze drifted to the glass doors. With the darkness out and light within, he could just barely make out their reflections. His, chained to the bed, and Tanaka, looking so small and frail.

Tanaka leaned forward, cradling Sebastian’s head as he planted a kiss on his crown. “That’s just what happens when you become a father. Maybe someday, you’ll understand.” His smile was affectionate as he leaned back, tucking some stray hairs behind Sebastian’s ear. “I don’t have any regrets. Not about being with Vincent, as short as our time together was, nor about raising you and your brother. And certainly not taking care of you when you’ve needed me.”

Sebastian reached for Tanaka’s hand again. “I—I am going to get better. Right, Jiji? Maybe not like I was before, but—”

“You will. You have.”

Sebastian scoffed.

“You may not realize it, but I could feel resistance when I was doing the stretches today. And it wasn’t just from stiffness. And it wasn’t spasms. It was you. And I also noticed you were slightly stronger when Dr. Albrecht was examining you. I think this new treatment is working. Slowly, but surely.”

Sebastian felt his eyes mist and blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision. “Agni has reminded me of everything I’ve lost. It hurts so much. But it also makes me want—”

“Want what?”

“All the things I had before. Things I thought I couldn’t ever have again. He—he makes me hope, Jiji.”

Tanaka cradled Sebastian’s face, rubbing his thumb affectionately over his five o’clock shadow. He would need a shave tomorrow. Maybe he’d ask Agni to do it. “That’s a good thing.”

“I’m scared, though. What if—what if I hope for something I can’t have? What if I put all of my eggs into this basket, and then I find out they’re all cracked and rotten and I was never—”

Tanaka pulled Sebastian’s hands from his face, holding both firmly in his. “Listen to me. Hope is never wasted. If this treatment doesn’t work, we will find something else. OK? You’re strong, and I love you, and I am not going anywhere. That’s my choice, no matter what your brother may have said.” Of course Tanaka would realize the source of many of Sebastian’s doubts. “You remind me every day of Vincent, and the love I have for him that will always be with me. We will get through this. Together.”

Tanaka stretched and snagged the box of tissues from the nearby table and offered them to Sebastian, whose eyes had leaked of their own damn accord after all.

Reblogs always appreciated! :)

-> Read Synchronize on AO3 <-

Fic Summary: Agni, a home-care nurse, has had his share of difficult patients, but now he's up for his biggest challenge yet. Sebastian is young, seriously ill, and angry, but Agni is determined to help him anyway. Will the two be able to synchronize and move forward, or will Sebastian forever let his bitterness over his past trauma hold him back?

#黒執事 #black butler #sebastian michaelis #tanaka #sebastian & tanaka #wip wednesday #sebagni #snippet #synchronize au #modern au #chronic illness au #wip #poi writes #tanaka/vincent

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 127 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: putting up a new fence.

This is the last of the Remains Trilogy! (MAG 40 Human Remains, MAG 92 Nothing Besides Remains, and now MAG 127 Remains to be Seen).

"Jonah. I must first and foremost decline your generous offer of a medical position servicing Millbank Penitentiary." / "I do not know what interest you have in the poor condemned souls within those walls, nor do I care to guess." I think this is the first time we hear about Jonah being affiliated with Millbank Prison?

"I have for these last months come to the unfortunate conclusion that our intimacy and friendship must cease immediately." Oh no!

What's up with the tree?

"Albrecht’s wife Carla" So her name war Carla, not Clara?

The fan transcript has an error in the German line, it's "Leg sie alle zurück", not "ala". "Alle" means "all". So taken super literally more of a "Put them all back"/"Put all of them back"?

"He turned back to me. 'You do not understand,' he said to me in German. 'I do not read the books. They read me.'" If anyone's curious, it would be "Sie verstehen nicht. Ich lese die Bücher nicht. Sie lesen mich." in German. Or maybe "Du verstehst nicht", don't know if they would be on familiar friendly or polite formal terms. I’d be guessing formal, but Fanshawe does call Albrecht by his first name in the statement...

"I became convinced that removing the books would go some way to addressing his health concerns. I expected some stiff resistance on the subject, but Albrecht’s response seemed closer to relief than any sort of distress." I mean, he asked him to put them back?

JON: "Disconcerting to find my namesake in a statement" Can relate. Feels like a jumpscare xD I was very surprised to find my name in a statement because I thought it is rather rare to encounter it in English-speaking areas.

JON: "Whatever is happening now has its origins two hundred years ago, in the work of an evil man." The plot of TMA without context!

JON: "Something’s coming. I know it is." Jonah must be so happy to get his little nightmare kingdom right on time for the 200 years anniversary of the Institute.

JON: (long sigh) "Just another scar for the collection." Does that count as foreshadowing? It certainly works very well to make us feel for Jon.

BASIRA: "…And what was that you were doing yesterday?" JON: "…When?" Ohhh, I was wondering last episode if he already went to get a live statement boost (because at the beginning of MAG 126 he winces, so he was still in pain, which got me thinking). I’d say it happened a day before this episode^^ And right here Jon was afraid he got busted.

JON: "It’s – hard. It’s like there’s a, a door, in my mind. A-a-and behind it is, is the entire ocean. Before, I didn’t notice it, but now, I – I know it’s there, and I can’t forget it, and I can feel the pressure of the water on it. I – I can keep it closed? (sigh) But sometimes, when I’m around p-people, or.. places, or.. ideas? A drop or two will push through the cracks at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something." This and the bit in the S5 trailer remind me so much of intrusive thoughts/bad memories popping up again and again. You're kind of aware that they are waiting, so you have to keep control over your thoughts at all times. There can be triggers which make them seep through occasionally.

Basira getting abandoned by Martin without any explanation is vital to understand why she's so distrustful now. Plus maybe the fact, that she didn't notice Melanie being influenced by one of the Fears? So she's even more wary now.

ELIAS: "Maybe I – just wanted to have a chat." This season is peak smugness of Elias.

BASIRA: "So what’s with the recorder? Who gave it to you?" ELIAS: "Oh, no. That – that really did just appear in my cell." Elias already thought Jon coming to the Institute marked by the Web was a blessing of the Spider. Guessing this could also be a "sign" for him to carry on? He's so close to winning after all. And after this he arranges Breekon to bring the coffin.

BASIRA: "Do you know what they are?" ELIAS: "What a question." Does he? Do we ever find out? Can't remember...

ELIAS: "Possibly. Then again, you are beset by enemies on all sides, Basira. And, unless you expect John to record them into submission, it would seem you are in rather dire need of another option." Jon, next episode, does exactly that! (I know, Jon's the warlock who doesn't know he's a warlock. But right now with his current powers I rather see him as a bard because of the rather passive, supportive powers and bards are not to be underestimated!)

So, did Elias tell Basira that he’ll have the coffin delivered? She does immediately know that Daisy’s in there...

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 127 #tma #tma spoilers

[mariamermaid]

I put a spell on you

Sherlock Holmes (19th century) x fem dancer Reader

Summary: After his brother´s persuasion, Sherlock agrees to go to the Ballet with him and is mesmerized by the dancer…

Words: 1.9k

A/N: This is more for the movies/ enola holmes movie, since it´ll take place in the late 19th century. I´m not too familiar with the ballet, so let´s ignore the accuracy.

 Halloween Masterlist

 Théophile Gautier´s ballet “Giselle” was an absolute success. Even years after the ballet was first performed in Paris, the London theater decided to bring the play back. An act that brought Mycroft Holmes into liberating excitement, much to his brother´s concern. The fog these days laid thick in London and Sherlock, who had just solved an exhausting case, that ended with a dangerous pursuit, in which he broke his arm, wasn´t practically excited. But the younger brother wasn´t left with many options. “God, Sherlock, what happened this time?”

Mycroft pointed towards his arm, hanging in a sling to his side, above his shirt. The jacket was loosely thrown on top of his shoulders, Sherlock shrugged not paying much attention to Mycroft´s needless worries. Around him were a few men gathered and Sherlock found himself falling for simple, but plain and boring small talk. Sighing, he followed his brother into the hall and braced himself for boring hours. But then, the classical music started, Sherlock expected it to be the best part, until he saw you entering the stage. It was the first act and you played the Giselle in the village. Giselle was portrayed as a young, innocent but endearing girl. The white long tutu graced your figure perfectly and throughout the act, you danced across the stage with ease. The forester Hilarion and the prince Albrecht are both in love with Giselle, but after Hilarion unmasks Albrecht´s disguise as a farmer, the girl is led into a disaster. Heartbroken after finding out about Albrecht’s true identity, she falls into his sword and dies. In that scene, Sherlock found himself clinging onto the seat and when the light went out to announce the break, he realized how hard he had grabbed the armrests. His tongue slid across his lips, trying to relax his jaw. He then joined his brother and his entourage outside at the bar for a drink, but the picture of you in the white tutu floating across the stage as if it was nothing, didn´t left his mind. “She´s stunning”, he admitted and the men around him nodded.

“Who? Y/n, she´s a natural”, Mycroft added slightly smiling. “You know her?” Sherlock asked interested and the men echoed in laughter. William Grey, a friend of Mycroft and well-known man in London, grinned. “Your brother, Mr. Holmes, is one of the many men running after Miss Y/L/N.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, he hated admitting that he failed. “I never ran after her.” To Sherlock´s despise, the topic was then dropped. He wanted, no he needed more information about you. While the men gathered for a second round of whiskey, Sherlock did what he did best; research and investigate. He unobtrusively glided through the doors leading to the rooms behind the stage. And there you stood, one hand against the wooden bar and practicing your posture. You had changed costumes, after Giselle´s death, you now wore a blood red tutu and your lips were painted in the same color. Sherlock felt goosebumps raising on his skin, in the soft light of the mere headlights behind the stage, the dry dust floating in the air, you did indeed like a ghost. But a stunning ghost, so beautiful, Sherlock just stopped in his tracks to stare at you.

A man, who worked behind the scenes and was just arranging a background piece, bumped against Sherlock. “Man, don´t stand around!” He eyed Sherlock suspiciously. “No spectators behind the stage”, he added and his low went low. “I…” He didn´t know what to answer, his eyes were still glued onto you. A man, as far as Sherlock guessed he was the regisseur, came to talk you and you nodded to whatever he was saying. You then turned to get your hair checked again, but you noticed the unknown man standing around. His tall figure with his neat clothes, his eyes meeting yours. For a second, you stood still, admiring his dark locks and his angular features. But then you remembered the work and disappeared within the crowd of people running around. “Didn´t you hear what I just said?” Sherlock jerked, as the man spoke up again, louder and clearly angry.

“Sorry, I must´ve taken a wrong door somewhere.”

As quick as he appeared behind the stage, he vanished again. Sherlock found his seat next to his brother, who eyed him confused. “Where have you been?” Luckily, the lights went out before he could think of an excuse.

 The second act started, the forester Hilarion waits at Giselle´s death bed, until the nature ghosts and their queen Myrtha appear to welcome Giselle in their realm. Sherlock couldn´t tear his eyes of you, you were pale with powder and your once white gown, was now black as the night. Albrecht finds the ghost as well and follows Giselle into the woods. Myrtha and her wilas, dance around Hilarion until he drops with exhaustion and dies. Myrtha shortly after finds Albrecht, but he is protected by Giselle´s love. At dawn, the queen loses her power and Giselle forgives Albrecht, before she vanishes.

The whole act was preposterous, the dance of the dead ghosts and in between them; you. Sherlock saw the light of life in your eyes glistening. You looked magical to him; he couldn’t describe any other way. The hall echoed with applause and Sherlock even joined in the standing ovation, your performance was outstanding. He then waited outside with his brother again; some men with wife´s went home, but Sherlock waited with anticipation. It was almost an hour later, when he finally saw you. The stage make-up was gone and you looked exhausted, but happy. You had a coat thrown over your shoulder and a dark red, rather simple dress. Your hair was loosened, but remained closed. People quickly approached you, congratulating on the success and praising your abilities and talent. But you had spotted Mycroft within the crowd, and with him the man who had caught your attention earlier. You slipped away and made your way to them. “Mycroft.” You smiled as he greeted you, leaning down and placing a delicate kiss on your hand. “Y/N, extraordinary and perfect as always.” A faint blush was on your cheeks, but then your glance wandered to Sherlock.

“Who is your companion, Mycroft?” It was almost awkward, how Sherlock couldn´t do anything but stand around and stare at you, his brother chuckled. The sight was rare, but welcomed for him. “You´ve heard of him, my brother Sherlock!” A grin crept on your rosy lips and you put out your hand to greet him as well. Sherlock could´ve punched himself, a lady like you holding her hand out first; what kind of gentleman he was! He took it softly and did his brother equal, placing a kiss on your hand. “Mr. Holmes, are you working on a case right now?” Sherlock stopped, raising his eyebrow confused.

“It seemed like you nosed around behind the stage in the break, are you looking for a thief?” The assumption you made was perfectly fine, but your tone stated differently. You knew he wasn´t there for a case and Mycroft snickered. “You have to excuse my brother, Y/n. Snooping around runs in his veins.” Sherlock breathed out, a slight annoyance rising. He didn´t like the way his brother was able to interact with you, not unless he was able to do so as well.

Mycroft changed the subject; “My birthday, Y/n, next week, I hoped you would come?” Your eyes left Sherlock and jealousy rose in him, a feeling he wasn´t very familiar with. “I have a performance, but I will try to sneak away afterwards.”

William Grey interrupted your group, saying his goodbye´s for the evening and you cleared your throat. “I´m going home as well, training and rehearsals are getting the better of me.” For once this night, Sherlock was quicker than his brother. “Can I walk you home, Miss Y/L/N?”

You grabbed your bag a little tighter, hanging over your shoulder and he noted how hard to read your expression was. “I don´t need a man to protect me, Mr. Holmes. But I´m willing to let you accompany me in exchange for some details about your solved cases, I´m quite a fan if you will.” Sherlock smiled and tilted his head proudly.

“So, you recognized the murderer due to his shoes?” You asked interested as the two of you walked through the dark streets of London. The light from the lanterns fell softly to the ground, but the air laid silent. It was late, barely any light left in most houses. Sherlock nodded, lurking down to you. “That´s fascinating, Mr. Holmes.” “You can call me Sherlock.”

For the first time, you actually blushed. “Willing to solve some riddles for me, Sherlock?” A shiver ran down his spine as you called him by his name, but he nodded. “When the water comes down, it rains. I go up, what am I?” Sherlock paused for a second, but a grin spread on his lips. “An umbrella.”

“I can fly but I have no wings. I can cry but I have no eyes.” “A cloud.”

"I dance as the night rises and a wooden pole accompanies me; what am I?” He chuckled confident.

“A ballerina.”

You stopped on the street and behind you laid a park, dark and the silhouettes of trees and bushes rose like giants in the night. “A witch, Mr. Holmes. A witch on her broom.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, behind you walked a black cat and the coincidence let him shiver. He usually wasn´t a superstitious type, but you were not to be underestimated; he was sure of it. He swallowed realizing how you had been able to distract him from the logical solution. “As far as I´m concerned, I have bewitched your mind, Sherlock.” From your coat you pulled out a notepad, his notepad. All notes on previous cases and current observations were written down. “How-“

“For a detective, you´re not very good at sneaking around, behind the stage.” You fell into his word, before he was able to ask questions. He wondered how on earth you had stolen his notepad, maybe due to his lack of movement with the broken arm? You were absolutely right however; you did drive him insane. Laughing, you held his notepad still up. “Don´t worry, you´ll get your notes back, if you solve my last riddle.”

His tongue glided over his lips. “A party, but the ballerina doesn´t want to dance.”

He anticipated more, but you closed your mouth, grinning. “I´ll see you next week, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hadn´t realized that you had reached your destination and you turned to leave him standing in the middle of the street. “How did you steal my notes?”

You laughed out loud as you hurried into a dark alley, he guessed that the entrance to your apartment laid there.

“I put a spell on you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He hurried after you, but as he entered the alley, a dead end as he realized, you were gone. There was no door and no windows at the wall surrounding him, you had basically vanished into thin air. Sherlock smiled in excitement; the evening turned out so much better than he ever imagined. He lit himself a pipe and strolled to his own home. A party, but the ballerina doesn´t want to dance, your words repeated in his mind. I´ll see you next week. Mycroft´s birthday party and you don´t want to dance. What does a lady do, that gets invited by someone, who she doesn´t want to dance with? She arrives accompanied by a different man.

#sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock imagine #henry cavill #robert downey jr #benedict cumberbatch #mariamermaidimagine #enola holmes

[ladyvader23]

Darth Vader’s Unplanned Conversation

Thanks to @kittandchips for the prompt idea: How would Vader handle the twins thinking one of them was unplanned and therefore unwanted? Such delicious angst and fluff put this immediately on the list to write! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was so rare that Vader arrived home before the twins did. But today, he’d managed to sneak away early, and he was home, having just dismissed Miss Laena for the day, waiting for his children’s arrival. He was not a traditional father, by any means, but he still enjoyed family time with his young ones. He didn’t know what they’d do; perhaps he’d take them on a ride in one of his newest ships. Luke would love that, and Leia might even, too, though she wasn’t usually as vocal about it. 

Then again, it was a school night. If he was being a good father, he’d sit with them and help with their homework. 

The possibilities were endless. He just hoped his Master continued to leave him alone for the evening. 

He sensed the twins arriving long before they even arrived on property. Their chauffeur would arrive in the hangar soon, drop them off, and they’d be heading up. He’d surprise them in the hallway, he decided, moving into position. He doubted he’d really surprise them; even untrained, Luke and Leia had a habit of being able to at least know when he was home. 

He continued to keep tabs on them until they were in the lift heading for the apartment. He tried to make himself less intimidating, not wishing them to think they were in trouble, and he’d managed what he assumed was a comfortable pose by the time the lift doors opened and in walked Luke and Leia. 

They immediately paused, looking at him with...admittedly, odd looks. Then, to his confusion, Leia glared, throwing her bag aside. He was about to remind her to put it away in the designated spot when she stormed up to him and crossed her arms. “So. Which one of us did you not want?!” 

Vader blinked down at his little girl, just seven years old, completely surprised by the accusation. Then, he looked up at Luke, reaching out through their bond to try to get more information, only to be flooded with feelings of hurt and sadness. Luke, at least, tried to hide it as he put his bag away in the appropriate cubby. 

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He replied, finally, looking back at his daughter. “Explain.” 

But Leia huffed, and instead of explaining anything, stormed around him and off towards her room. “Fine! Don’t answer, then!” 

And before he had a chance to react, she’d entered her room, the door swishing closed behind her. 

Vader stared after her, even more confused than before, and turned back to Luke. “Explain.” he demanded. Usually his son was more willing to offer more information--or at least, he was easier to coerce. 

But Luke didn’t reply with anything but a shrug. “Nothing. Just girl stuff, I guess.” 

“Do not lie to me!” He snapped, instantly sensing the lie. “You may not be yelling at me, but I know I have apparently done something to upset the both of you. Now explain.” 

He expected Luke to cave, especially as he pressed along their bond...but Luke shook his head, and he too, walked past him. “I don’t want to know.” Was all he mumbled. 

It was a good thing Vader didn’t have any hair left. He might have started pulling it out. He’d learned long ago that bullying his children into answering him like they were some kind of rebel wasn’t the answer, nor was using the Force on them. Parenting books didn’t exactly say using the Force on children was bad, but based on their guidelines, he’d made the assumption himself. 

Still. It was too bad, especially as Luke too, shut himself in his room. 

Vader stood glaring at the doors, wondering how the fun night he’d had planned for them had turned so randomly...angsty. He tried to wrack his brain for anything he might have done to make Leia think he didn’t want one of them. Nothing came to mind--as far as he was concerned, he’d shown far more affection to them than he had anyone else. In fact, using a rare free evening to want to spend time with them was proof enough that he more than wanted both of his children. But children weren’t logical beings; there was plenty of evidence of that. 

He squared his shoulders, deciding which twin to face. Usually the answer was Luke...but this time, the Force seemed to pull him in the direction of Leia’s room. 

Leia it was, then. 

Yet he paused before entering, taking a moment to make sure he was as calm as a Sith Lord could be. Leia, as much as he cared for her, had a talent for making him angry in the blink of an eye. That never ended well when he was attempting to get something out of her, be it information or cooperation on her chores. As soon as he felt like he could handle anything she would throw at him, he entered the room. 

Surprisingly, the room was dark. She hadn’t bothered turning on the lights. He didn’t need infrared sensors in his eye plates to know she was stretched out face-first on her bed, head buried in her pillow. He could very clearly sense that himself, and the emotion coming from her was no longer anger, but...intense sadness. 

Again he tried to think of anything he might have done or said and honestly could think of nothing. So, tentatively, careful of the toys left on the floor, he made his way over to her bed. Though he usually preferred to stand, he winced as he sat down on the small child-size bed, his joints groaning in pain. 

Something else he’d noticed since becoming a father: children liked it when you got down on their level to talk to them. He rarely did it, but this seemed like the appropriate moment for it, though he still didn’t know why. 

“Leia.” 

He wished his vococorder allowed for him to speak gently to her. 

She didn’t stir. The only response was a muffled, “Go away.” 

“I will not. Not until you tell me what is wrong.” Silence. Wishing he could sigh, he looked up at the ceiling, trying to maintain control of his impatience. “I cannot help unless you tell me what the problem is.” 

Suddenly Leia sat upright, whirling to face him, and he was startled to find tears running down her face as she shouted, “I know you only wanted one of us, okay!” 

That statement did nothing to clear up Vader’s confusion, but her tears...Force, he hated it when she cried. He was reduced to feeling helpless, like anything he did would just make it worse. He doubted she knew the effect her tears had on him, and he hoped she never figured it out or he was doomed. 

Hell, he hoped the Emperor never figured it out. 

“I do not understand what you mean by that. You...can you explain?” 

It was so rare that he asked for information instead of demanded it. It seemed to be the right choice of words, however, because though she glared and looked away from him, she elaborated. 

“Kenny asked which one of us you didn’t want because mommy’s and daddy’s only plan for one baby.” 

Vader frowned, still trying to figure out the logic, then when he did, hot fury flashed through him, fury that he had to clamp down on to keep from scaring his daughter, or worse, giving her the wrong impression. 

“Kenny who?!” 

“Kenny Albrecht.” Leia replied glumly. “Is it Luke? He likes more of the same stuff you do.” 

He...had murdered children before, but he was far less likely to do so now that he had his own. As soon as he was done fixing this mess, he’d definitely be giving Kenny’s parents a surprise call. The thought of their faces when they realized who was calling was almost enough to cheer him up. 

Almost. 

“Come.” He stood, again wincing at the strain on his joints the movement caused. “It would appear this is a conversation for the both of you.” 

He expected Leia to resist, but she thankfully followed, her head hung as if she were somehow in trouble. He did not miss her sniffles, and each one was like a knife to his chest. 

Yes. He would definitely make sure Kenny Albrecht knew never to bother his children again. 

They entered Luke’s room. Luke, at least, had turned on the light, and he was building a toy ship model, though not very enthusiastically. He looked up when they entered, and Vader felt the normally cheery attitude of his son plummet further. 

Vader crossed over to the bed and again sat down, facing both of them. “Come here.” He pointed at the spot in front of him. They were so small, even sitting down he towered over them. 

They thankfully complied, though Luke shot Leia a look. “I don’t want to--” 

“You will listen carefully. Both of you. Am I clear?” He waited until they nodded, though Luke did so reluctantly. To even think his children had been so affected by stupid Kenny who was far beneath them--

“It is true that your...your mother and I did not know we were expecting twins.” He didn’t want to talk about Padme, not ever, but he found his children forced the subject more often than not. He would never get used to the pain it caused him, but if it helped them… “We...wanted to be surprised when you were born. I did not know…” he hadn’t yet told them the circumstances surrounding their birth and how he’d almost lost them. He wasn’t about to tell them now. “I did not know until you were born. But not for one moment did I ever consider not wanting either of you. In fact, the moment I laid eyes on both of you, I knew you were meant to be mine.” 

He couldn’t help the fierce possessiveness in his voice. They were his. How dare anyone suggest he’d ever want otherwise?! 

“While our interests may be different, you and I do share many similarities in our personalities.” He told Leia specifically. “I do not need nor want you to like everything I like. You are perfect the way you are.” 

Leia’s lower lip trembled, but she nodded and he sensed her calming down. 

“You do not need to know who it was I didn’t want because there is no such thing. I want and need both of you.” He told Luke. Luke let out a breath, his shoulders slumping in relief. 

“This Kenny Albrecht is an idiot...and yes, I know that is not a nice word, but it is true!” He had to be careful what language he use around the twins because otherwise they’d use it at school and he’d get phone calls from their teacher. It was stupid, and he doubted the teacher liked calling him, but there must have been some rule at the school requiring it. 

Carefully, he opened up his bond with both of them so they could feel his sincerity and the genuine fatherly affection he had for both of them. He paused, marveling at how bright and innocent they were as they clumsily probed the emotions he allowed them to see. It was clear they didn’t understand all of them, being so young, so he bit back his pride, and said, “There is nothing and no one else in this galaxy that I love more than the two of you. Do not ever let anyone make you forget that.” 

He very rarely ever said the “L” word. It was not in the nature of the Sith to do so. If the Emperor ever found out, there would be trouble. But when there were important moments when he needed his children to understand the severity of what he was saying, he would say what was necessary. 

Tonight, it was necessary. 

Immediately, the twins launched themselves into his arms, and he held them close as they grasped onto him for dear life, as if they had genuinely been afraid that somehow Kenny’s idiotic comment would make him remember he didn’t want one of them and give them away. The thought made him clench his teeth, and absently he ruffled both of their hair to calm himself down. 

“Now. I am home early. I wished to do something fun with the both of you.” 

Luke perked up, looking hopeful. “Like fly?” 

He couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, son. Like fly. Maybe we can pick up some treats on the way home.” 

The thought of him walking into a treat shop with his wide-eyed children was a bit ridiculous, but if it meant making his children forget about Kenny and his stupidity, he’d make it happen. 

“Okay!” Leia grinned. “I want Jogan ice cream!” 

“It will be done.” He stood. “Now go and get ready. I have a call to make.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I take prompts! <3 

#Darth Vader #Dad vader #dad vader series #luke skywalker #leia organa #luke and leia #Little Luke #little leia #poor babies #they need hugs #so they got one #vader is starting to get good at being a dad #i would hope so after 7 years #though he's still awkward #writing #my writing #fanfic #star wars

[sims2bellaswan]

pas de deux VI [Bruno Bucciarati x Reader | Risotto Nero x Reader]

[SFW]

AO3 VERSION

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

You’ve worked your whole life to earn a place in the Rome ballet company, yet everyone seems to work against you.

Between the stress of working to match the other dancers to unforeseen romantic issues, problems just seem to pile up.

Trish’s cigarette hung from her lip as she listened to the other dancers gossip. Her appearance greatly contrasted that at the party the night before; her face showed signs of exhaustion and a hangover. Ballerinas were not permitted to smoke, but that hadn’t stopped any of the girls from doing so on their lunch break.

They spoke, quickly, about many topics. Some pointed out news articles to their wiry, little friends, while others simply gossiped by word of mouth. Trish did not take part in this ritual, too stubborn to engage and far too disillusioned to care. Though, her ears would pick up words of interest when necessary. She was much like her father in that sense.

This afternoon, the girls prattled on about how a famous ballerino’s daughter was put in jail two days ago, how those two dancers from Japan were to get married soon, and how one of the newer company dancers was supposedly sleeping with the ballet master.

That was a word of interest, yes. Trish took the cigarette from her lips, keeping it at knee level between her pointer and middle finger. “What was that?” Her brows creased the middle of her forehead.

“I’m sorry?” The dancer that had mentioned it was bewildered that she was even showing an interest in gossip. The younger prima hardly spoke if it wasn’t a necessity.

“What did you say?” Trish spoke slightly firmer, making it a point that she wanted to hear gossip. Both wildly out of character and not her cup of tea, the other ballerinas paused their conversations to hear the news as well.

“Oh,” The woman laughed, breathlessly and awkwardly, “I had just heard one of the newer members was sleeping with the ballet master.” She croaked like a frog under Trish’s scrutinizing gaze. “I don’t know who, though, no one seems to know which one it is anymore.”

“I hope it isn’t one of the boys.” Another ballerina added, sighing into her palm. “Master Nero is kind of cute, I’d be heartbroken if he were gay or something.” Her friend slapped her arm, then they both laughed.

Trish found this information odd. The conversation continued around her, girls chatting now about which person they found most attractive in the company. Yet, she could only consider how Risotto Nero wouldn’t do something as stupid as that. She had known Signore Nero when he was still a dancer and she was still a child; he worked with, then under, her father for a very long time. He wasn’t the type to seduce a dancer into ruining her career like that.

Evening settled onto the world like a warm blanket. Trish extinguished her cigarette, dropping it in a cup on the windowsill and spitting out the window. Light slowly brightened the city from windows and streetlamps, bouncing off the stone streets and shimmering to the naked eye. The wind slowed down from that afternoon and while it was said that there would be rain, couples still walked hand-in-hand down the street.

Evening for you, however, meant the start of a tumultuous night spent working. You couldn’t go home, eat dinner, and spend the rest of the night lounging about on the couch in your apartment. You had to go dance more than you already have. With a man that you’re certain despises you.

The doors to the company looked more decrepit at night. This was a fact you thought you'd understand, yet as you stood before the large wooden doors, you found yourself shivering. Maybe it was the cooler night air, but something was wrong right now. The vibes felt off. With a start, you pushed them open.

The lights were still on inside. As you walked, you found dancers strewn about the place like dolls. Some slept on their friends’ shoulder, others were arguing over phones or looking up Uber prices. You supposed some dancers stayed later than others. You kept your distance.

Fearful like being caught for a crime you didn't commit, you quietly made your way to the studio room. You opened the door to find your ballet master, mid stretch, in front of the mirror. His form was almost godlike, his flexibility hardly fading with age or lack of practice. You admired in awe for a moment, then cleared your throat. Your phone said 7:02. You hoped you weren’t too late.

He sat up, giving you a quick glance over. You hadn’t kept your leotard on, you thought leggings and a tank top would work fine. He said nothing but his expression wasn’t one you liked. You’d have to get used to it. He stood, clearing the floor so you could change your shoes.

“Wear your pointe shoes. You’ll be en pointe for this.” He stated, his back to you. You were not in the mood to be en pointe, but in this room, whatever the ballet master says, goes. You slid on your shoes, quickly tying the ribbon.

Even without his civilian shoes, Risotto stood at least a head over you. You felt like a child next to him, which was probably how he felt as well, considering how lowly he thought of you. You stood at the ready, in first position, for him to begin his instructions.

“You will be learning the pas de deux from act two of Giselle, understand?” He finally turns to you, watching as you find the center of the studio floor. He finds a similar position behind you.

He says a form, you take it. En pointe, you take little steps backwards, as per his instructions. You knew the Giselle pas de deux, not well but it’s more than nothing. It’s an intimate dance, with lots of lifting and touching your partner. Normally, you’d love to dance the technically difficult piece but with him? You tried to determine his level of seriousness as you finished the move in his arms, hands wrapped at your waist.

You catch the two of you in the mirror, his expression matches yours in it’s solemn nature. You lose sight of yourself as you lift your leg and arms, once again per his instructions. Risotto is quiet for a moment as he spins you, softly. Your head turned away from both him and the mirror, you can’t see his expression anymore, cant check if it's morphed from the sadness he showed to disdain for you. It made you nervous.

“Good,” is the only thing he has said so far, beyond choreography. It imbues something in your chest, whether that be spite or pride is hard to tell anymore. Risotto pushed your torso down, now level with your hips. “Lift your leg higher, straighter.” His voice is quiet. The room is so serene.

You rise back up, your extended leg wraps around his hips and your head falls into the crook of his neck. His firm hand stays at your waist as he flourishes with his free one. You open your eyes again to catch another glimpse in the mirror. He looks so professional, his brows scrunched in the anguish Albrecht felt, lips parted slightly in a frown.

You move away from his chest, extending your leg further. Both his hands on your waist, you move your leg for a moment then return to the ground.

“Ready?” He asks, again, so quietly. You nod, not leaving your position. You know what comes next, you have to nail several lifts, returning to arabesque everytime he sets you down.

Risotto lifts you like you weigh nothing, as you mime a grand jete. He lifts you again, this time completely over his head and you bend your back as much as humanly possible to get your legs as straight as humanly possible. You land in an arabesque.

“Stop.” He lets your waist go. If it weren’t for the balance you spent years perfecting, you would’ve fallen on your ass.

You huffed, slightly, “What was wrong with that? That was the best lift I’ve ever done!”

“No, it was sloppy.” He stands in front of you, between yourself and the mirror. Risotto sighs, he’s tired. “You were so focused on your legs, you forgot every other part of your body.” His tone grew more frustrated as he continued. “Your arms were all over the place. Your bend was too far.” You had to hold back something in you that wanted to punch him.

“So? You can't see my hands and back on the stage, but my legs are on full view.” Your hands flew to your hips. Your own tone suddenly took a frustrated note as well.

He stepped closer to you, emphasizing his words. “So, it’s not correct.”

You bit at the raw flesh of your inner cheek. You were no longer sure if you felt more of a need to storm out or cry. “It was never a problem before.” Your voice firm, your resolve steeled, you felt a wave of confidence flood over you as the words simply left your mouth.

Risotto closed his eyes, “It is now.” Oh, look, there went your confidence, right out the door. He moved back to the center of the floor. “Again. From the top.” You, dejectedly, return to your position and begin again.

He had you do the entire first quarter of the Giselle Act II pas de deux seventeen times. The two minute section felt longer every time you did it. But, each time you did it, he found something different to critique. You think it was the 6th repeat that you caught his eye in the mirror and he had looked away quickly. You were sure you had caught him looking for things to scrutinize.

As even he began to feel tired, the night slowed down. He slowly stopped barking orders at you and actually started to show you what to do. You would stand at the barre, him behind you, and his hands would adjust you slightly.

Finally, the session ended around 11pm. You never wanted to have to do that again, yet somehow you don’t think you’ll get a choice.

You collapsed on to your bed, almost too tired to turn your alarm on early so you could shower in the morning. Sweat could definitely wait for every muscle in your body to stop aching.

The stars shone through the curtain, wind softly touching them and causing a billow across your room. Had you been awake, you would’ve remarked how as a kid you would’ve thought it looked like a dancer’s skirt. It would have been a very creative and astute observation. But, you slept soundly, seeing neither the stars nor the bubbling curtains.

#bruno buccerati #risotto nero #reader insert #female reader #sfw #bruno bucciarati x reader #risotto nero x reader #jjba #jjba au #ballet au #pas de deux ao3 #my writing

[aflyingcontradiction]

The Magnus Archives Relisten: Episode 127 - Remains to be seen

First of all: This title is too damn punny. That said, let us proceed...

In the light of what I have so recently witnessed, I can no longer in good conscience associate with any of your endeavors. Nor will I continue to collect or provide those accounts of the esoteric and otherworldly that you and your… Institute so eagerly require. - Statement of Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe

Good choice, probably. Ironically enough, he is currently doing exactly what he said he wasn't going to do anymore.

My German is… fine, though I have had little cause to use it of late, but his accent was thick, and all that I could get from him was a sense of… resignation, and the insistence that his master, who I took to be Albrecht, wanted the tree dead. I’m sure that he used that word, though. Not burned, not removed, or destroyed. Dead. I resolved to ask Albrecht about it when I saw him.

What's the deal with the tree? What am I missing here?

Greta, her name was, a pleasant, red-faced young woman with a smattering of English that she insisted on using at every opportunity.

He sounds so judgmental but that is actually kinda cute, isn't it?

And there, looming over me, was a face, pale and shaking. The eyes sunken, and the cheeks were dirty and unshaved. It was the face of Albrecht von Closen. In the light, his eyes met mine, and his mouth began to work furiously, repeating the same phrase over and over, increasing in volume until he was screaming it into my face

Oh, this is definitely reminiscent of some nightmares I've had. Especially the rising volume.

He told me of a seamstress, who laced her body with fine black thread, and when she pulled it all out in a single swift motion, her skin dropped away like a loose shift. He told me of a man so scared to die he spent a year weaving a rope blindfolded, so he would not know the length, and could not foresee the moment it would tighten around his neck when he finally threw himself into the void. He told me of a fire that burns so hot and fierce that to even know about it is enough to burn a man’s tongue from his head. He told me so many terrible things.

So poor Albrecht has apparently gained Beholding powers he didn't want by taking the books out of the tomb and now he knows all these things he would really rather not know. Also: Story 2 is about the End and story 3 is obviously about the Desolation, but story 1? The Web, what with the spider-reminiscent imagery? Or something else?

I expected some stiff resistance on the subject, but Albrecht’s response seemed closer to relief than any sort of distress.

I mean, he DID literally scream at you to put them back, what did you THINK he meant?

Do I need to detail what covered his organs, his bones, the inside of his skin? What clustered together in their dozens, and all turned as one to focus on me as I opened his chest, their pupils constricting in the light, with irises of every hue and color?

Oh. Lovely imagery, that.

Whatever is happening now has its origins two hundred years ago, in the work of an evil man. - Jon

You're more correct about this than you think, Jon!

Jon: Just another scar for the collection.

Oh god, and this is some major foreshadowing, right here!

Basira: She says she can cry now, which is, um – progress? I think?

Oh, that is absolutely fucking progress! The idea of being so filled with rage that you can't even cry anymore, not just for a moment but ALL THE FUCKING TIME is pretty horrifying.

Jon: It’s – hard. It’s like there’s a, a door, in my mind. A-a-and behind it is, is the entire ocean. (...) I can keep it closed. But sometimes, when I’m around p-people, or.. places, or.. ideas? A drop or two will push through the cracks at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something. Basira: What happens if you open the door? Jon: I drown.

The idea of drowning in knowledge is perhaps a bit abstract, but I guess we see something quite like it when Jonah becomes the pupil of the Eye. Also, yet another moment of few words, massive impact.

Basira: The part where you pretend you don’t spend your whole time watching us. Elias: Sometimes I'm eating.

Pfffffft.

My impression of this episode

I barely remembered this episode, but I'm not sure why, because the statement most definitely rises at least to the level of "spooky". And the post-statement conversation of Basira and Jon does ... a lot. Mostly on the level of character and relationship development, not so much with regard to moving the plot forward, though. And then there's Basira's prison visit and now THAT is plot-important (but I did actually remember that).

#tma relisten #the magnus archives

[justawordwright]

extract from Octokittens (And some theories on how they might have come about). or well, the best of the four short stories in completion really.  rating T, mild horror, a little animal death (brief, not a long-term pet death). mechs typical violence.

The ship was a wreck. It was clear on the maps that that was the case, and it was why Hans and Albrecht were visiting it, they were scrap dealers after all. They’d fallen on hard times, and they’d heard that there was a valuable cargo on board, valuable enough to set themselves up for several lifetimes of luxury.

Neither of them thought to wonder exactly what had destroyed the ship in the first place. Nor why no one had successfully claimed the wreck for themselves in the time since the ship had been destroyed. It had been a long time since then, long enough no one could really remember exactly how long.

Anyway, they had set out from New Venus in their little trawler and after a couple of weeks, their target had crested over the bottom of their screens, vast and red and crumbling.  A small cluster of other trawlers hovered at its side, each of them battered and solar-worn, but not quite as much as the ginormous ship they clung to like limpets. None of them looked particularly recent either, so Hans shrugged and steered their own ship in closer. They weren’t competition, and they’d serve a handy bonus if there was any hold space left on the way back. Hans thought he recognised a couple of builds that were currently in vogue due to having crossed into the vintage territory, and that always pushed the prices up for already expensive spare parts.

The boosters flipped to reverse, and the Jaunty Clipper came to a shuddering halt. Hans slowly shut the systems off and went to join his brother in the cargo hold. Albrecht was already suited up and checking his oxygen tank, so Hans chucked his own spacesuit on over his clothes before picking up one of the large maglev torches. Sealing his helmet, he flicked the switch to start the process of opening the cargo bay door. The fans whined, sucking the air out of the room until they just went silent, even as the blades still turned. Only when the blades stopped did the door judder upwards, metal folding in on itself, impossibly quiet, revealing the gaping hole in the wreck they had pulled up next to.

It alone dwarfed the Jaunty Clipper, yet it was tiny in comparison to the hull of the wreck it was set into. Flashing his light about, the beam disappearing into the dark, just barely catching a few beams and supports in the faint light, Hans wondered if this was what a flea felt like, trying to comprehend the extremity of its host.

“Ready?” Albrecht’s voice crackled over their intercom and Hans was about to reply in the affirmative when he noticed something floating in the space between them and the wreck. It was pink, and clearly not space debris or a broken bit of ship, though it was too far away to tell what it was exactly.

“Give me a second,” Hans answered, shooting a grappler chain out to retrieve the item. It came shooting back in with no inertia behind it, and Hans was surprised to have a small child’s doll drop into his hand. The fabric was a bit worn and faded and ratty, but he could still see a thin line of stitches picking out a smile, and two black buttons for eyes and some red wool for hair. He smiled and wondered who it had belonged to and if it’d make a nice present for his friend’s daughter. Carin always liked souvenirs of his trips.

Albrecht jumped past him, throwing himself out into the hole. “Come on, we don’t have time for kids toys. The oxygen tanks won't last all day, we need to get a move on.”

Hans rolled his eyes but never the less let go of the doll, watching it float away and followed his brother into the wreck.

He landed in a tall, narrow corridor with handholds spaced out evenly down the walls and ceiling. Albrecht was clung to one of them, fiddling with a gyroscope. “Let's try for the centre? Cargo bay should be somewhere near there,” said Albrecht.

Hans nodded and pushed off down the corridor. It was long and labyrinthine, with the occasional junction, and at each Albrecht checked the gyroscope before leading them down it or not. There weren’t any signs anywhere, at least not any that had survived the test of time. Hans noticed the occasional stripe of white paint against the major green in the few places where it hadn’t been consumed by bubbling rust, a single chipped or faded letter or stripe holding out by itself. He didn’t recognise the alphabet though, all harsh lines and corners. Here almost half a dozen letters survived, scattered across three lines, at least that was what Hans assumed, he wasn’t sure exactly what direction the text was supposed to be read in. Most of the letters were some form of an upright stick with a horizontal or diagonal branch off, but there was one that almost looked like an ‘R’ in Standard, with the stem removed. Another looked like a more jagged ‘s’ or ‘5’. He knew it had to mean something – and on a ship like this, it was probably some sort of area designation. If only he could read it. If only it wasn’t so damaged.

Slowly, he ran a gloved finger across the text, knocking chips of paint loose. They flocked around his hand, suspended in the ether and dancing slowly in the light of his torchlight.

Shaking his head, he pushed off after Albrecht again, who he’d let get ahead of him as he tried to puzzle out the script. His brother had already disappeared around a sequence of corners, and Han’s stomach rolled as he passed off shooting corridors, still with no sign of Albrecht. He was sure his brother wouldn’t leave the corridor they were on without warning him. He was sure.

Oh, how he wished there was a map of this place. That would make things so much easier.

There was a sharp popping noise from around the bend.

Hans floated onwards, his torch catching on a sheet of greying paper behind a panel of glass on the wall opposite him. There was a drawing on it. A drawing of the ship. Six silhouettes of the hull, with a layout of its snaking corridors set out inside each, and on one a small red circle with the words ‘you are here’ written in Standard above it. Apparently he was on Level Three, in Quadrant Two, Sector Six. It was a residential area, and directly above him, two floors up was the nav-deck, while the cargo bays were a floor down and maybe two corridors away.

That was useful to know. Hans batted away another one of those dolls and continued onwards.

Two more corners and he found his brother pounding on a closed door, fists silently clattering into the metal and nudging Albrecht away down into the corridor until he bounced back against the door to hit it again. Hans slid into place next to him as Albrecht stopped and rested against the metal.

“Bloody thing is sealed up tight,” Albrecht said over the comms, kicking at a pair of dolls floating around his feet. “Got the plasma cutter?”

Hans nodded and flicked the switch to begin charging it. “At least the cargo bay’s close. Should be a ladder down on the other side of this.”

Albrecht turned and squinted at him. “How’d you know that?”

“There was a map?”

“I didn’t see one.”

“It was just back there,” Hans said, gesturing vaguely back the way he’d come. “You must have just missed it.”

“I’m not sure I did, I was keeping an eye out for one. It-” Albrecht started to disagree, but the plasma cutter in Hans’ hands burst into life, bright, glowing purple energy spitting into a narrow cutting beam. Albrecht carefully pushed away from the door to let Hans centre himself.

“Whatever. Get this open, Hans.”

The plasma made short work of the metal, Hans quickly inscribing a deep rectangle into the door, shaping the edges of a panel he’d remove to create their entranceway. Clicking the cutter off, he braced himself against the roof of the corridor, and lashed out with his foot, expecting the metal to buckle and the panel to fall in.

The metal shifted under his foot but didn’t budge. There was something behind it. Blocking it.

“A hand?” Hans asked. “The crowbar?”

Albrecht drifted forwards, planting himself in place and stabbing the sharp end of the crowbar through the weakened metal. Then, with Hans’s help, levered the metal up, opening their entranceway.

From out of the black a dozen of the dolls came spiralling. The brothers looked at each other, and Hans drove his hand through the hole. He felt the dense resistance of what must be hundreds of the things, piled up and packed into the corridor. No matter how far he reached, there seemed to be no end to the things.

He pulled his hand out, shaking his head. “No way through.”

Albrecht pointed silently to his hand, the one that Hans had just pulled out of the pile of dolls. Hans looked down.

There was a thin scrap of red fabric twined around his fingers. That wasn’t a surprise, he’d clutched at a lot of the things as he searched for an end to the dolls.

The scattering of white across his palms though. Those were teeth, and they looked humanoid. Half a dozen of them, child-sized and a handful of stumpy cream cylinders that were possibly finger bones.

Hans snatched his hand away, watching them float slowly down the corridor.

Silence for an eternal moment, as the brothers stared each other down.

Albrecht blinked first. “Did your map give an alternate route?”

Hans nodded. There were a couple of corridors they could take, but it would be a complicated route to traverse with many junctions to traverse. He didn’t fancy getting lost. On the other hand, they’d just passed a stairway that would lead them up to the nav-deck and captain’s area. He explained this to Albrecht who sighed and nodded.

“We were going to look for the logs anyway. Lead on then.”

Albrecht followed as Hans showed him back towards their entrance point. He frowned as Hans pointed out the map, but didn’t argue, and together they located the service ladder that would take them up to the control decks. It was simple to follow the ladders up, only pausing to open hatches between the levels. The first time, Hans found the metal hatch shut and unmovable, and he panicked and feared it had been bolted shut, or worse was being held down by more of the dolls. It was a false alarm though, as no more had Hans than wished that the hatch was clear and open, then there was a pop and the thing burst open. Some tenacious rust giving away he decided as he floated through. Must have been.

They made it onto the control deck though. It was a vast thing, more empty space than panels and terminals, all dark red and grey. Hans didn’t spend much time looking at the regular contents of the room though, there were far more interesting things to consider. Like the giant pile of gold and gems spilling over one of the desks and burying the skeleton slumped in the seat. Or the massive dinosaur skeleton that was scattered across the floor. And of course, more of those dolls, hovering aimlessly in the ether.

His brother tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned around to look at the wall behind them. There was a cosmonaut’s suit resting at its base, the helmet glass cracked and distorting the image of the empty-eyed skull within. Above it…

Hans didn’t know many languages, but he could guess that each message read the same as the one he could. Two words, blood red and edged with scratches.

Don’t Wish.

“Wish I knew what that meant,” It took a moment to recognise his wording, his glove slapping over his visor above his mouth. “I didn’t mean it.”

Albrecht gave him a weary look as there was a pop and a red leather-bound book appeared between them. Hans jumped backwards, clattering against the wall as Albrecht went spinning into one the terminals clutching it viciously. Both of them stared down the book.

Hans broke the stalemate, activating his coms with a hiss of static. “I did the doll room. This is your turn.”

He could imagine Albrecht’s sigh as his brother hesitantly floated over to the book. When it did nothing after a gentle prodding, he cautiously picked it up and started thumbing through it with bulky gloved hands. Hans waited as Albrecht skimmed through it with a look of deep concentration.

Eventually he looked up again, understanding in his eyes. “It says the ship stumbled into an area of latent potential creation so that anything they wished for would manifest. Most of them couldn’t control their desires and were destroyed by their greed.

“We could use this. We could get rich on this. This is it, Hans! Anything we can think of, ours!”

“Anything?” Hans asked quietly.

Albrecht’s eyes flashed as his hands filled with nuggets of dark gold and the glistening white of flawlessly cut diamonds. They spilt out between his fingers, floating into the room. His brother grinned. “Anything. Just be certain about what you’re after. Don’t get distracted. That’s what happened to them.”

Hans nodded, absentmindedly catching one of the gems his brother had created in his hand. It really was perfect, no sign of any defects and, being as long his thumb and almost as wide, worth a small fortune on any planet. With a small bag of those, they’d be rolling in credits, even after paying off their debts.

Across the room, Albrecht was still creating whatever crossed his mind – rare books, wines, silks – and Hans watched as his brother's imagination crafted them a small fortune. He wasn’t looking forward to carting it all back to the ship, but he also supposed he should probably try out a couple of wishes himself. It was just a case of what to wish for. Albrecht seemed to have all the money-making things covered, and he didn’t want anything too bulky or hard to manoeuvre through the ship.

Would it be possible to create something alive Hans wondered? The Jaunty Clipper had had a vermin problem for a while, and it tended to get lonely out in space for months on end, with only his brother for company. He knew it didn’t need to be like that either, just the two of them – he remembered the days when they were kids, out on their mother’s tug as she rescued the scuppered ships. Those trips took weeks, and she was always busy, but there was always a warm bundle of fur to curl up with. They’d left the Sol system far behind them though, far enough that a proper Earth-cat had been out of the question for years. And none of the alien versions now available to them had ever really felt the same.

But now…

Hans fixed his mind on the idea of his new cat. Large and fluffy, like a Maine Coon. Dark grey fur, with golden eyes. A hunter, a cuddler.

And he wishes.

There was a pop, and the cat appeared.

And went limp.

He realised his mistake as Albrecht looked up, frustration flashing across his face. “You could wish for anything, and you wish for a cat. And you even forget there’s no atmosphere,” Albrecht sighed. “It’s a good thing I’ve got us both covered then. You can start getting this back to the ship for me then,” he gestured to the pile of goods he’d created. “It’s the least you could do.”

Hans stared his brother down as Albrecht ignored him and turned back to creating his gold. All he’d wanted was a companion. And he’d messed up and it’d died, and his brother hadn’t even cared. Screw his brother. Albrecht had never really cared for him, had always treated him like dead weight except for when he’s the packhorse. Screw him.

Hans decided that maybe he could still have his cat, only he was going to have one better adapted to space. He didn’t think too much about what that meant, but he knew that they’d be clever, and fast, and they’d survive. And he wishes they were real and he wishes his brother will regret spurning him.

A hundred eyes blink into existence.

His brother disappears under a pile of fur and tentacles.

The eyes look up at Hans, hunger unsatiated.

Hans starts running.

#the mechanisms #octokitten #my fic

[yukiwrites]

Khalid, Regreting

Thank you so much for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse​! This was so amusing to write, I hope you like it açlsdkmasd I used Kylee’s design and names for Khalid’s Mother and Father for this one!

Summary: Balthus has Claude keep the promise he had made during the war -- to bring him to Tiana so he could put his childhood crush to rest -- but what neither of them expected was for Balthus to get the hots for someone else, as well...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

______________________________

Even if the internal conflict within Fódlan was resolved and the unexpected war against Those Who Slither in the Dark was won, there was still much work to be done. Byleth had agreed on taking up the position of the new leader of the Unified Fódlan so as to help open its borders to all of its neighbors, starting with the one whose help was invaluable throughout all of the turmoil for the past six years: Almyra.

Now wiser and battle worn, Claude -- or rather, Khalid -- was ready to return home and assume his royal duties as the heir to the almyran throne. Alongside his Teach, they would both help strengthen the newfound alliance between the two estranged lands.

Khalid was looking forward to a brighter future, one that he and his allies would pave with the knowledge they had gained during the war. He was also eager to return home to see his family, with whom he had to basically cut ties with during his stay in Fódlan so as to protect his own background from anyone who would want to harm him.

What he was not looking forward to, however, was to fulfilling a rather one-sided promise Balthus had made him make; one that made him cringe and retch each time he even remembered its contents.

“Man, the ride to Almyra’s longer than I thought, but finally we’ll get to the capital today!” Balthus stretched his upper body on the horse besides Khalid’s, making the prince sigh wearily. “I feel like I’m back to bein’ kid, what the heck, my hands are even sweating.”

Khalid groaned. “Please just- don’t be weird about it, alright? I’m already having waking nightmares about all of this.”

“You mean ‘dream come true’, yeah? Now that I’m gettin’ closer, I can’t help but remember how smokin’ Lady Tiana was like back in the day-”

“Grah, please keep it to yourself!” Khalid covered his face with both hands in disgust. “You’re talking about someone else’s mother.”

Balthus barked a laugh, throwing his head back with mirth. “Hah, I’m just tellin’ the truth, kiddo. I’m not tryin’ to seduce her or anything, I just want-”

“-to cleanly end your childhood crush, yes, Balthus. Believe me, I keep telling myself this lest I go insane.” Khalid narrowed his eyes to his former classmate, wanting this nightmare to end already.

Balthus, however, simply crossed his arms behind his head with a large smirk as he looked up at the clean almyran weather that welcomed them into its lands. He had that ancient crush to resolve, yes, but he also considered making a permanent residence out of Almyra -- in part because all of his debt was abandoned in Fódlan so he could start over with a clean slate; in part because playing a role in the war during the past six years and having a purpose might not be so bad, after all. He would help lower the walls which, in turn, would keep his own Mother safe, as well.

It was a win-win, basically!

With such a mindset, Balthus was welcomed into the Royal Palace of Almyra, a castle gilded with gold and built to make the most of the warm winds and plenty of sunlight. He looked around in a daze, at least to calm down his beating heart for the upcoming reunion with his childhood crush.

Once they were guided to the throne room, Khalid was the one to open the door, being welcomed by the two most important figures of Almyra: King Arash the Generous and his Warrior Queen Sharzad the Fearsome, previously known as Tiana von Riegan.

The tall, rugged woman rose from her high seat wearing the soft expression of a mother, running towards her son to enlace him into a hug. Even after five years apart, Kahlid still hadn’t grown taller than her, whose gaze was just a few inches above his.

“Khalid, my boy,” Tiana brushed her hand on Khalid’s face, her wide smile crooking one of the scars she sported on her face, making her look even softer than before. “You turned into a man while we weren’t looking.”

Smiling as he momentarily forgot the 6’6’’ baggage he had brought with him, Khalid closed his eyes to receive his mother’s nose kiss, then softly took her hands in his as he lifted his head to place a kiss on her forehead.

Arash waited for his turn to hug his son, which he did with the overwhelming force of the strongest male warrior in Almyra, robbing the air from Khalid’s lungs. “You left home a boy, but returned a King,” Arash huffed once they separated, closing his eyes to receive Khalid’s nose kiss before Khalid took his father’s hands to kiss each of them in respect.

“Peace be with you and thank you for all the help with Nader and the borders,” Khalid whispered softly over Arash’s hands, his smile the most genuine anyone in Fódlan had ever seen -- proof that he was indeed home, in a safe place. “There’s still a lot of work to do, so don’t go on giving me throne yet; I still need you to teach me.”

Both King and Queen chuckled softly at their son’s words, patting his back with familiarity of a true kin.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, but I’m guessing you’d rather introduce us to your friend first...? He’s been staring at us quite intently since a while ago.” Tiana, without taking her hand from Khalid’s shoulder, gestured with her chin towards Balthus, who was awestruck behind Claude.

“Ugh,” Khalid groaned, his head drooping. “Mother, Father, this is Balthus from House Albrecht,” he gestured to the tall man, taking a set to the side so as to make way for the royals to see him. “He helped me out before the war broke out so I promised I’d bring him with me to meet, uh…”

Tilting their heads to the side, King and Queen shared a look. “What’s wrong, Son?” Tiana asked as Arash patted Khalid’s back questioningly.

Hiding his face with one hand, Khalid took a deep breath. “Can- can everyone else go away?” He huffed in one go, looking at the myriad of servants waiting for orders at all corners of the throne room. “All of you, out, please? I want our guest to be alone with the King and Queen.” He gestured for them to leave, urging for their steps to be fast.

Now both Tiana and Arash were frowning. What was that man’s importance anyway? Besides, Tiana vaguely remembered dealing with House Albrecht in the past, but it was in a life before she accepted the name Sharzad… Which was quite a long time ago, in all honesty.

Somehow breaking away from the stunned spell he had been under, Balthus blinked as he looked from the King to the Queen with wide eyes. “I really don’t know what to say now that I’m here, apart from: you’re so much better than I ever expected.” Balthus took Tiana’s hand to place a kiss on it, bowing his bear-like physique to her level.

“What a soft-tongued gentleman.” Tiana narrowed her eyes, carefully removing her hand from Balthus’. Unbothered, the tall man moved to the King, surprisingly taking his hand to kiss as well.

“You know, it’s been a while since I was this floored ‘bout a guy, but man, you both have such a good taste in people.” He said with a large smile as he returned Arash’s hand to himself, puffing his chest with some sort of pride.

Khalid covered his face with both hands in utter regret. “Please stop talking.”

“What? After coming all the way here? No way, pal.” Balthus didn’t even turn to reply to Claude, fixing his gaze on Tiana instead. “I don’t think you remember me -- I don’t look like a kid anymore anyway -- but we met when I was a brat back at the Albrecht House.”

“Really? I do see how you’d change from being a kid to growing up to this.” Tiana sneered, somehow glancing down at Balthus despite her shorter height.

That made the large man tremble in his skin. “Oh yes, that’s exactly what made me fall for you, ma’am. I came here to tell you I’ve had a crush on you since then.”

“Excuse me?” Arash and Tiana both exclaimed at the same time, looking from Balthus to the ashamed Claude behind him.

“Please, please stop talking, I can’t take this anymore.” Khalid didn’t know which to cover -- his eyes or his ears, both of which felt like they were bleeding from shame.

“I don’t usually go for guys, but hot damn, Your Majesty.” Balthus turned his gaze to Arash, who now was turning red from rage. “You both aged like fine wi-aguh!” Balthus groaned after being hit right in the solar plexus by Tiana’s famous lightning fast arm.

“What the hell was this about?” Tiana waved her aching hand as the large man crumpled on the ground, unconscious.

“Worth it.” Balthus gave Claude a thumbs up before fainting.

He woke up a few minutes later inside the guest room he was going to occupy during his stay in Almyra -- which, if it depended on the Royal Family, would be as short as possible. Unfortunately, Claude had just told the servants who had carried Balthus there to bring water, so he was alone in there.

“Man, you never told me how much of a looker your dad was,” were the first words out of Balthus’ stupid smirk.

Flinching, Khalid covered his ears. “This was a mistake, a terrible mistake, a mistake.”

“Hey, you think they’re looking for a third ‘dance partner’? It’s been a while since I did one of those, but it’d be worth it with those two, hah!” Balthus guffawed as Khalid retched close to the door.

“My Mother went to pick up her weapon and I’m not stopping her. Pray to whatever gods you worship ‘cause she’s furious you talked to my Father like that.”

“Fuck yes? Getting’ right down to action,” Balthus jumped out of the bed, stretching his arms. “This is rekindling my old crush all over again, Claude. I might stay here for a while.”

Throwing his head back with the longest groan he had ever let out, Khalid reached for the door. “I’m serious; I’m not stopping her. Fight for your life or whatever, but don’t speak about this anymore, alright? Ugh, I should never have done this…” He grumbled before disappearing out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

Excited, Balthus looked for his weapon to fight the most exciting battle for this life and old love. He might stay in Almyra for a long, looong time, if all the people were just as good-looking as their rulers.

#khalid fire emblem #claude fire emblem #balthus fire emblem #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #my writings #spoilers for verdant wind but yall know the drill already #yuki's commissions

[dyavania]

Hector x Reader — No Touching — Eight: Interruption

One — Two — Three — Four — Five — Six — Seven

Warnings for implied non-con. It gets pretty heavy in this chapter so I recommend against reading it if that is a problem for you.

As it turned out, Hector’s outburst with Albrecht earned you a lot of freedom. It also earned you a lot of dark looks, sneers, and salacious jokes about your, ahem, promiscuity with him, all behind your back, but you could handle these, especially if they meant you were generally left alone. You still weren’t going to take a risk, so you didn’t taunt the mercenaries and did your chores before joining Hector at the forge.

The moments you spent with him were by far the most pleasant part of your day. It wasn’t like much changed — Hector didn’t suddenly become talkative, and you remained sitting in your spot by the window, the blanket always waiting for you when you arrived.

Still, things weren’t quite the same. Hector listened to you complain, and though he didn’t say much, you caught glimpses of him smiling when he was focused on his work. You weren’t sure he knew you could see them, or that he even knew he was smiling, but you loved that. You loved that you could make him smile, and you liked to imagine that, perhaps, he forgot about his situation for a moment.

He let things slip out about that, on a few occasions. He never gave you a detailed explanation, and you didn’t fault him for that, but there were things he said sometimes that sent a shiver down your spine. Like that one time when you explained Albrecht’s reaction.

“He feared I was trying escape, I suppose.”

“Right.” A joyless, disgusted laugh fell from Hector’s lips. The sound was unpleasant, grating. “I didn’t think of that. Probably because I can’t escape. No matter what.”

You could have insisted then, probably, but the atmosphere in the room had turned into something so dark that you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. So you dropped it.

Then there was the time you mentioned the way you’d grown up.

“They say it takes a village to raise a child,” you’d laughed, “but I guess it works for a crew as well. A large, untraditional, non blood-related family. But it was my family, and I think they did fine.”

You didn’t know what had happened to them, after you’d been attacked by pirates. You liked to think that they were still out there, sailing the seas. Sometimes, when you were feeling down, you even told yourself they were looking for you, that the captain could burst through the door at any second to save you.

The truth was likely a lot uglier than that, but you tried not to dwell on it. Still, there was a hint of sadness in your voice as you talked about them. Hector missed it.

“Traditional, blood-related families can do quite a terrible job,” he commented. His voice was quivering with anger in only the slightest of ways, but you still noticed it. “Perhaps it is for the best you didn’t have to deal with that.”

You didn’t add anything to that. You did consider yourself mostly lucky for how your life had unfolded. There were things you wished had been different, but how you were raised, the people you had grown up with, definitely weren’t part of it. Clearly, that wasn’t his case.

Hector liked to hear you talk about that, though, and you certainly didn’t mind telling your stories about that. Seeing a world in which children could evolve without being called monsters, could be loved… He needed that. Needed to believe that could exist. You childhood hadn’t been strictly sunshine and rainbows, not by any stretch of the imagination, but you were happy to provide the examples you had.

You didn’t even notice you had stayed longer that day. Sure, Hector had put down his hammer, being done with his stock for the day, had prepared tea and was sitting next to the table, facing you, a reasonable distance between you, but you didn’t see the sun go down. You were busy talking about your captain, the larger than life woman that ruled the ship and somehow had a soft spot for children.

Hector punctuated your sentences with nods, smiles, and even the occasional chuckle.

Then, someone discreetly cleared their throat behind him, and the two of you jumped. He turned around quickly, but you were frozen on the spot, eyes already on the woman who was standing there.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her. Long red hair, porcelain skin, rosy cheeks… She looked just like a doll, save for the fangs that poked out of her mouth.

You bowed, deeply.

“What are you doing here, Lenore?” Hector asked, voice and body tense.

“I just wanted to talk to you, Hector,” she replied innocently, batting her eyelashes. “In private, if possible?”

She said it in a sweet, sugary tone, but you could recognize an order when you heard one.

“Of course, right this instant, Mistress Lenore,” you replied as fast as you could, pushing the blanket aside and getting out. You were almost at the door, heart beating so loudly you couldn’t think, when she called you again.

“Oh, and, human?”

You turned around. The look Hector gave you broke your heart. Everything about it was telling you not to leave him, telling you he needed help, that he needed saving. For less than a second, you felt the urge to take him by the hand and get him out of here, and then reality caught you back, and you didn’t move. You knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that Lenore would kill you if you disobeyed her. So instead, you swallowed, and you looked away.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“I would advise you do not try to take advantage of my kindness.”

The message was clear. She’d given you enough — given you Hector, and you hated that she even thought she could do that — and you would be wise not to try to take more.

You nodded politely.

“Understood, Mistress.”

You glanced at Hector one last time on your way out. His expression was desperate, and walking out on him at that very moment was probably one of the hardest thing you had ever done. But if you wanted to live, you had no choice.

As soon as you had walked out, Lenore shook her head, and turned back to look at Hector.

“I’m sure you’re well-behaved, but Hector, I still have to ask… You haven’t disrespected my orders, have you?”

He didn’t reply immediately, and Lenore put her hand on his, which was laying on the table. The contact almost had him shivering, and he couldn’t help it when his fingers closed around hers. He needed someone to touch him, and he hated, hated that she was the only one who could and would give it to him. Hated that he wanted it so bad that he had no choice but to accept it.

“…No. I haven’t.”

“Good boy,” Lenore smiled, and the words had his stomach twirling with disgust. “It would be a shame if you did. Then I would have no choice but to take action. Against you, and against her, of course.”

He closed his eyes. Lenore took a step towards him and cupped his cheek.

“You understand that, don’t you Hector?”

No. No, he didn’t.

“Yes.”

“Good boy,” Lenore praised him again. “I wanted to let you know that I was leaving for a few days, perhaps a few weeks. There are some issues I need to discuss with the ruler a neighboring castle. I’ll be taking some of your creatures with me.”

He nodded, and didn’t say a word. He felt hollow, empty. The beginning of the conversation, her casual way of asserting her power over him, that had drowned him completely, and he just didn’t have it in himself to fight her anymore.

“Will you miss me?” she asked, pouting, and he knew she was doing it to get a rise out of him. He clenched his fist.

“What answer do you want to hear?” he asked.

“I will miss you,” she replied, and it was a lie, of course it was a lie, but he wanted to believe it so bad. “So how about we make some— interesting memories, before I go?”

His stomach churned. There was no use in trying to refuse it, so he just nodded one more time. He couldn’t accept it out loud.

“Ah, am I glad I invested in that bed,” Lenore chuckled, taking his arm and guiding him towards the bedroom, and Hector looked over his shoulder one last time, wishing against all hopes that you would be here to take him away, to save him like you had seemed to do ever since you’d first walked through that door. But of course, you weren’t there. You couldn’t be.

The door clicked as it closed behind him and Lenore and Hector knew it was best to abandon all hope.

He was all on his own.

#hector #hector x reader #hector castlevania #castlevania #castlevania netflix #my writing #no touching #tw: non-con

[kingofthereapers]

(A few years before....)

It almost didn't matter what year you were looking at, Lula and Travis could be found in the same predicaments year after year almost as long as they'd known each other. This particular occasion had the two lovers entwined for hours, just repeating those mind blowing waves of pleasure that they could only achieve with each other. A lull had them panting and laying in his bed with sheets and blankets strewn about the room, right along with the clothing they'd gone into this session with. Travis' body ached in all the best ways as he looked up at the ceiling trying to catch his breath. He seemed to stay like that for a while until there was a small buzz of his cell phone coming from wherever it had landed in the throws of passion. With a grunt, he shifted to an upright position and reached down to where he heard the phone initially rumbling against the floorboards. One of his grasps connected and he lifted the cell phone to see just who was messaging him on a weeknight just after 8pm. The message was from Bethany Albrecht. That kind of message might have been strange in the past, but over the last few weeks he’d found himself in a position he’d never been in before, at least not with the wife of a best friend. He was running around with Bethany behind Lincoln’s back and no one had found out yet. 

Beth: Travis, I need to talk to you NOW......get over here.

The message wasn't the type that he usually took kindly to, or even bothered responding to, but having been in her bed over the last few weeks made him take to her a bit more than he'd used to. Without responding, the dark haired man stood up from the bed and began to silently shuffle around the room to find some clothes to put on. Didn't really matter that he smelled like sex, or that he needed something to eat at that point. Nothing too much mattered but taking care of business. By the time he'd gotten fully dressed he could feel Lula's wandering eyes on him now that she'd also recovered from their romp. "I'll be back." That was all he said to her with a passing glance, before he took the steps two at a time down the rickety stairs to the first floor of his much too large house. Travis paused for a moment to give his dog Poe a pat or two on the head, and then he  went right out the front door. Moments after the front door slammed shut the rumble of his Harley could be heard and then it faded away into the distance until he'd arrived at the Albrecht home across town. 

Travis sauntered up to the front door and knocked twice with his knuckles against the well built door before it was yanked open by Bethany. The woman looked panicked to say the least as she ushered the towering man into her home. The height difference between the two was rather comical. Sure, Travis was tall, but on the other end of the spectrum Bethany was quite petite at 5 foot 1. The small woman had grown more shapely over the years that Travis had known her, especially after becoming a mother some months before. Even during the awkward phases they’d had growing up, she was one of those that just always was naturally so beautiful and there was a peace about her that only came with wisdom. Getting caught up with Travis was one of her worst mistakes though. She looked up at him for a few moments with wide blue eyes before she tucked her brown tresses behind her ears and took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant." She whispered to which one of Travis' eyebrows rose slightly. There was always a chance it could be Lincoln's kid after all, I mean after all these years Travis didn't have any kids of his own running around town and he wouldn't have been able to tell you how many loads he'd blown straight into countless women over the years. Being sterile would have been a gift to the world if it had been true. What he didn't know was all the abortions that happened on his account. 

"The fuck does that have to do with me?" Travis asked, stepping further into the house and taking a seat in the nearest recliner as he watched Bethany pace about the floor in front of him. Bethany boldly scoffed at him and rolled her eyes as she glared at him with eyes brimming with tears. "It could be yours you idiot!" She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest for a few beats and then taking a deep breath. "Well, go get it taken care of then." He muttered simply as if that were the obvious option. She seemed to feel physical pain from his words as her hands went to her still flat belly. “I can’t do that…” Her voice grew very soft as both her hands were touching at her stomach that harbored the child that would have been his if she’d gotten to carry it to term. “I have standards, Travis.” She added, those all too caring blue eyes raising from looking down at her stomach. It was now his turn to scoff and roll his eyes. “I don’t want kids.” He said simply, not an ounce of regret or uncertainty in his deep voice. “Well, it’s not just your choice.” She said, going to move past him in the recliner while muttering to herself. “I should have waited on the DNA test before I brought you into this.” He grabbed her arm roughly as she passed him, yanking her back. A cry came from her mouth as she reached for his hand with her other hand to try and loosen his grasp on her thin arm. “Ouch, you’re hurting me, Travis!” She growled at him as she scrambled to try to get out of his grip. 

“I’m gonna call Link.” She said softly, still pulling desperately to get away. “I can’t keep this from him anymore.” That was the second mistake she’d made that night, and it would likely be her last by the look in Travis’ icy blue  hues. None of her clawing even phased him, so his grip didn’t loosen as he stood up and pulled her with him into the kitchen area. By now she was sobbing and trying to make herself as much dead weight as possible on the floor to slow his path to the kitchen, but she was only drawing out the process. Pulling her along flailing behind him was like working with a child throwing a tantrum. It was difficult, but not nearly close to impossible. Finally Travis threw her against the lower cabinets in the kitchen and she whimpered, looking up at him with teary eyes, arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. “Please, don’t do this.” She begged, trying her best to crawl away to where she’d left her cell phone in the other room. Maybe she could call for help before he did his worst. He was much too quick for that though.

One of his large leather boots came to rest on her thigh as she struggled to get away, all the while Travis was glancing around to find the knife block. When he didn’t find one right away he began to pull open the drawers roughly. One of the drawers came off its track and ended up tumbling to the floor, spraying silverware all over the tile. Bethany screamed at the commotion and in another part of the house the cry of a baby could be heard after Beth’s outburst. “Oh my God, please, Travis. I’ll do whatever you want.” She pleaded, tears streaming down her face by now while she still struggled against him. Finally through his searching, the heavily tattooed man found a large butcher's knife that he held up, to Bethany’s horror. His eyes never showed any sort of regret or pity for the woman he was about to torture. Carefully Travis ended up on top of her after a decent amount of struggle as he held the knife backwards in his grip so the blade faced away from his victim and he only had one hand to subdue her with. She’d gotten a few good swipes in and he had a few little trails of blood from his arms and along his chest from her fingernails, but it didn’t stop him. 

Once he’d pinned her legs down and he was sitting on her hips with one of her hands pinned down at her side with his thigh and her other hand back in his grasp again, the burly man flipped the blade in his grasp so it was facing her now. In a second struggle he ended up with his knee on her front, just above her crotch and the foot of his other leg holding her hand pinned to the floor so he was in a kneeling position looming over her. “Calm the fuck down.” He grumbled to which she struggled against him some more to no avail. She tried kicking him with her free legs but it did little to the sturdy man, and it brought her pain from the pressure he was putting on her pelvis to begin with. It  seemed like the struggle was a build up to all of this, but Travis skipped the most intense part of it all. He plunged the blade into her stomach, just above where his knee was holding her, where her child was growing. She screamed out in pain, struggling some more as he pulled away the blood stained blade. “Too bad I didn’t go to medical school.” He muttered with a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he looked down at the blood pooling from the gaping wound in her low stomach. “I could do this whole procedure for you, and you might just survive it.” He continued talking, although she’d passed out from the shock of things and he went to town a little bit more since she wasn’t fighting or screaming anymore. Travis ended up opening up that wound some more and beginning the process of pulling out anything he could reach and easily remove. 

The majority of what he’d emptied from the lower cavity of her body were her intestines, but in the bloody mess of things he found a pear shaped mass that wasn’t at all like the intestines he’d been pulling out. Without a second thought, he cut all the ties to anything holding her uterus in her body and he dropped it on the kitchen floor to add to the gore. What a fitting way for his own child to die; by the hands of his father. Once that was done he slowly got up, set the knife in the kitchen sink and wiped his bloody hands on his jeans. His eyes trailed around the bloody mess that was the kitchen now and Travis turned to the sink where he took the time to clean the knife he’d just used to start the disembowelment process. There wasn’t a sign of any blood on the knife once he’d finished and he used a nearby kitchen towel to hold the blade while he washed the handle thoroughly before tossing the knife on the floor in a bold display of his thoughts about the police in this town. Bethany was still just barely alive, but if she didn’t get immediate medical attention there was no chance for her. He looked down at her for a few moments, wondering if he should call or not and instead he decided to head back home. The roar of his Harley could be heard leaving the Albrecht home and pulling up in front of his house again. The weeds, overgrown trees and bushes loomed around the house in the darkness, but they were familiar shadows to Travis, so he didn’t blink twice as he walked to the front door. 

The door creaked open and slammed shut much like it had when he’d left. He didn’t head for the stairs though, instead he went into the kitchen and opened the fridge to grab a beer. With blood splattered on his clothes, face and mostly still covering his hands Travis proceeded to drink down the cool, refreshing beverage right there in front of the light of the fridge. Overhead he could hear the floor creaking, giving away the fact that Lula was on her way down the stairs to investigate. It had been not even an hour since he’d left and he looked a little bit different. Sure, Travis had always been a little bit off and very few people felt comfortable being alone with him, but they had no good reason to think they wouldn’t be safe. Now things would change though. This was the first time he’d gone far enough to end a life, let alone that of his closest friend’s wife. It took a lot to shake up the man standing in front of the fridge, but as the adrenaline began to wear off he noticed his hand was trembling and he felt rather hollow. This was just the beginning of his downfall though. Travis’ darkness was clawing its way out of where it had hidden for all of his life. People had seen it deep down there at times, but now it wanted to come out to play. 

#Travis Davies #The Beginning of Darkness #The Reapers

[multishipperlove]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Caleb Widogast, Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Astrid (Critical Role), Eodwulf (Critical Role), Leofric Ermendrud, Caleb Widogast's Mother, Trent Ikithon Additional Tags: Child Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Coming of Age, blumenthal trio, the blumenthal three, if you squint it's poly trio but can be read either way, so I'm not sure if I should tag that, also I'm taking a lot of leeway here guys, Soltryce Academy, graphic description of the crystal torture Summary:

Bren Aldric Ermendrud had been groomed for success from a very young age. From the first time his parents send him to school to his last day with Trent Ikithon, expectations were high.

Bren was four.

He was four, and for a four-year-old, he already knew a lot. He could tell people his age, and his name, and where he lived. He knew all the letters, both in reading and writing, and could even count up to over one hundred. What he was especially proud of was the few words of Common he could speak, because his father always said that Common was the language of the Empire and it would do him more good than his mother tongue, Zemnian, one day.

More than anything though, Bren knew that his parents loved him. He saw it in the way his father smiled at him, when he usually smiled so little. In the way his mother tucked him in at night, and still insisted on reading him a bed story every night even though he could technically do that himself by now. He knew that they loved him because they said so, often, and that was already more than enough.

Sometimes though, when he wasn't in the room with them, he could hear them arguing with each other. It wasn't like a real fight, they weren't yelling, but still. Bren didn't like it.

Right now it was especially bad, because their voices had woken him up. But he was supposed to be asleep, which meant he couldn't go into the other room and make them stop. And they were slowly getting louder, loud enough that Bren could understand what they were saying, even though it was still muffled through the wall.

He could pick up his father's voice first, and he sounded agitated.

“I know you are worried, but I only want the best for him! We can barely keep him entertained in the house, do you want all that potential to go to waste?”

“No, of course not.” That worried voice belonged to his mother. “But he's four! Every other child in the class will be at least two years older than him, what if they are... what if they are mean to him?”

Bren knew what this was about now. Lately, his parents had been thinking about signing him up for school this summer. He wasn't exactly sure why that would be so much of a deal, and would have liked to go if they had asked him, but he didn't want to scare his mother.

She was already so worried about his father all the time, that he would be “called to the front again”. Bren wasn't sure what that meant, mostly because people refused to explain it to him, but it surely wasn't a good thing. It had something to do with his job and the bad limp he'd had ever since Bren could remember, but that was all he knew for sure.

Suddenly realizing that he'd lost track of the conversation in the other room, the boy concentrated on that again. His mother again.

“Where will we even get the money, Leofric?”

There was a short pause, and Bren was sure that his father sighed. He did that a lot.

“We could get most of that second hand. What about your friend, Sofine? Doesn't she have a son who's a few years older? I'm sure she still has some of the things that the boy has grown out of, and they would fit Bren just fine.”

“I could ask,” his mother agreed, carefully. “But even then, there's still the school fees to worry about.”

“We can take care of that. It's just the public school down the road, how much can they take?” his father answered again, and he sounded tired. Either the conversation was over after that, or Bren just couldn't hear them anymore. But discussions about money were always difficult, since they didn't have a lot of it. It was the reason his mother mended his clothes over and over instead of buying new things, and why he could never get a treat from one of the nice market booths when she took him along for running errands.

Bren closed his eyes again and buried his face in Frumpkin's fur, letting the gentle purring sound that came from the small body calm him down again (technically Frumpkin wasn't supposed to get into his bed. Technically). He was excited, because school sounded so much better than re-reading all the “child-friendly” books he was allowed to keep in his room, or being dropped off at his mother's friend's house when she had an appointment where he couldn't come along.

But he didn't want to get his hopes up either.

*

Bren was ten.

He was ten, and had already changed school twice. From the small public school down the road to the one further into town, and now to a private one right in the centre of Blumenthal. It took him half an hour every morning to get there on foot, but it was worth it. So was the school uniform he had to wear everyday, and the heavier books he carried with him.

The new school also cost a lot of money, and the only thing keeping him from feeling too guilty was that, as long as he kept his grades up, there was an agreement for his parents to pay less. So he did what he could, kept his head down to avoid trouble with his classmates (always being the youngest in class wasn't easy), kept his grades up to avoid trouble with his teacher, and all in all just tried to draw as little negative attention to himself as he could.

Which was mainly the reason he'd almost suffered a heart attack when his teacher had handed him a letter to deliver to his parents the other week, with the strong instruction not to open it himself.

His father hadn't seemed angry though when reading it, just send him off to his room to do his homework. A week later he still wasn't sure what exactly the letter said, but now he was sitting in the headmaster's office with his parents with the vague answer of “it's about your education”. He really hated it when adults refused to tell him things.

Finally, the door to the office opened and the headmaster, Mr. Albrecht, stepped inside to join them. He gave the family a pleasant smile and both his parents got up to shake hands with the man. Bren wasn't offered the same, but hadn't expected it either.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ermendrud, Bren, so glad that all of you could make it,” the man started, before sitting down in the big chair behind the desk and shuffling some papers in front of him. They sat in silence for a moment while he studied what looked to be a file in front of him (Bren was sure that it was about him), and then looked up again. “Bren, how long have you been with us now?”

The question left Bren with a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he answered quickly. “Eight months and twenty six days, sir.”

Mr. Albrecht nodded, and Bren started to squirm in his seat again until his father's piercing gaze made him stop. “Exactly,” the man started, before focusing from Bren back on his parents. “And I have to admit, in that short time, Bren has already exceeded some of our expectations. When his old teacher contacted us with the plea of taking him in, we thought the woman was exaggerating his abilities. She was definitely not.”

Bren glowed with pride at those words. He knew he'd been doing well, but hearing it like this was something else. Sneaking a look at his parents he could see they seemed pleased as well, but his father also looked... worried?

“We are certainly happy to hear that,” he said, reaching out to lay one arm around Bren's shoulders. “But... what does that mean for him?”

“Well, not much, for now,” Mr. Albrecht answered. “We will continue to teach him, under the same conditions that have applied before. I'm sure that will be in everyone's interest for now. Right, Bren?”

Not sure if he was actually supposed to say anything to that, the boy nodded. When the teacher's eyes stayed on him, he quickly added: “I like it here. It's... nice. I'm learning a lot.”

“Your Common could certainly use some work considering your skill level in other classes, but we will get there,” the man chuckled, and even though Bren knew it had been meant in a not too serious way, the sound made him uncomfortable. Also, he could read and write in Common just fine, it was the speaking part that caused him trouble. He just couldn't make the words come out right, no matter how hard he tried at times, and even though he wasn't the only one in class with a heavy accent, he was the only one constantly being reprimanded for it. Definitely not one of his favorite subjects.

He turned his eyes to the ground, and Mr. Albrecht went back to his parents again. “Nevertheless, back to the topic at hand. I think it is obvious that Bren has the potential of a very bright future ahead of him, but if you want what's best for your son, you need to start making decisions now.”

“Decisions?” his father asked, still holding Bren close. “But he is only ten, what kind of decisions could be expected at that age?”

“Well, with the abilities he's showing already, he could one day be one of the greatest assets of the Empire,” the man told his father, and by now Bren didn't feel like he was part of the conversation anymore. “As a man of the military yourself, I'm sure you have an interest in not only helping your country, but also in seeing your son succeed in bringing this great nation forward.”

His father's expression turned pained for a moment. “Please, I am just a lowly scribe at this point, but-”

“Don't sell yourself short,” he was interrupted again. “I know about your commitment to the Empire, I know what it cost you. But again, let's get back on topic. Your son.”

“Right, right.” His father turned to look at Bren, then at his mother, who gave a brief nod. “Whatever you have in mind for the boy, we would greatly appreciate any help in furthering his education. He's a bright kid, and we- well, we cannot quite keep up. But we do want what's best for him.”

“Bright, definitely. Gifted, even,” Mr. Albrecht agreed. “Which is why I have a suggestion for you. I'm sure you know of the Soltryce Academy?”

There was another moment of silence, where his parents just stared at the man in front of them. Bren could barely keep himself from asking what they were talking about, knowing that they probably wouldn't appreciate his interruption.

“In Rexxentrum?” his mother finally asked. “Of course. Are you- are you suggesting that we send him there?”

“Not now, of course,” the headmaster told her, his tone reassuring. “But we can start working towards it. He certainly has the right mind for it, and I am certain that, under the right care and tutelage, your son would thrive.”

So whatever it was, the Academy seemed like a big deal. Bren did know about Rexxentrum though, they had covered the capital of the Empire in different subjects already. He'd never even left Blumenthal until now, going to another city so far away, and apparently by himself? It sounded scary.

His father was wringing his hands now, nervously looking between everyone else in the room. “That's- quite a ways away. And even if we had a few years to start saving up money, even with a deal like the one you have offered us, I don't think we would be able to do it.”

“Let me worry about the money, I'm sure I can call in a favor or two,” the headmaster offered with a smile. And Bren wasn't sure if he liked the look on the man's face. It wasn't a nice smile, he couldn't tell what it was at all. “All you have to do is make sure to keep your son in line, and make sure he keeps up with his studies. I will try and get more private lessons for him, since he is still ahead of the other students in his class.”

His parents nodded again, still exchanging glances with each other, but Mr. Albrecht was still talking. “And there are two others students I have my eye on, who, with a bit of luck, might get the same opportunity. He will share his lessons with them, and I will make sure to get them all acquainted with each other. And if everyone puts in a bit of work, we will see where it leads us.”

“All of that sounds quite amazing,” his mother replied quietly. “Almost too good to be true.”

“No worries Mrs. Ermendrud, the Empire takes care of their own,” she was assured. “And with your son's potential, it would be a shame to not at least try.”

*

Bren was fifteen.

He was fifteen, it was a week before he, Astrid, and Eodwulf were supposed to leave for Rexxentrum, and he had just made a terrible mistake. Or rather more than one mistake, the entire night had been one mistake after the other if he was being honest.

A few hours ago Astrid and Wulf had shown up in front of his window with a mischievous smile and a bottle of ale each, asking him to join them in celebrating their acceptance to the Soltryce Academy. Their letters had already arrived weeks ago, but the closer they got to leaving, the more excited all of them became.

Bren hadn't even hesitated in climbing out and going with them. His parents would notice at some point, but he was sure they would understand. After all, he'd never caused any serious trouble before, never had the opportunity with the workload the school had been putting on him and the other two, so what better time time to enjoy himself a bit but now?

But really, he should have expected something to go wrong. And now, sitting in a holding cell as he slowly sobered up again, waiting for someone to pick him up, Bren really wished he could turn back time, just a little bit, and avoid this whole mess.

It was still dark outside, but he knew it was early morning when he heard keys turn in a lock down the hallway and two sets of footsteps approaching. Some kind of flickering light came closer, and finally two people stepped in front of his cell. First, the guard who had picked him up that night, holding a torch. And second was his father, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable look on his face. One thing was for sure though, he did not look happy.

For the first time in his life, Bren felt something akin to fear as he looked at the man.

“You got lucky, son,” the guard called out, as he moved to unlock the door. “If it wasn't for yer father busting you out, you'd be sitting here a bit longer.” The man seemed awfully cheery for their situation, but maybe this was the only part of his job he actually enjoyed. Delivering delinquent teenagers to their displeased parents.

Bren didn't move. “Dad, I-”

“Not now. Let's get you home,” his father interrupted, his voice unusually cold.

Bren held his father's gaze for a moment longer before finally getting up with a shaky exhale, and walking out. The man just nodded and gestured for the guard to lead the way out again. There was no hug, no pat on the shoulder, nothing. Hell, Bren had even preferred if he'd grabbed his arm, dragged him out by the ear, something. But they walked out in silence. Before leaving the building though, the guard held out his hand towards his father.

“Not a word about this. To anyone,” Leofric muttered, before dropping a small sack in the guard's hand that was clearly filled with coins. Now Bren knew why the guy was in such a good mood, at least.

With a last look at the man, who just gave him an unabashed grin, Bren quickly followed his father outside. The few attempts he made at conversation where still shot down though, and eventually he stopped trying. By the time they got home, the first sliver of light was visible at the horizon.

“Go to your room, Bren,” his father told him, locking the door behind them as always but not looking at him. Not once, since they had left the stockades. “Get some sleep. I need to talk to your mother, she was worried sick about you, and then I have to go to work. We will talk when I get back.”

The boy didn't have it in him to protest. He hadn't slept all night, his head was starting to hurt from the alcohol, and his father's behaviour was almost worse than any outcome he had expected. So he gave a brief nod and did as he'd been told.

Despite the rising sun and the noise of a city waking up outside, he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

A few hours after noon, Bren finally woke up again. He still felt rather terrible, and not only because of the hangover he had, but at least the guilt got him moving. Sitting on the edge of his bed he spotted Frumpkin for the first time.

The cat was curled up on his desk, eyes open and the tail swishing from side to side as he gave him a look that could only be described as reproachful. “Oh shut it,” he muttered. “I don't need your judgement as well.”

Nevertheless he scratched the cat between the ears as he finally got up, getting a gentle purr in response, and it was enough to get him out the door and into the kitchen. If Frumpkin couldn't stay mad at him for long, surely neither would his parents.

“Mother?” he asked quietly, as he carefully opened the door and stepped inside. The woman stopped what she was doing and looked up at him, a smile washing over her face as she did. Before he could react, she was already up and had her arms around him. He was still an inch shorter than her, and his mother wasted no time in tucking him against her chest and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You're awake. When I checked your room again last night and you were gone... I was so worried,” she whispered, and he could still hear it in the way her voice shook. Once more he berated himself for being this stupid. If nothing else, he could have at least left them a note. “And then Eodwulf and Astrid showed up in the middle of the night and-”

“Wait, they did?” he finally pulled away from her again, with a confused look. “What- did they tell you what happened?”

“Some of it,” she told him. She still had both arms on his shoulders, but also looked a lot more serious now. “I'm sure they didn't tell us everything, but at least they let us know where we could find you. Eodwulf looked so scared, I thought you got hurt at first.”

“No, no I'm fine. I promise, mom, I'm fine,” he assured her quickly, though he was sure she knew that already. “I'm just... surprised they came here. Did they go with father?”

“No, he send them straight home. Pelor knows it's enough if one of you gets in trouble,” she sighed. “And then he went to get you. He probably told you, but your father is going to... have words with you, when he gets home from work.”

“I know,” he mumbled, averting his eyes now and looking to the ground. He had an idea what she really meant with that phrasing, and for once in his life had to admit that he deserved it. “Or I expected as much. I'm so sorry, mother, I didn't mean to worry you. Either of you.”

She reached out, laying a gentle hand on his face but forcing him to look at her again. “Bren, this isn't just about scaring us. Do you understand what you could have lost tonight?”

At his lost expression she just shook her head and let go again, taking a step back. “Well, nevermind. I think it's better if you have this conversation with your father. For now, why don't you help me with preparing dinner?”

“I- yes, of course,” he replied quietly. He had so many questions now, but his mother seemed very set on not answering any, and he knew there was no sense in trying to change her mind. The two of them did fall into an easy rhythm though, and before long, dinner was done and he could hear his father's key in the door.

For an hour, they all seemed to pretend that nothing had happened. They ate together, his parents even managed some small talk about work, and afterwards his father helped with washing up. But as soon as that was done, there was a noticeable shift in the mood.

“Bren, would you go wait for me in your room please?” his father asked, a forced easiness in his voice. “I think we finally need to discuss what happened last night.”

So Bren went to his room again, sat down on his bed, and waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. And then he finally heard his father's footsteps approaching.

As the man stepped inside their eyes caught each other, and Bren quickly looked away in shame. He heard his father sigh, and a second later felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Son, look at me.”

Bren hesitated for another moment, but eventually lifted his head again.

“There we go. I don't like seeing you ashamed, doesn't suit you. But considering the circumstances we're in, at least you got a good reason to. Before we do this, tell me what happened.”

“Everything?”

“What do you think?”

Bren sighed, and had to remind himself once more to keep his father's gaze. “We... we just wanted to celebrate a bit, that's all.”

His father nodded and finally took a seat beside him on the bed, making it a lot easier for Bren to actually tell him the truth. Looming over him like he had been, it made him feel very small. “So you'd planned this for a while then?”

“No, not at all,” he told him. “They just showed up, and I thought what can go wrong? So I climbed out the window and joined them... they already had the ale, I'm not sure where they got it from, and we went to the old Schwarzwasser farm, knowing that no one would disturb us there.”

“Well that was obviously wrong, but continue.”

“Right. We, uh, got a little bit too drunk, I guess. And- and we started playing around with cantrips a bit, the one or two we can actually do.”

He could clearly see his father grit his teeth for a moment, before the man spoke up again. “You were playing around with magic, after your teacher has explicitly forbidden you from doing so? Several times even, if I recall correctly.”

“Well, I- I mean,” Bren was stumbling now, knowing very well there was no real way to talk himself out of this. During the last year, he and his friends had gotten access to actual spell books for the first time in their life. They'd only been allowed to copy spells, learn all the theoretical basics of magic casting, without any of the practical stuff. It had been interesting, but all three of them had quickly gotten the urge to try more.

“We did,” he finally answered with a sigh. “We knew we're not supposed to, but again, we didn't think anything could go wrong... it was just dancing lights at first, seeing who could send them out the furthest and things like that.”

“And then things started to go wrong?” his father asked.

“Pretty much. Wulf, he- I'm not sure what he was trying to do, but suddenly there was a loud noise, and some of the straw around us caught fire.” Bren stopped for a moment, as if he was realizing for the first time how much danger they'd actually been in. For drunken teenagers, they'd apparently gotten pretty lucky. “It wasn't really a big deal, we managed to put it out pretty quickly. But someone must have heard the noise and alerted the guards, because they came next.”

“And Astrid and Eodwulf were just faster than you?”

“Kind of. I told them to run ahead, and that I was going to catch up. I don't even remember what my plan was, probably something stupid, but before I could do anything they'd already caught me. And- well, that's what happened.”

His father nodded, staying quiet for a moment before he got up again and started pacing. “So let's see, breaking and entering, underage drinking, ignoring your teacher's warnings, and damage to property.” As he was talking, he was counting everything off on his fingers, and Bren gulped. “Do you want to add anything else to the list?”

“No.”

“That's what I thought.”

He stopped again, right in front of him, and motioned for him to get up. Ignoring the slight shaking in his knees, Bren did. Sure, he'd gone over his father's lap a few times, but that had been years ago. And this felt different.

But they weren't that far yet, his father kept talking. “Do you know what could have happened if I hadn't been able to pay off that guard? Do you have any idea what you put at risk last night?” he asked, his eyes growing more intense again. “You could have been charged for those things, Bren. They could have ended up on your record. Do you think the Soltryce Academy accepts students with anything less than a clean slate?”

And no, he hadn't thought about that. Not once had the thought that he could lose his scholarship, everything he'd worked for for the last five years, crossed his mind. The realisation hit him like a freight train, and all he could do was stare at his father with an open mouth.

“Yes, that's what I thought,” the man sighed, sounding deeply regretful of what came next. “I can't let you off the hook for this, Bren. You risked everything, it could have all gone down the drain, and you didn't even think about it. It's the last thing I expected from you, and I'm going to make sure you never forget again. Bend over your desk.”

Still too shell-shocked to do anything than what his father asked of him, Bren turned to his desk and leaned forward. As he rested his elbows on the steady surface, he could hear the sound of his father's belt being pulled through the loops. A moment later, a comforting hand came to rest on his back.

And then the sound of leather cutting through thin air.

*

Bren was sixteen.

He was sixteen, and just finishing up his first year at the Soltryce Academy. Their last exams were in less than a month, and after that he would return to Blumenthal for a two month break along with Astrid and Wulf.

They were all looking forward to it. But while Bren missed his parents now, he also knew that he would miss the Academy as soon as he was back home. Even with the stress they were under sometimes, he loved the school. It was so much better, so much more, than what any of his other schools had been able to offer him.

Right now he was sitting in the main library with his two friends, all three of them poring over century old tomes while the sun was beating down outside. They were still covering the basics of magic in their courses, and still not allowed to do much more than cantrips, but every time Bren felt that specific feeling of magic flowing through his fingertips it was like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time.

Bren was still completely engrossed in his book as, surprisingly, Astrid was the first to throw down her pen. With a loud sigh she stretched her arms over her head and leaned back in her chair.

“Alright guys, I'm done for today,” she muttered, though she wasn't packing up yet. “Anyone want to join me outside? I think we deserve a break.”

“You're done?” Wulf chuckled, at least looking up from his reading. He was twirling his pen around his fingers, something he often did to help himself concentrate. “We're not even halfway through the material that's actually relevant for next week.”

“Bren is, he can tell us anything we need to know during lunch,” Astrid joked, while gently nudging him with her elbow. “Hey, Bren, what time is it anyway?”

“Eleven forty,” he muttered as an answer, his eyes never leaving the page.

“See? So we got lunch in 20 minutes anyway, let's take a break until then,” she insisted again, starting to collect her things now. The old leather bag she always took with her around campus was already straining at the seams, and the extra notes she'd taken just this morning weren't helping with keeping everything together.

Wulf still seemed unsure on whether to follow her or not, but finally started to pack up as well. “If I fail this, I'm going to blame you,” he muttered, though his voice was too soft to be serious about it.

“Oh trust me, if we fail this, I'm gonna jump off one of the candles,” she huffed, before clapping Bren on the shoulder to get him moving as well. “Come on, nerd.”

“Don't say something like that!” Wulf protested, just as Bren looked up and realized that they were leaving. Scrambling to catch up he stuffed everything in his bag, as careful as he could, and quickly followed his now bickering friends out onto campus. As they stepped from the the stuffy, dust filled library out into the sunlight, all three seemed to take a breath of relief, and their studies seemed forgotten for a few minutes as they started making their way towards one of the gardens.

Wulf and Astrid were still talking shit beside him when Bren suddenly got the feeling of being watched. He ignored it at first, but whatever it was made the hair on the back of his neck stand up until he finally turned his head to look around. Right by the door of the library, where they had just left, he saw one of their teachers. Master Trent Ikithon.

Bren straightened his posture as he caught the man's gaze, as if on instinct, and then quickly turned around again. He hadn't told the other two, and wasn't sure if they had noticed anything themselves, but he definitely felt like Master Ikithon had been watching them for a while now. It made him nervous, not being able to tell whether that was a good or a bad thing, or what the man was looking for. Maybe they should have just stayed in the library until lunch.

But he was quickly ripped from his thoughts again when Astrid slugged him in the shoulder. “Hey, Bren, are you even listening?”

“Huh? Yeah, I mean, no... sorry. What were you saying?”

“Wulf wants to go sit by the pond, I think it's too warm. Let's sit by the willow, at least there's some shade there.”

“Uh, yeah. Willow sounds good,” he replied, giving Wulf an apologetic shrug as his friend glared at him over Astrid's shoulder. 'Sorry' he mouthed, just as Astrid grabbed both of them and dragged them over to one of her favorite spots.

As soon as the three of them sank down beneath the tree, all leaning against each other in a pile, he realised how exhausted he was. His friends didn't seem to be doing any better, and instead of going over his notes again as he'd been planning to do, he was content to doze off along with them.

For once there was nothing but peace and quiet, in the midday heat there wasn't even a single bird there to disturb them. It felt like forever until Astrid, who'd rested her head on his shoulder at some point while her legs rested in Wulf's lap, gently nudged his side again. “Hey, Bren?”

“Hmm?”

“What time is it?”

“Twelve sixteen.”

“Alright,” she mumbled, and then fell quiet again. After a second or two, she abruptly sat up. “Wait, what?! We're missing lunch!”

It took the boys a moment to catch on, but as soon as they realized what she was saying they all hurried to their feet, picked up their bags, and started running. Not that they were risking any serious trouble, but meal times at the Academy were strict enough that they didn't want to miss them, otherwise they would have to go into the city to still get something to eat. So missing lunch would, at the very least, be a waste of time and money.

They managed to get to the dining hall in time though, sweaty and a bit out of breath, but still able to sit down with everyone else and get their free meal. Trying to keep their laughter down they settled down at a table a bit further away from most of the other students, very aware that this must have been one of the more stupid reasons for being late to something. Still, better late to a meal than an actual lesson.

“Maybe we should plan in more time for a pre-lunch nap break tomorrow,” Wulf chuckled, as they had all finally calmed down a bit.

“Certainly not the worst way to end a study session,” Bren agreed with a smile, ignoring Astrid as she started to suggestively wiggle her eyebrows at them.

“Anything to get this dork out of the library for a few minutes a day,” she finally agreed, still sounding a bit too amused for Bren's taste. But before he could retaliate, he spotted another student coming their way.

He didn't recognize the girl, but she had an intense look on her face and was definitely headed for their table. She had to be at least a few grades above them, and despite the sweltering heat, was wearing the full uniform. Not even the sleeves of her coat were rolled up, which seemed weird in a room full of people who barely managed to keep their shirts on.

Bren nudged both of his friends and nodded in the girl's direction, causing them all to freeze up until she reached their table. She smiled, and came to a stop with her arms crossed behind her back.

“Astrid, Bren, Eodwulf?”

“Yes. Can we help you with anything?” Eodwulf asked, sounding honestly curious.

“Master Ikithon sends me. He would like to talk to the three of you, privately.”

So Bren hadn't imagined the whole thing. He felt a bit better now, knowing he'd been right, but that still didn't answer his question about this being a good thing or not.

“Right now?” Astrid asked, not aware of her friend's inner conflict.

“No, this evening. You're supposed to meet him in his office at eight o'clock prompt,” the girl answered. And this time she didn't wait for an answer, instead starting to walk off again immediately.

“Shit. Do you think we're in trouble?” Wulf asked, keeping his voice down now despite the fact that they were once more alone.

“I don't know, but I think Master Ikithon's been watching us for a while. Not sure what it means though,” Bren finally told them, his voice just a quiet.

Astrid gave him a confused look. “What do you mean 'watching us'? Why didn't you tell us sooner?”

Bren just shrugged and looked down on his plate, pushing his carrots around. “Wasn't sure if I'd imagined it, honestly.”

The other two didn't continue to press him, but the mood on their little table had shifted drastically. There was no more trace of their earlier joking around, instead all three quietly finished their meals and shared nervous looks with each other. Eight o'clock couldn't come fast enough.

They arrived at the office ten minutes early, just to be sure. And it wasn't like they would have been able to relax in their rooms anyway, even after their lessons and homework were done for the day. They had tried.

Wulf had been fidgeting more than usual since the “invitation”, barely able to keep still, while Bren had gone the complete opposite way and had barely said anything at all, sitting still as a statue through their last lessons. Astrid, just as nervous, had tried to keep the mood up, but soon realized it wasn't working. Eventually she'd given up and joined Bren in his silence.

Point eight, the door in front of them swung open by itself. It revealed a spacious room, every wall lined with bookshelves, a small laboratory set up in the corner, and right in the middle, a big desk. Trent Ikithon sat behind it, finishing up a last sentence with his feather before setting it down, looking up then to face them.

“Ah, you are all on time,” he greeted them, before getting up and beckoning their little group closer. Astrid was the first to step into the room, Bren and Wulf close behind as she walked up to the desk and sat down in one of the three chairs that had been placed there.

Astrid took the seat to the right, Wulf settled down to the left, and that left Bren right in the middle. He just hoped that his breathing alone wasn't enough to give away how tense he was.

“Now, I'm sure you are wondering why I called you in here. Did it come as a surprise to you?” the man asked, as they'd all finally sat down, and as he steepled his fingers in front of him. Bren wondered if it was mandatory for teachers to look absolutely terrifying as soon as they had you alone and up close.

“We- we certainly did not expect this, no,” he blurted out, when no one else seemed to answer either. “But we did notice your... attention on us, lately. Sir.”

Ikithon chuckled quietly and leaned back in his chair. “Perceptive, I like that. And it's true, I did keep an eye on the three of you for the last few weeks. With the talent your little group has displayed, since the moment you got here, it shouldn't be unexpected.”

He got up then, starting to pace behind his desk as he continued his speech. “I am not sure if you are aware, but all your teachers speak rather highly of you. You are moving through your lessons with a kind of ease that other students are not given, and while I'm sure that you still feel very much stressed with your workload, I assure you, others are doing worse.”

He stopped for a moment and gave them an amused little smile. “Most others in your year cannot afford to take a nap just before lunch, no matter how much they may want to.”

Bren's face heated up at those words, and he was sure his skin was about as red as his hair. He hadn't been aware they were being watched that closely.

“I'm very sorry, Sir. We never meant to give the impression that we were slacking off,” Astrid spoke up quietly, and while she wasn't blushing, Bren could tell she was as embarrassed as he was.

“Oh, not at all,” Ikithon assured her quickly. “What I am trying to say is, you are wasting your time at the moment. All three of you could be much further than doing measly cantrips right now, and that's why you are here. I'm going to make you an offer, one that isn't going to be easy. Quite the opposite, your life is going to become a lot harder if you accept it. Free time will most likely become a distant memory, but I promise you, it will be worth it.”

They all resisted the urge to look at each other again. “What kind of offer?” Bren finally asked.

“I will personally take over most of your tutoring,” he told them, still looming over them as he now rested his hands on the table and looked down at them. “To get you to an acceptable level you would need to loose some of your summer break, maybe return one or two weeks earlier than everyone else so we can work on a schedule that works with the rest of your studies. But I will not only make sure that you are able to learn in a pace that actually suits your abilities, you will be able to work closely with me on furthering, and pushing, our current understanding of magic. You will get access to areas of the Academy that most students are forbidden from ever entering.”

Bren felt that sinking pit in his stomach again. The one he'd felt when his headmaster, years ago, had first suggested the Soltryce Academy to him. The same feeling he'd had every time his father told him he was meant to for greater things. The feeling that meant he wasn't quite ready, but also knowing he would never be. That a plunge into cold water was sometimes the only thing that got you swimming.

“Bright minds like yours are exactly what the Empire needs these days,” Ikithon continued. “But I do not expect an answer right away. Take your exams, go home to your families. All I expect is a letter during the first two weeks of your break, so we can make sure everything can still be arranged should you agree. Any more questions?”

There was a long beat of silence, as it seemed the three teenagers dared to breath for the first time since the man had started talking. They all looked a bit insecure at the moment, Wulf visibly struggling to keep still, but finally shook their heads.

“Very well, consider yourselves dismissed then. Enjoy your evening,” they were told, just as the door opened again behind them.

*

Bren was seventeen.

He was seventeen, and after the last year and a half under Master Trent Ikithon's care, he was finally starting to understand his place in the world. His skill level had advanced remarkably, not only concerning spells but also certain interrogation techniques. Astrid and Wulf were doing just as well, and together, the three of them were looking at a future of bringing the Empire further than it had ever been, of revolutionizing it's understanding of what was possible within magical means.

It was everything Ikithon had promised them, and so much more. Three days a week they would leave the Academy, instead going to their Master's private estate to receive further tutelage there. And some of these days, the secrets they seeked to learn demanded sacrifice.

Today was one of them.

Bren had been called in for a solitary lesson, knowing very well that this was somewhat punishment for his lack of concentration during their last training mission. Though he already reprimanded himself for that thought. It wasn't supposed to be a punishment, he needed to get better and if this was what it took, so be it. Ikithon wanted his best, he couldn't question that.

Reaching the door to the basement he gave a rapid knock, and promptly heard it unlock beneath his fingers. Pushing it open and getting a first look at the room, he barely suppressed a groan. On a small table beside a chair were a few instruments laid out, amongst them a scalpel, some gauze, and the green crystals he was so familiar with by now.

Ikithon was there as well, greeting him with a warm smile as the door fell shut behind him. “On time as always. Take off your coat and sit down, we can begin any minute now.”

“Yes sir,” Bren replied, his voice still steady as he relaxed from the frigid pose he'd been holding with his arms crossed behind his back, to take off the red coat of his Academy uniform. He carefully folded it over and left it on the chest near the door, before striding over to sit down. Not wanting to waste any time he already rolled up his sleeves as well.

Ikithon stepped closer again, placing down a bottle of rubbing alcohol before preparing a cotton swab with it.

“Take a deep breath now, Bren. Concentrate,” he told him, his tone harder now than what the smile earlier had prepared him for. Bren closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and dug his fingernails into the arm of the chair, as the first cut was placed.

The first few times, Ikithon had made sure to tie their arms to the chair first. By now, they were expected to stay in position on their own. Handling rope only wasted time.

He couldn't see it, but even over the static noise in his ears he could hear one of the crystals being picked up. A moment later, the telltale feeling of his skin catching fire, electrified, the feeling that was usually so soothing to him, left him feeling in control, dialled up to a hundred.

He grit his teeth, but still groaned in pain as a second crystal was added. And another. And another, into the other arm this time. As they reached number five, Ikithon finally stepped away. Bren could feel the tears running down his cheeks, already finding the plain close to unbearable, but he wasn't granted much of a break.

“Open your eyes, son. Get up,” Ikithon told him, still demanding. “We are going to start with a few level one spells, see how you manage.”

So Bren opened his eyes, blinking a few times against the bright torch lights, and stumbled to his feet. He always felt like his view shifted with the crystals. Everything seemed sharper, brighter, almost pulsating. The trembling had given way to a dull thrum running throughout his body, leaving him so tense that even the gentle hand leading him into the middle of the room felt like a branding iron pressed deep into his skin.

They had never gone up to five before, he wasn't sure how long he would be able to take it. But he did his best to assume an upright posture, waiting of further instructions. As Master Ikithon had already told him, they went through some of the easier spells first.

Bren was able to go through them without much trouble. Disguise self, burning hands, silent image. Ikithon just needed to call them out, and he followed without even having to think about the actions he was performing.

But with every arcane word, every somatic component, the pain started to get worse. The crystals helped to preserve energy. If it wasn't for the pain, Bren would have been able to keep at it until night fall.

But as it was, his body started to scream for a break after less than ten minutes. He was heaving for breath, gritting his teeth again so his grunts of pain wouldn't disturb the spells.

“Please,” he whispered, not daring to look over at Master Ikithon but still asking for mercy. “I-it's too much, please.”

“Stop whining, Ermendrud,” was all he got in reply. “You're better than this, let your will override your body and show me that all this time I'm putting into you is actually worth something. Let's step it up a bit, show me... a phantom steed.”

Bren swallowed another cry of pain and assumed the proper position again. But as he raised his left arm for the right gesture, a pain so blinding shot through, from his fingertips right to his head, that all he could do was fall to his knees with a loud scream. “Please,” he started to beg, hiding his left arm under his body like a beaten dog while the other cradled his head, still nothing but white light behind his eyelids. “Please, take them out! Pelor, please, make it stop.”

“Pathetic,” he heard above him, just before he was forcefully turned on his back and Ikithon grabbed his arm. “I expected better from you, Bren.”

One after the other, the crystals were plucked out again. It left him sobbing on the floor, every stimulation still kicked into overdrive, and even as the other man retreated and he could hear the crystals clatter down on the table again, he stayed down.

“Well. That was a bit disappointing, but I guess we will have to work our way up again,” Ikithon sighed, and Bren could hear him start to clean up as he slowly started to quiet down again. “I will send someone down to... help you wash up. And don't worry, in a few months, you will all get the chance to really prove yourselves.”

Bren didn't know what that meant, and right then he didn't really care. All he wanted was for the pain to finally stop, for his senses to return back to normal, and to hopefully not see these crystals again anytime soon.

Ikithon's footsteps retreated, he heard the door shut behind him, and then he was left in the dark. Safe enough to open his eyes again. Safe enough to get his breathing back to normal.

It took exactly four minutes and thirty three seconds before he heard a new set of footsteps. Two, actually, hurrying down the stairs, pushing open the door. Coming to a stop.

“Bren?”

It was Wulf. The soft gasp behind him was Astrid.

“I'm okay,” he whispered, his voice more hoarse than he would have expected. With Wulf's help he slowly sat up, though he still winced at the gentle touch. Astrid kneeled down beside him, a fresh roll of gauze in her hands.

“Are you sure? It looks bad,” Wulf whispered, tucking Bren against his chest as Astrid got to work. “That's a lot of cuts.”

“No, no I'm fine,” Bren told them again, curling his fingers into Wulf's coat with the arm his other friend wasn't currently tending to. “I got you two, I'll be fine. I'll be fine.”

*

Bren was seventeen.

He was seventeen, and he lost everything in a fire of his own making.

*

Caleb is twenty eight.

He is twenty eight, and his life begins anew.

#critical role #caleb widogast #bren aldric ermendrud #astrid #eodwulf #trent ikithon #leofric ermendrud #caleb's mother #writing #fanfic #critical role fanfiction #mine #blumentrio #blumenthal #rexxentrum #soltryce academy

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [781]

“I take it you heard our discussions?” Leliana asks, expression neutral as Bull falls into step next to her. “They were quite passionate, after all.”

“And here I thought this was settled before,” Bull muses. “It seemed like it should be. I mean — there’s nothing quite like saying your relatives are social leeches and you want nothing to do with them to cut ties.”

“Yes, the report was quite amusing. I had hoped it would be that easy as well. The Trevelyan’s — especially the ones that far removed — aren’t incredibly bright after all. But, alas, the simplest solution turned out to be not so simple after all. How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” Bull says. “Enough to know you’re going to act regardless.”

“Sending more Inquisition soldiers is a distraction to us as much as it is a distraction for gossiping tongues,” Leliana replies. Both of them lower their voices, Bull offering her his arm as they move into the Inquisition’s main hall to return to her working quarters at the top of the rotunda.

Both of them cut straight through the crowd, keeping their voices lowered as they switch to another topic —

“And yes, my nug’s new playpen is quite wonderful. The fences are high enough that they no longer find it sport to climb over them and escape to parts unknown to forage whatever it is they smell with those wonderful noses of theirs.”

“I’m sure your scouts are relieved that they aren’t on nug watch anymore.”

“They shouldn’t be, it’s a joy to watch over them. Wouldn’t you like to spend all day just watching them frolic and nibble?” Leliana playfully squeezes Bull’s arm as he opens the door into the rotunda.

As soon as the doors close behind them they’re enveloped in the relative silence of the library. As they mount the stairs to reach the aviary Leliana falls silent entirely until they reach the relative seclusion of rustling feathers and shuffling claws.

“As much as our Inquisitor would like to spare her family — “ Leliana starts, setting her notes down on her desk and throwing her hood back.

Bull barks out a laugh, leaning against the wall next to a narrow window. “Is that what it is?”

“That’s what we’re going to call it. As much as the Inquisitor wants this issue to drop without violence and with as hands on it, I fear that the good Commander sending guards for our forces is not going to do it. What message does it send, after all? The Inquisition will not be threatened by fifth and sixth cousins removed — especially once we have already officially denounced the Trevelyans for the world to know.”

“And so?”

“And so?” Leliana repeats teasingly, sitting down at her desk, chair angled towards him as she crosses her legs. “I think you know and so. Who do you have in mind?”

“What, it’s a waste of Inquisition resources but not mine?” Bull jokes.

“What’s yours is ours, for now.”

“I don’t remember marrying the Inquisition.”

“Bull.”

“Wolf, obviously,” Bull lists off. “Wolf and Grim. Grim passes easily enough and most people won’t know that he’s a Charger. He can get into that estate no problem to start fucking around and to get Wolf in after him. And Wolf knows a lot about harassing pretentious shits who think they’re safe. The question is — how do we want him?”

Leliana strokes her lip with her finger, focusing on her thoughts.

“It can’t look too suspicious. We want him distracted, for now. The ultimate goal, of course, is to get him out of our way. Permanently. With the least amount of possible repercussions. This cannot come back around to more rumors about the Inquisition strong arming dissenters.”

“Yeah. Naturally. So. No mental break downs?”

“As truly entertaining as that would be, the answer would be no. For now. Remember, this is still the Inquisitor’s family. As distasteful as they’ve behaved, and as much distance as there is between Max and Evelyn with the rest of that spiteful lot, we must still treat them with some modicum of care.” Leliana sighs, tapping her finger against her lip. “Get him distracted. No serious harm. Perhaps spread rumors of a saboteur — I’m sure there’s some kind of corruption that can be uncovered. Some distasteful secret. A fetish. A scandal. An affair. Find it. Don’t let Albrecht know it’s been found — but let him know that someone is onto something. Let’s keep him busy until we’re ready to deal with him with finality. Ideally when there aren’t such pressing matters as the sky collapsing upon our heads, yes?”

“Yes ma’am,” Bull nods. “Anyone else you want in on this?”

“I trust your judgement. If only two are needed then only send two. How soon can they depart?”

Bull casts a glance down the rotunda. “Well. Wolf’s right there so I could just yell at her to pack her shit and go right now. Grim’s a light traveler. If they need anything they can send requests back through Inquisition channels. But they’re creative. They’ll figure it out on their own.”

“Is that a note of pride I hear in your voice for your agents, Bull?”

“I couldn’t ask for a better team if I even knew to dream of it,” Bull answers.

“You also pay them enough that they should be producing quality work. If you weren’t proud of them I’d be strangely disappointed in you,” Leliana says. “With those figures? It’d be like you were just keeping them around to look pretty.”

“If I was doing that I’d have found some better looking bastards who didn’t take every excuse to talk shit to me,” Bull points out. “Write down the mission brief for me and I’ll get it to them. Do you want them to leave now?”

Leliana hums. “I’ll send over the information before noon. They need to leave before Cullen can get a unit dispatched. I’ll speak with him after his afternoon briefs, he should be in the middle of formulating a roster and requisition at that time. We’ll be able to keep this a secret from the Inquisitor for now, but I want them far enough away that by the time Evelyn and Maxwell find out it will be too late to recall them.”

“Sneaky, underhanded, and probably a bit disrespectful, but alright,” Bull says. “I’ll let them know now. You know where to find me if the timetable changes.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

[mariamermaid]

The Heir of Silberstein; Gold und Silber (ch.5/ final)

“gold and silver”

Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: As a new school year approaches in Hogwarts, the students are surprised when Dumbledore introduces a group of German siblings joining the school. The royal family of fortress Silberstein is now sent to Hogwarts to learn the matters of a normal teenager life. …

Words: 1.6k

A/N: The story has come to an end! I hope you enjoyed this little journey, I for my part had so much fun writing it.

 Masterlist

 At last, it was Fred´s voice, that you heard and his soft eyes staring down to you, before blackness swallowed you whole…

When you finally woke up again, coming to ignore the sharp pain shooting up from your side, you quickly scanned the room. It was empty though.

However, it wasn´t unfamiliar to you; you were still located in Silberstein.

It was very similar to the infirmary to Hogwarts, light walls and beds and shelves with books and healing potions.

You couldn´t help but feel your thoughts slip, did everyone survive the battle?

Just as you were to sit up, the door opened. King Michael entered in all his glory and a gasp of relief left your lips.

“Father!”

He wore the king’s attire, sophisticated and graceful, as it should be.

He chuckled at your response, and gestured you to stay seated. He was wearing the crown, it fitted him perfectly and he looked much healthier. But as he took a seat on the side of your bed, he placed the heavy metal on the bed stand.

“It´s good to see you awake again.”

“How long was I out?”

He breathed steadily and held eye contact with you, his hand grabbing yours. It was warm and soft.

“Three days, we were all worried if you´d make it”, he explained calmly. For you, it had barely felt like a couple of hours.

“Hendrik, August and Ruth! Are they-“, You stopped, before continuing even hastier. “Fred and George!”

Your father let out another snicker and placed a kiss on the back of your hand. “You shouldn´t worry about them, as much as you should maybe take more care of yourself. They´re all fine and they´re all back at school.”

Your face dropped once again. “At school?!”

“Yes, you all abandoned the school regulations and not only snuck out, but you even left the country. As your father, I cannot endorse such behavior.”

He sighed, but then he began smiling as well.

“I´m very glad you did though. If it wasn´t for you, I probably wouldn´t be here.”

Finally, you lunged a little forward, embracing him tightly. You felt how tears formed in your eyes and his familiar warmth radiating against your tired body.

“I missed you dad!”

He hugged you back, his chin on top of your head. “I missed you too.”

When you let go of him again, your brows furrowed.

“Albrecht, is he?”

“Dead, yes, for good this time. The guards that were in cahoots with him, were banished and their memory was removed. Everything went back to normal.”

It was like a heavy rock falling off your chest, it was over.

“August was right by the way; he did have mother´s ring. All those years, he planned it all out. Killing your mother, poisoning me and when the idea rose, to send you children away, he had me thinking it was the best solution. But the moment you were gone, I knew the mistake it was.”

He sighed and his hand pushed back his hair, just as dark as Hendrik´s.

“I was left helpless, knowing he had too much power at this point. My last hope laid with you children.”

“What about Silberstein? Are you still planning to turn this place into a school?”

He nodded, starring out the window for a few second, bemused, before turning back to you.

“Yes, but I will wait until Hendrik graduates. I cannot build a school system on my own and my time leading, is long over. It is time for Hendrik and you to take the lead.”

You grinned approving. “That sounds very thought over.”

“I had enough time to think and to get a little help, I´m going to accompany you to Hogwarts when you´re feeling strong enough again. Me and your headmaster have a lot to discuss.”

 Fred, George and even Hendrik and August sat in the Gryffindor common room. As they had come back, the news had already made a round. It was however needles to say, that they were pretty disappointed to all receive minus points, and the immediate send back into the classes. As much as they wanted to celebrate the victory over Silberstein, none of them were in the right mood. Their worries stayed behind with you and they spent days hunched together, hoping for an owl from Germany. Especially Fred looked tired with dark circles beneath his eyes, he had barely eaten or slept. The door opened for the hundredth time, they all looked up with very little hope, but this time, it was Ruth.

“They´re coming!” She announced loudly. Other students in the common room looked up, interested as well.

“Who´s coming?” Hendrik asked, but all of them had jumped off their seats anyways.

“The royal carriage!”

“Y/n?” Fred asked the youngest of the siblings, but she could only shrug. It didn´t matter, they all hurried outside, where several other students had gathered as well. They all watched in tension as the carriage landed and the door finally opened.

First to enter was King Michael, out of reflex more than actual knowledge on how to behave, the students bowed. But the king softly smiled, before reaching out with his hand, a second figure entered. You.

It was like the day had suddenly lightened up and Ruth ran up into your arms, quickly followed by your brothers and the twins.

“Don´t ever leave us waiting like this!” Ruth urged you and you grinned.

“What? Were you expecting an owl instead of me?”

Hendrik and August patted you shoulder, but Fred couldn´t hold back anymore. He quickly embraced you as well and you felt how your feet slightly left the ground. He didn´t care about the stares, all he cared was for you to be there, in his arms, again.

“We did it, Freddie”, you whispered leaning into the hug. He nodded slightly.

“No, you did it, Y/n!”

 White clouds, shaped like cotton candy, covered the sky and the white linen draped across the Fortress. Perfectly shaped snowflakes danced from the skies down. The soft neighing of the horses echoed, you felt relieved. Christmas laid in the air, cinnamon and mistletoe, and icy snow covered the trees. You had taken the liberty of inviting the entire Weasley family, Harry and Hermione as well as a few other friends from Hogwarts.

After the initial howlers, yes plural, from Molly, she and Arthur had gladly accepted. The new attire for the formal occasion that each of the red-haired family members were gifted with, were stunning. Dresses with beaded details and a suit, Ron wished he had at the time of the yule ball. Molly and Arthur were barely able to close their mouths after arriving at the fortress and the prior anger towards their sons, disappeared. Instead, pride settled in and Molly placed lovingly kisses on Fred´s and George´s cheeks.

The Christmas evening was filled by laughter, you were all seated around the large table in the big dining room next to the ballroom. The Weasleys, schoolmates from Hogwarts as well as friends like Paul or Ruben, and of course, you own family. Due to the formal etiquette, the crown was back on your pate. For the first time, you didn´t mind though. Your family had been broken a long time ago, finally you had healed and even though the process had taken time and even more effort, you had reached a peaceful state.

However, you did decide that a little fresh air wouldn´t hurt, the sun had already set and the sky filled by stars and snow enlightened the nightly horizon.

You found yourself in the front yard and a Pegasus greeted you, as if had been waiting for you. You let out a chuckle as your hand brushed through the mane. Suddenly, you heard the door behind you opening and closing again. You instantly felt Fred´s presence and turned towards him, happily grinning from ear to ear.

“I never imagined to be at a castle for Christmas, could get used to it though”, he explained shrugging cheesily. “It´s been a long time since Christmas felt this festive and joyful for me as well.”

Fred stepped closer to you, admiring the silver horse. You let out a sigh, as your mind wandered back to Hogwarts. “I don´t think it was our last battle”, you admitted quietly, Fred only nodded.

“No, it probably wasn´t.”

“Maybe I´ll follow you then into the next fight, hm?”

“What about Silberstein?” Fred asked and his eyes carefully found yours. But you smiled gently at him. “Well, I first need to graduate. Hendrik will keep a spot open for me.”

“So, you´re all going back with us to school?”

“I wouldn´t want to miss it.”

He glanced up and down from the ground, stepping closer again. One of your hand remained on the back of the Pegasus. It was as if the horse felt the attraction and slightly nudged you towards Fred´s direction.

“Is it a crime to kiss a princess?” He asked whispering and you felt his warm breath on your skin.

“Not if she gives you her permission.”

His hand traced the silhouette of your face, only inches stayed between the two of you.

“May I, princess?”

You nodded.

Finally, Fred fully leaned forward and his lips crashed against yours. You melted into the kiss, your hands grabbing his neck, while he embraced your waist to pull you closer. The neighing from the silver horses made you both chuckle and separate a little, but your foreheads remained touching. “Care for a little ride, Weasley?” You asked grinning and while Fred seemed taken back at first, he nodded agreeing.

He sat down behind you on the strong back of the Pegasus, his hands first carefully, but then rather happily holding onto your waist.

“You´re going to love it!” You exclaimed before the horse started cantering, and then spreading the white wings. Fred felt weightless as the horse left the ground with no effort and cold air embraced him. But it was refreshing and liberating.

You smiled, eyes pinned lurking back to see Fred´s gaze as well, you were under the same sky at last.

———-

tags: @ britishspidey @ perfectlysane24  @ acoolnight

#fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x reader #weasley twins #oliver phelps #harry potter imagine #mariamermaidimagine

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG127 /o/ (with rambling/pondering/speculating/ etc.)

- Albrecht Von Closen’s letter from MAG023 had been referenced twice in the series so far, and reminding myself of both gave me different kind of heartbreak. First… Tim mentioned it at the beginning of MAG033:

(MAG033) ARCHIVIST: […] Was there anything else? TIM: Oh yeah, just one. ARCHIVIST: Good lord. TIM: So, in case 8163103… it isn’t clear if Albrecht’s wife is called “Clara” or “Carla”, ‘cause you keep switching back and forth… ARCHIVIST: Well, I’m sorry if I found it hard to read a two-hundred-year-old letter, written in cursive by a native German speaker. Who complained about that one? TIM: Oh, it’s, it’s not a complaint. Hum, I just noticed actually!

94 episodes later… Tim finally got his answer ;_; It was distinctively “Carla” in MAG127. Second thing: Martin came very close to destroying Albrecht’s statement in MAG118! It was actually the statement he was about to burn when Elias finally managed to unlock the door.

(MAG0118) MARTIN: Hello. ELIAS: What. Are you. Doing. MARTIN: That one… that one was Benjamin Hatendi. You weren’t fast enough for the key! ELIAS: What. Are. You. Doing. […] MARTIN: Oh sorry! Sorry, I’m not keeping you from the show, am I? Well, well you head back, I’ll keep myself busy here. Albrecht von Closen is next, I think. It’s quite an old one! Should go up very quickly.

I really doubt that Martin meaning harm to Albrecht’s statement made Elias try to go faster to stop him or anything – he was already seething and had already left to get the key, it was really a matter of Martin burning statements which, overall, made him unable to fully focus on the group’s expedition and why he snapped hard at Martin (all going according to Martin’s keikaku). I’m more curious as to whether or not Martin… picking up this one was a total coincidence, or something partially spooky (Beholding-related intuition or Web drawing Martin towards it), since we now have confirmation that this letter was one chapter in a bigger story intrinsically tied to the creation of the Institute, and that Jon was spookily redirected towards another chapter in MAG127.

- That episode was very packed in… almost all aspects? Characters-wise, we learned about Melanie’s current state, a bit more about Martin’s state of mind when he began working with Peter, and about Jon’s own situation; we also got to hear ~*Elias*~ which gives some more food to speculate about what the eff is happening… and the statement, hoooooly Mew, the statement. Offering us a follow-up on MAG023, giving us another peek at Jonah Magnus, giving us a reminder that HI? NO, NOP, BEHOLDING IS NOT A HARMLESS ENTITY. IT’S JUST AS TERRIFYING AS THE OTHERS., and giving soooo many bits to speculate here and there…

- Jonathan Fanshawe immediately secured a place amongst the (very restricted) club of statement-givers with self-preservation skills.

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) Jonah, I must first and foremost decline your generous offer of a medical position servicing Millbank Penitentiary. While the terms you’ve laid out are no doubt more than adequate, I have, over these last months, come to the unfortunate conclusion that our intimacy and friendship must cease immediately. […] In the light of what I have so recently witnessed, I can no longer in good conscience associate with any of your endeavours. Nor will I continue to collect or provide all those accounts of the esoteric and otherworldly, that you and your… Institute so eagerly require. Consider this the severing of our acquaintance. […] … Do I need to tell you what I found, Jonah? Do I need to detail what covered his organs? His bones? The inside of his skin? What clustered together in their dozens, and all turned as to focus on me as I opened his chest? Their pupils constricting in the light, with irises of every hue and colour. Because whatever it was that did this to him, I know in my heart that it is your fault. I’ve had the body burned. Please, do not write to me again. Your obedient servant, Doctor Jonathan Fanshawe.

He sounded so, so cold and rigid and deadpan and dry and accusatory, hhh… That was an excellent tone. Very satisfying. We tend to hear fear, despair, vulnerability; here, it was… covered up with a veil of unimpressed anger and resentment?

- Regarding Jonah Magnus: Jon had described in MAG041 how Robert Smirke took over the Millbank prison project in 1815 and finished it in 1821. Jon had already theorized that the tunnels under the Institute couldn’t be remnants from the old prison, but probably tunnels constructed below it (MAG041: “when it was finally closed in 1890, it was demolished. Flattened. Which meant that what I was in now couldn’t be the old prison itself. It had to be something built below it.”); we know that the Institute was founded in 1818, and though I think it’s still not confirmed whether Smirke was behind the building or not (I assumed he was but can’t find any mention about it anymore?), Leitner referred to its tunnels as part of Smirke’s work (MAG080: “Over the years I have found that it interacts with Smirke’s architecture, and those tunnels specifically, in a more predictable way.”). The whole… concept behind the Millbank prison already reeked of Beholding (MAG041, Jon: “First proposed and designed in 1799 by Jeremy Bentham, a philosopher who wished to test his theories of the panopticon prison, where cells would be arranged in a circle around a single, central guard tower, so all cells were observable at once. It was to have six such areas, arranged in hexagons, giving it from the air the shape of a vast, angular flower.”); with Jonathan Fanshawe mentioning Jonah’s offer of a job in the prison (MAG127: “I must first and foremost decline your generous offer of a medical position servicing Millbank Penitentiary. […] I do not know what interest you have in the poor condemned souls within those walls, nor do I care to guess.”), it sounds more and more likely that Jonah and Robert Smirke did actually collaborate? How did Jonah Magnus come to have such an influence in Millbank, and what was his aim, indeed?

- Chronologically, the few things we know about Jonah Magnus:

*Jonah was already known for his interest in the supernatural:

(MAG023, Albrecht von Closen) […] I recall that during your visit last spring you mentioned your… fascination with the macabre and strange, and pressed upon me as to whether there were any such lore or legends that I myself were familiar with. Wolfgang writes me that you are acquiring quite the collection, and I feel that I now have something that belongs with it, far more than any of the fairy stories or old maids’ tales that I told you before.

*On March 31st 1816, Albrecht von Closen sent Jonah a letter, describing his adventure and a book he had retrieved, promising Jonah to show it to him:

(MAG023, Albrecht von Closen) a book, perhaps fallen from the shelves long ago. It was in far better condition than the others, perhaps due to where it had lain, and I was able to very carefully open it. I was disappointed to see that was not written in German, or even French or Latin, but appeared to be in Arabic. It seemed to be an illuminated manuscript of sorts, produced by hand and utterly beautiful, though I could not for the life of me have told you what it concerned. […] The book, though beautiful, stubbornly refused to offer up any clues to its contents. With your permission, I’ll bring it over for your expert eyes next time I have the pleasure of your company. […] Still, I look forward to showing you the book I have acquired, and the revelations you will no doubt glean from it.

*Sometime in 1818, Jonah Magnus founded the Magnus Institute.

*On April 9th 1824, Barnabas Bennett, prisoner in Mordechai Lukas’s dimension, pleaded Jonah for his help by leaving his letter in the Institute. Jonah, according to Elias, only witnessed his demise and collected his bones. (MAG092)

[*One year prior to April 1831, Albrecht von Closen, who had previously acquired the books from the Black Forest’s mausoleum at some point, had them rebound. Jonah Magnus apparently exchanged them with fakes at this time.]

*On November 21st 1831, Jonathan Fanshawe sent a letter to Jonah about the illness and death of Albrecht von Closen, after they returned the (fake) books to the mausoleum. Albrecht’s body was filled with eyes; his wife was already dead, and he had sons at the time of his passing. What happened to the sons afterwards is unclear. (MAG127)

*On June 12th 1841, Sampson Kempthorne sent Jonah a letter about the workhouse architecture of George Gilbert Scott (Robert Smirke’s disciple’s disciple, who was a bit dangerous according to Smirke). Sampson mentioned Jonah’s state:

(MAG050, Sampson Kempthorne) Dear Jonah, It is my fondest wish that this message should find you in good health, as I have heard more than one mutual acquaintance remark on your current state of overwork. While I earnestly hope it is merely idle gossip, my knowledge of your character leads me to entreat that you allow yourself some respite, or at the very least take some further secretarial staff into your employ. Certain uncharitable quarters would have it that your life consists of little but rattling around in Edinburgh Townhouse, surrounded by piles of ghostly accounts and lunatic documentation. Piles, I am afraid to say, to which I am about to make an addition.

I’m not sure if Jon making his mind about Jonah Magnus is a Certainty (inspired by spooky Beholding magic) or an assumption:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] “Jonah Magnus”. I’ve never really given much thought to him. Not nearly as much as I should have. I suppose I had always hoped there was a chance he was… innocent, in all this. I know, I know! But I had… [EXHALE] I had just… hoped that maybe the founding of the Institute was in earnest. And not simply the foundation stone for all the terrible things that have happened here. … But no. Whatever is happening now… has its origins two hundred years ago. In the work of an evil man.

But if it’s the latter… I’m not sure that Jon is making a good decision by shutting down other possibilities: he’s absolutely following Jonathan Fanshawe’s opinion here, but there might have been other interpretations for what Jonah did and why? After all, he could have stolen the books in an attempt to protect Albrecht from their influence (while he had probably been heavily contaminated by them already)? I’m mostly surprised at the fact that Jon just went ahead and labelled Jonah Magnus an “evil man” and assumed that the Institute was founded for bad reasons, as if suddenly this statement was proving a point, when… it was the opinion of one person, who felt betrayed, hurt (and partially worried for) a(n ex)friend. And time had passed since the founding: maybe the Institute had originally been founded with better intentions, and maybe Jonah got worse and worse… just like Jon could. Maybe there would be more to learn about Jonah’s life, if it was a gradual descent into Beholding – maybe knowing a bit more about it could help Jon find counter-measures. But maybe it’s also an easier story for Jon to swallow, right now: to think that people don’t change, can’t become corrupted, can’t start out good and gradually lose their ability to want to protect the people they care about.

- And now, this statement put the damn books back at the forefront: indeed… where do they come from? … technically, Jonah Magnus here didn’t remind me so much of Elias or of an Archivist, but more of… Jurgen Leitner? (That’s mean, I know!)

(MAG080) LEITNER: I… thought that I could control them. That I alone had the knowledge to contain them. Back then, I believed they were simply books. Horrifying, powerful, yes; but with rules, limits that could be charted. … I was a fool. I had no idea what forces lay behind them, or that they had other servants that might come searching. I was ruthless, I will admit that. I don’t know how many assistants I sacrificed to learn the secrets of the volumes I collected. Dozens, at least. Only a few escaped with their life and mind intact, and even then they were deeply marked. But I was relentless. I saw myself as a guardian, a reverse Pandora, gathering the evils of the world and locking them away.

Accumulating statements (and books) like Leitner was accumulating books, in his own personal building constructed through Smirke’s principles? Leitner was even known for getting his books custom-(re)bound!

(MAG004, Dominic Swain) The last seller I went to did recognise the name Jurgen Leitner, though. She told me Leitner had been a big name in the literary scene during the 1990s; some rich Scandinavian recluse paying absurd amounts of money for whatever books took his fancy. It was said he’d often have books custom-bound after providing a manuscript, or even commission authors to produce works to his brief – although she didn’t actually know any writers who had worked with Leitner.

Jon had been suspicious of the amount of books in circulation, even before discovering that Leitner had only applied his seal on some but not all of them (and that he had absolutely no involvement in their creation):

(MAG070) ARCHIVIST: […] It seems to support the theory that, whatever these books are, Leitner is not entirely responsible for them. […] Books. Again and again it always seems to come back to those books. There are other artefacts that hold sinister power, certainly, but none of them seem to be quite so prevalent or… insidious as those damn books. But why? I had always assumed that Leitner had created them somehow, leasing parts of his own damned soul to give them power, or… some similar nonsense. But no. I’ve heard enough now to be sure that these books existed long before he managed to hunt them down. Not all of them, though, it would seem.

And it’s true that we only had questions in that regard. We know that the books can be anachronistic:

(MAG080) LEITNER: An unexpurgated copy of Ruskin’s The Seven Lamps of Architecture, published in 1845. Of course, Ruskin didn’t even begin writing the book until 1846, and the text of this one varies markedly from the version that was distributed.

We know that some of the books are old, written in different languages, and that a few of them must have appeared fairly recently (A Guest For Mr. Spider, and the one from MAG125 which looked like a paperback). We know that a few can write themselves (the unnamed Book of the Dead) or have new content added to it (Mary Keay’s book in human skin). We know that they can bind monsters (Ex Altiora). We’d already had one mention of a book that just tagged along or perhaps showed up out of nowhere and tried to read its reader (MAG091, Mike Crew: “I spent some time with a small grey volume, I think it was in Cyrillic, that decided it was at home amongst my bookshelves. I couldn’t read it, of course, but… when it tried to read me back, I buried it on a lonely stretch of moorland.”).  Leitner mentioned that in rare cases, they can host multiple powers (such as The Key of Solomon) – in most cases, they seem to be tied to only one. Some of them can apparently be destroyed (Gertrude and Leitner managed it in the tunnels), though some could just shift or resist (MAG080, Leitner: “Many of them wouldn’t have burned, and some even liked the flames. And those that did, I now believe, would have been released to take a different form.”), but Jon discovered recently that some can apparently lose their powers:

(MAG125, Terrance Simpson) All I could see for certain… was that she held a book in her hands. It was a paperback, old and unloved, with obvious signs of wear long before it found itself in this chaos. The cover and title were unrecognizable, now far too soaked in blood, but it was clear that at some point the woman holding it had torn it, clean in two down the spine, and now held half in each of what was left of her hands. Ross told me later that she’d gotten a good look at the pages, and that every single one of them was blank.

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: […] Another Leitner, obviously. Not one I can readily identify, though it sounds like it would now be… inert, anyway. Given the blank pages, I do wonder whether its destruction was a last-ditch effort to stop its effects, or the exact thing that released its power in such an… extreme way.

So where do they come from and/or how are they produced? Are they just… emanations, like the monsters? Are they purposefully created by avatars? Leitner told Jon that he had gathered 978 of those when his library was attacked; it’s… not that much – the Black Forest’s mausoleum could have contained more than that, and we even know that new books have appeared since then. … However, I do wonder if the books in the mausoleum weren’t rather a precursor/equivalent of… statements? I had already wondered whether “Johann von Württemberg” might be an ancient Archivist (especially after MAG053), and now that we’ve been told about the contents of the books…

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe ) […] [Albrecht] took the seat opposite me, and started to tell me… a story. And then another. And another. A stream of… strange tales began to pour out of him, and I just sat there, transfixed, [STATIC–], desperately wishing I had the strength of will to leave, but all I could do was listen. He told me of a seamstress, who laced her body with fine black thread; and when she pulled it all out in a single swift motion, her skin dropped away like a loose shift. He told me of a man so scared to die he spent a year weaving a rope blindfolded, so that he would not know the length, and could not foresee the moment it would tighten around his neck when he finally threw himself into the void. He told me of a fire that burns so hot and fierce, that to even know about it is enough to burn a man’s tongue from his head. He told me so many terrible things. [/STATIC] And at the end of it all, the only thing I could think to ask him was where he read them. My eyes darted to the books that surrounded us, but Albrecht laughed at this, and placed his hands across a spine that was simply labelled A Warning. For a moment, he looked as though he were about to wrench it from its place and hurl it into the fire. But it passed. He turned back to me. [STATIC–] “You do not understand,” he said to me in German. “I do not read the books. They read me.” [/STATIC]

… they were all stories. Like Jon himself is receiving stories through the statements… Could the Beholding folks be responsible for the books, binding a bit of other powers in them to spread them, ensuring a never-ending self-sustaining cycle of stories – people finding the books, getting terrorized by them, and the survivors having new stories to tell? What happened to the books that Jonah Magnus stole? Are they still somewhere in the Institute, did he destroy them, did he release them into circulation…?

- Even before that: when did Albrecht get his hands on the books? Had he stolen them back in 1816, and concealed that fact to Jonah in his letter? Or did he go back later? With or without Jonah? It is now… striking, that in MAG023, Albrecht was insisting on the fact that he missed his own library (MAG023: “And so began what was to be a lengthy sojourn near Schramberg, and truly have I never wished more keenly that I had been able to bring my library with me. I had but a few books with me and Wilhelm, despite his not-inconsiderable intelligence, had even fewer.”) when, oops, he got his hands on another’s in the end. The only thing he said was that he had them rebound one year prior to April 1831, and he had already been able to tell in 1816 that they were in a terrible state:

(MAG023, Albrecht von Closen) I walked cautiously closer, until my lantern illuminated it clearly. The walls were covered with bookshelves. Packed in with such a density that it was impossible to tell if there was a real wall behind them or if the books themselves formed the only bulwark against the soil. They were, unfortunately, terribly rotten. The centuries had not been kind to them, and as I tried to move one of them, I realised that the damp had, over time, caused them to merge into a single mass of paper and bookcloth. Predictable as this may have been, I still felt the most acute pang of loss. To see such a volume of knowledge, possibly unique in all the world, utterly destroyed, was incredibly painful to me. The actual shelves were formed of the same marble as the two blocks, and seemed to have fared better. As I looked at them, I noticed a small engraving, carved at regular intervals along the edge of each one. It was a small eye, open and staring. For some reason, it was only at that moment that I began to feel afraid. Of what, I couldn’t tell you, but those small eyes filled me with a dread that I have trouble describing to you now.

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) As he walked the shelves, stroking the spines of each book in turn, I started to ask him about his health, and explained why I was there, but he showed not the slightest sign that he was listening. “I had them rebound last year,” he said. “Damp can do terrible things to a book.”

- There were so many “WHAM” moments in that statement… the fact that it was another letter to Jonah! That it was once again about Albrecht von Closen! The fact that the uncanny atmosphere began even before Jonathan reached Albrecht’s house (because people were burning the tree)! The very casual mention that Carla had died and that there were now sons in the family, although they were explicitly childless and Jon hadn’t been able to trace the family line down back in MAG023! The fact that the spooky house gave me a Lonely/Beholding vibe somehow (rather than Beholding only), even before Albrecht showed up? And then, the… fact that nothing physical happened to Jonathan: but that he witnessed, had to hear and couldn’t really understand, though he was trying to work a way out. The resignation, in the fact that he was forced to hear Albrecht’s stories, and that Albrecht couldn’t stop them nor harm the books? All the mysteries as to what happened and why Jonah had apparently been involved? What was inside Albrecht’s corpse? (HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THANKS JONNY…) The attempt at returning the books, Albrecht’s sudden death, the reveal that Jonah had actually stolen the real books when they were rebound?

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) I do not know how he died. I saw nothing and no one with him, and his body seemed whole and undamaged. But I do have some idea as to why it happened. For as I filled those dead shelves with freshly bound volumes, I could not help but notice that every page was blank. I have since checked with Payne’s, who I believe to be your preferred bookbinders. And I know that the books poor Albrecht was returning to the grave were not the books that were taken. I hope they bring you much wisdom, Jonah, for the cost was dear enough.

(Roger Payne was a famous bookbinder from the 18th, already dead by then, so it was probably his shop. Still, another historical figure /o/) There were so many little things changing perspective, and it raised so many questions, aaaaah!! It was definitely a very strong episode…

I don’t know what to think of what happened to Albrecht; was he a failed Archivist? The fact that he almost threw one of the books to the fire but couldn’t, that he needed help to manage top ut them back, that stories were pouring out of him… Is that another red flag about what could ultimately happen to Jon? Or was it just a Beholding curse/influence, since he had been in close contact to the books? Or was it something that Albrecht had brought down on himself since the first time he had entered the mausoleum?

(Aza confirmed me that:

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) It was the face of Albrecht von Closen. In the light, his eyes met mine, and his mouth began to work furiously, repeating the same phrase [STATIC–] over and over, increasing in volume until he was screaming it into my face: “Leg sie alle zurück. Leg sie alle zurück.” [/STATIC] Put them back. Put them back.

=> can’t be about the children, because “sie alle” means “them all” and wouldn't be used for just two things, and the verb used conveys the sense of putting things lying down and wouldn't be used for people. That's assuming that Jonny knows that much German, though.)

Big Questions, too, about… the tree. What was the deal with that one?

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) […] as we got closer, I could see that it was… a single tree that was burning: a gnarled and ancient elm, that sat removed from the rest of the forest. A small crowd surrounded the spectacle. One man, who I took to be a groundskeeper, stood closer than the others, with a lit torch in his hand. […] I asked the man why they were burning the tree when the rain was coming down so heavily. Surely it could have waited for drier weather. The man simply shrugged. […] all that I could get from him was a sense of resignation, and the insistence that his master, who I took to be Albrecht, wanted the tree dead. I’m sure that he used that word, though. Not “burned”, not “removed”, or “destroyed”. Dead. I resolved to ask Albrecht about it when I saw him.

The only “main” tree we’ve got before was at Hill Top Road: is it the same kind of thing…? What did it do, here…? (Where spiders involved in the shadows, again.)

- I remember how quick Aza had been to jump on me after I had listened to MAG023, a few months ago, because there was a Big Fandom Joke about the easter egg of the “Schwarzwald statement” directly following Martin Blackwood’s, AND NOW IT HAS COME BACK TO HAUNT US since!! Surprise surprise!! Fifteen years after his letter to Jonah from MAG023 (March 31st 1816), Albrecht, who had mentioned never managing to have children with his wife… suddenly had sons as of November 21st, 1831:

(MAG023, Albrecht von Closen) myself and Clara [sic] have since made every effort to provide [our nephew Wilhelm] with guidance and such affection as he may have lost. This felt especially keen as we have ourselves been unable to conceive a child, and so we felt it our duty to teach Wilhelm what we would have impressed upon a son of our own.

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) As I’m sure you’re aware, Albrecht’s wife Carla was taken by a fever some years ago, and his sons were away at school; so it was the housekeeper who greeted me when I arrived.

Back in MAG023, Jon had managed to track down Wilhelm’s genealogy, to discover that some of his descendants might have been Mary and Gerry Keay (which Gerry confirmed in MAG111), but he had found nothing about Albrecht:

(MAG023) ARCHIVIST: […] I did try to find out what happened to Albrecht von Closen and his book, but I can find no mention of him in any volume of history nor anywhere online. Perhaps I might find out more if I spent months sifting through the historical statements in the Archives’ back rooms, but I simply don’t have time to indulge my own curiosity like that.

(ISN’T IT CUTE HOW BEHOLDING IS SHOWING UP TWO YEARS LATE WITH ANOTHER VON CLOSEN STATEMENT WHEN JON FINALLY HAS TIME TO INDULGE HIS OWN CURIOSITY.......) So, Albrecht managed to get descendants of his own, after his adventure in the Black Forest. We know nothing about them, just that they happened, so there might be another branch of the Von Closen somewhere, with perhaps a change of name at some point. As @justasmalltownai​ highlighted, there is an old (historical and literary) tradition of naming abandoned/magic children after the place they were found, which would be “Schwartzwald” for them… Which…………………. indeed……………. puts Martin Blackwood to mind………… … On a meta level, Jonny Sims not above giving reasons to yell at him with random things, either. Remember how, in MAG017, Jon was reading about how someone should have had trouble with the police when he was interrupted by Elias “I Have Killed And Will Kill Again And Will Be Sent To Prison For This” Bouchard of all people?

(MAG017) ARCHIVIST: […] He was always very careful to stop before he did anything that might get the police involved, and I guess there was enough leftover affection from a childhood spent together that I never really thought about reporting him. It wa– [DOOR OPENING] ARCHIVIST: Oh, erm, hello Elias. ELIAS: Do you have a moment?

(Yes, that one is a very “jONNY” scene in retrospect. And trousersless!Martin interrupted Albrecht’s statement in the same fashion, when Albrecht was getting ready to enter the crypt.)

On the one hand, Gerry asserted that blood ties don’t matter for the Entities – and, indeed, it sounds… more in synch with the series to think that choices and personality are the things that determine you(r fate). But on the other hand: it’s still so curious that Gerry was so deeply rooted into Beholding powers, when Wilhelm von Closen had been so close to the Beholding mausoleum?

(MAG012, Lesere Saraki) […] watching [Gerard], standing and walking despite the burns covering eighty percent of his body, despite the sheer quantity of painkillers we had given him… he just made me very afraid. […] I followed him, asked what he was doing. I got no answer, but he seemed to know the code to the door immediately and strode right in, scanning the shelves for something. He saw what he was after and picked up a small object wrapped in paper and plastic. I recognised it immediately as a sterile scalpel.

(Gerry even technically demonstrated powers that were… very close to Jon’s? His body was still able to function when it shouldn’t have been able to; he just knew things; he was able to tell that MAG048’s statement-giver had been “marked” just by staring at her…)

So. While we were all focusing on the potential of Martin Lukas, was it actually Martin von Closen (/whatever Albrecht’s sons were: monsters stolen from the crypt? Emanations from the books? Non-spooky babies who got contaminated by the books? The Beholding equivalent of whatever Agnès was for the Desolation?) all along, or The Unholy Encounter Of The Two.

(Or as usual: is Martin still… absolutely normal, without any spooky roots nor anything.)

- Biggest initial shock was to hear Jon… revealing that he was Genre Savvy.

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: [SHARP INHALE, FAST] Statement of doctor Jonathan Fanshawe, regarding the months leading up to the death and autopsy of Albrecht Von Closen. […] Disconcerting to find my namesake in a statement. Especially one connected so directly to the Institute. […] Whatever is happening now… has its origins two hundred years ago. In the work of an evil man. … Exactly two hundred years, in fact. Don’t think that little detail has evaded me.

(Jon, stop staring at the camera/tape recorder, I feel called out.) He spotted the name (though there have been a lot of variations around “John” in all the names involved in all the statements), he revealed that he’s aware that is the 200th anniversary, and that something bad is likely coming. That’s a lot from him!

- Amazingly, we’ve already learned where Jon was hurt and what with!

(MAG127) BASIRA: But she did want me to… apologise. ARCHIVIST: Oh. BASIRA: From her. For… the shoulder. ARCHIVIST: Oh. It, it’s fine; scalpel wounds… they heal quickly. BASIRA: Hm. ARCHIVIST: Too quickly, really. BASIRA: Already? ARCHIVIST: Just another scar for the collection! BASIRA: Hm.

Jon’s self-deprecative dry humour makes me laugh and cry at the same time, and ha, in the list of things he’s savvy about: the fact that he’s collecting them indeed. (Now, to know whether that serves a grand purpose…)

- I LOVE THAT OVERALL, JON IS TRYING…………..

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] I’m sorry Basira, I–I will try to keep anything I learn about you to myself. My priorities haven’t changed; I hope you can believe that. [SIGHS] I’m still on your side. You can trust me.

And I perfectly understand that Basira might want to stay cautious: of course, a liar would lie about that, too ;; And Jon, after all, is trying a new approach – laying it all down in the open, instead of hiding himself. It’s good, but it can understandably raise suspicions for Basira ;;

- The trend of Jon sounding So Thirsty about getting anything about Martin, any news about Martin, is still going strong:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] I’m still on your side. You can trust me. BASIRA: [EXHALES] … Yeah. People keep saying that. ARCHIVIST: Do they? … W–w–who else– Did Martin say something?

I KNOW THAT HE HAS LEGITIMATE REASONS TO BE WORRIED… but w o w Jon, you’re sounding more and more desperate. (I do understand!! Last original assistant alive, Martin being in a bad place since he’s working with Peter and all… But the sheer contrast with season 1 is just astounding, and I’m still not getting used to it. I’m used to Martin gratuitously thinking about Jon; not to Jon… spontaneously thinking about Martin, as one of his concerns.)

- Jon’s life sounds like a succession of… doors? It’s definitely his biggest recurring motif. Mr. Spider’s door, that he never knocked on. “Michael”-then-“Helen”’s door: the one through which Helen disappeared right in front of him (MAG047), the one he used to flee from Not!Sasha (MAG079), the one he should have opened to die and the one that ultimately saved him from Nikola (MAG101), the one that had been haunting his dreams:

(MAG120) ELIAS: […] There is a door in front of him. A yellow door. He knows the dream it used to lead to; he knows it well. But that’s not where it leads anymore. He does not know what is behind it anymore, and he is deathly afraid of finding out. The Archivist turns away.

And now, the image of the “door” he used to describe the power that has been the most prevalent since he woke up:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: I’m not “snooping”, I’m not looking. That’s not… how this works. BASIRA: Explain it, then. ARCHIVIST: I, I’m not sure I can. BASIRA: Humour me. ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] It’s… hard. It’s like there’s a–a–a door, in my mind. And behind it, is… i–is the entire ocean. Before, I didn’t notice it, but now, I know it’s there, and I can’t forget it, and I can feel the pressure of the water on it. I, I, I can keep it closed… but sometimes, when I’m around p–people, or–or places, or… ideas, a drop or two will push through the cracks, at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something. BASIRA: … What happens, if you open the door? [PAUSE] ARCHIVIST: I drown.

Jon ;; (That mental picture… was really striking, and now, we know what could ultimately happen, what will probably happen…)

- Same as last episode: Jon’s powers, when they direct him towards statements… make him dig into the past? Is it a way to keep him detached from the present, as time continues to pass and as Jon knows that something is coming?

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] Whatever is happening now… has its origins two hundred years ago. In the work of an evil man. … Exactly two hundred years, in fact. Don’t think that little detail has evaded me. I don’t know the precise date the Institute was founded, but I do know that it was in 1818. … Something’s coming. I know it is. … But I just don’t know what I need to do. […] BASIRA: And what was that you were doing yesterday? ARCHIVIST: … When…? BASIRA: You were sat on the floor for like four hours. ARCHIVIST: … Oh! Er, n–n–no, I was, er, I was… listening. Y’know, it’s, trying to see if any of the statements… called to me. BASIRA: And? ARCHIVIST: [FLIPS PAPER] BASIRA: Brilliant.

(yfhudscjnfed I love getting something about how Jon is perceived from the outside, but at the same time? At the same time, isn’t it a fairly standard thing to sit or lay on the floor while you’re waiting for something or inspiration to strike, Basira, why do you depict it as odd.) (Does it mean that Basira regularly went to take a peak during these four hours, though.)

Or is Beholding trying to give Jon a clue to assert the situation, to get the bigger picture and to understand what he could do (whether it’s to… contribute to The Watcher’s Crown or to sabotage it)? Jon once again acknowledged that he is lacking direction:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] Something’s coming. I know it is. … But I just don’t know what I need to do. […] [SIGHS] So what do we do now…? BASIRA: You tell me. Just don’t expect much on trust these days. ARCHIVIST: … Yes, I… I suppose that’s fair. [CLICK.]

And ;; I guess that either he’s still waiting for spooky insights directing him towards some statements, either he’ll have to wait for something else (the tapes Elias mentioned? Getting a hold on Martin again? Waiting for Peter Lukas to reveal himself? Waiting to get a visitor?), either he’ll have to get a bit more creative (leaving the Institute again to try to talk with other avatars? Tracking Adelard down, since Jon knows that he knew Gertrude and worked with her a bit, having even moved out the explosives for her?).

- I’m sad but also relieved for Melanie… Even though we’re not hearing her, it seems like she’s getting back some of her feelings, some of her individuality; she’s not a ball of nerves and instinct anymore? It sounds like she’s having a rough time but… also like she’s recovering a bit? ;;

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: How’s Melanie? BASIRA: How do you think? ARCHIVIST: I, er, I should probably… talk to h– BASIRA: You should probably stay as far away as possible. She doesn’t want to see you. ARCHIVIST: No. No, o–o–of course. Er, she has… […] Do–do you think it worked? Is she… BASIRA: I don’t know. She seems more… coherent, I guess. And you did get an apology. ARCHIVIST: Yeah. BASIRA: She said she can cry now, which is, hum… ARCHIVIST: Oh… BASIRA: Progress, I think? ARCHIVIST: Uh… BASIRA: She’s still angry but, she hasn’t attacked anyone. Not even sure she has it in her anymore. ARCHIVIST: Well that’s, that’s good! BASIRA: Hm.

(It’s also good that Jon quickly accepted that if Melanie doesn’t want to see him, it means he won’t try to see her? He’s trying so hard to fix things, but also to manoeuvre without hurting others, and gosh ;;) (… Now that Melanie is out of her downwards spiral, maybe Jon will switch his focus to getting Martin back?)

- I’m a bit torn about Martin’s mother: on the one hand, I’m obviously “AOUCH???” and almost offended because??? Can we give Martin a break p l e a s e??? He had learned about Sasha’s death in April 2017 (and also that, surprise! He was bound forever to the Archives.), Tim died and Jon fell into a coma in August, his mom died around October, that’s a rough six months??? On the other hand, that’s still textbook fridging, and it felt a bit dry to me (even for the series!) given that… we only knew about her through indirect mentions and violations of privacy: Jon digging through Martin’s stuff to discover the letter to his mother, and Elias using his powers on Martin in MAG118. The only time Martin himself mentioned her was to contextualize why he had lied on his application:

(MAG042) ARCHIVIST: […] there is an unfinished letter, addressed to his mother in Devon, in which he mentions that he is worried about “the others finding out I’ve been lying”. It may be nothing, some… inconsequential deception or other – after all, it is ostensibly written to his mother – but if it was actually to be sent to someone else… I will keep my eye on Martin.

(MAG056) MARTIN: I don’t have a Master’s in parapsychology, I don’t even have a degree. When I was 17, my mom, she… had… she had some problems, and I ended up dropping out of school, t– trying to support us.

The fact that he had to take care of his mother shaped Martin’s whole life; it contributed to leading him to the Institute, it probably prevented him from socializing much, it’s probably why he doesn’t live very well (Stockwell isn’t the fanciest of neighbourhoods), since he had to pay for her care and then carehome. Yet, even with Elias, Martin avoided to mention his relationship with her and, obviously, we never heard her (we don’t even know what illness she was afflicted with!). She was distant in all senses (geographically, communication-wise, information-wise). The thing I mostly hope for (and which would feel a bit better for me?) would be to finally get Martin… talking about his relationship with her?, instead of having people doing that in his stead. It was obviously a sore spot already; after MAG118, it… was probably worse (Elias wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t supposed to hurt on the long run and keep Martin in check.) I don’t know if we’ll have the time for characters to even consider that they can afford to take care of themselves and treat themselves a bit by trying to unpack their issues, though. But I’d really love to finally hear Martin talk about his mother, and not other characters describing their relationship from the outside? (I want to think she died of natural causes, since she was sick for a long time, but obviously, can’t help but wonder if Lonely fuckedupness didn’t contribute somehow, since Peter wanted Martin. Though I doubt it for meta-reasons, since killing/hurting someone just to get a reaction out of one of the main characters, without hearing the victim’s own feelings about it, wouldn’t feel like the series, I think?)

- What happened to Martin’s mother… also explains why Basira was a bit defensive of him back in MAG123:

(MAG123) BASIRA: Yeah, he comes and goes. He’s busy. Well, he seems it. ARCHIVIST: Working for Peter Lukas. BASIRA: Don’t be too hard on him, Jon. Your, er… “situation”, it hit him. Hard. ARCHIVIST: [LONG EXHALES] Yes. Well, I’m sure there are better ways to deal with it than getting cosy with Elias’s successor. Who I’ve yet to meet, by the way.

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] W–w–who else– Did Martin say something? BASIRA: … It was a few months back. After the attack. He’d started spending time with Lukas. At least, he said he was. And I wanted answers. He kept telling me to trust him, to hear the guy out even though he still wouldn’t actually show his face. I told him he could… drop me an email or vanish me. ARCHIVIST: … Right. BASIRA: Honestly, I kind of regret not just… grabbing Martin and shaking an explanation out of him. But I didn’t want to push it. He was in a… bad place, what with the attack and his mom and everything, so I didn’t press it. Now, I try and bring it up, he just… disappears. Nothing to be done. ARCHIVIST: So–sorry, you said… What happened with his mother? BASIRA: Oh, yeah. She died. About two months– ARCHIVIST: Oh… BASIRA: –after you, er… … Martin was… … He tried to stay strong. Keep it together but, that sort of thing… ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] BASIRA: [SIGHS] Then those Flesh things busted in, and well, here we are! ARCHIVIST: … God. BASIRA: He didn’t tell you? ARCHIVIST: No… BASIRA: Hm. Guess you don’t know everything, then. ARCHIVIST: No, I, I–I guess not.

(I wonder if Basira’s mention that Martin “just… disappears” is literal, or if she means that he just leaves? We heard him walk away, back in MAG125 with Jon, but… Peter just appears Like That, so…)

;; Slowly, we’re also filling in the gap between MAG120 and MAG121 a bit – at the same time as Jon does. Tim died, Jon went into his “coma”; Elias was arrested, Peter became Head of the Institute; two months after, Martin’s mother died; two months after, The Flesh attacked (Basira told Jon it happened “About two months ago” in MAG123); two months after, Jon woke up. We’re still not sure when the season 4 trailer happened exactly – was it before or after The Flesh? (Martin sounded at his end, back then, so I’d like to think right after but the other option is not impossible either…).

- GODS, I LOVE BASIRA… She’s Judging and assessing, not talking a lot with Jon (so many non-committal “Hm.”), but also frankly expressing her disapproval or that she thinks Jon is crossing lines; not closing communication but also highlighting the limits… And what a LEGEND, honestly. The fact that she didn’t even threaten to leave but just started to leave as soon as Elias began to Act All Elias. Not taking any of his bullshit (SHE GOT HIS POSH MOUTH TO SAY “BULLSHIT” =D) redjrefdujire,d. I’m love her. And I’m also so worried for her because Elias talking to you means Problems in general.

- Squinting at how Elias “I Can Complain About How ‘Oh, good lord, don’t be so dramatic, Jon!’ Because I’m An S-Class Dramatist Myself Have You Heard MAG092 And MAG120 And My Perfect Sense Of Timing” Bouchard greeted Basira with that… “Detective”?

(MAG127) ELIAS: … Good evening. Detective. [STEPS COMING CLOSER] BASIRA: I’m not a detective. ELIAS: Of course.

Elias rarely says seemingly gratuitous things if it’s not actually meant to hurt (even a few months later), or to mock, or to manipulate, so what’s the deal there. It could be a nod to Daisy (since she was the detective), or… a kind of ~I know what you’ve been doing~, if Basira has been researching on some delicate matters (that she still wouldn’t have shared with Jon)? I also wonder if it’s not… once again, Elias just quoting what other people said when he wasn’t there and shouldn’t have known, since Georgie had also called Basira a “detective” in MAG122 (right before they discovered that Jon had woken up), and Basira hadn’t reacted back then:

(MAG122) BASIRA: Alright. And you don’t know why this guy would have left a tape recorder? GEORGIE: You’re the detective. BASIRA: And you’re sure it was him who left it?

Reminder: Elias Does That and has a sucky sense of humour. He was already doing it back in season 1 (MAG039, Jon: “I can’t really stand up yet. I need you to describe what’s going on. For the record.” / Elias, in another place, right after: “You [Sasha] did bring a tape recorder. I just thought Jon would appreciate as many supplementary recordings as possible. For the record.”). We know that Basira wasn’t against presenting herself as an “investigator” for fun:

(MAG106) BASIRA: I should probably go check in with Martin. Y’know, if he’s in for drinks. MELANIE: So you can double-check your gossip~? BASIRA: I don’t gossip! I have the mind of an investigator.

… but that’s not the term that Elias used. Sooo… why the “Detective”, indeed. It doesn’t sound like a Beholding title (a bit too police-oriented) compared to “Watcher” or “Archivist” (Leitner had also called Jon “the observer”)…

- Elias is having it rough in prison, it’s a treat to hear <333 Kudos to Ben for the… raspier, tighter, incommodious? voice that deeeefinitely conveyed that Elias is not sitting on his throne anymore. … Actually, some of it reminded me a bit of Jon going through statements-withdrawal in MAG107, so I wonder if Elias isn’t having a personal form of withdrawal somehow, too, by being far from the Institute for such an extended period of time?

I’m… a bit lost as to why he even tried to pretend that he wasn’t spying on Basira&co in the first place, only to admit that he knew things when Basira told him off?

(MAG127) ELIAS: Er, I’ve found one of these in my cell? It, it wasn’t recording, but… I assume this means he’s awake. BASIRA: … ELIAS: … Basira? BASIRA: Can we cut the bullshit? ELIAS: What “bullshit” might that be? BASIRA: The part where you pretend you don’t spend your whole time watching us. ELIAS: … Sometimes I’m eating. BASIRA: You know he’s back. You’ve seen him. ELIAS: Fine! Yes.

Why even bother? He had implied to Martin that the distance wouldn’t prevent him from spying on them (MAG120: “Best of luck, Martin. Ah, let the others know I shall be thinking of them. […] G–goodbye, Martin. Be seeing you.”) and his comments to Basira about “trust” are a clear reference to her discussion with Jon earlier in the episode:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: […] I’m still on your side. You can trust me. BASIRA: [EXHALES] … Yeah. People keep saying that. […] Just don’t expect much on trust these days. ARCHIVIST: … Yes, I… I suppose that’s fair.

(MAG127) BASIRA: Right. So, what? You figured you’d record us for him? Sow some distrust from afar? ELIAS: Our… arrangement with the Inspector notwithstanding, I… rather feel that right now all the distrust is very much your own.

So nop, he’s still a pesky misery-sucking voyeuristic mosquito even from further distance and even though Peter/the Lonely has taken over the Institute – he’s still able to spy on them.

One thing I wondered was whether he wasn’t having trouble watching Jon, with his new status and all, hence the pretending that he had guessed that Jon was awake through deduction and not just… sheer observation; but he did admit that he knew and had indeed seen him when Basira pushed it. So!! That actually clears something up for me: Elias might be using the “I assume(d)” expression as a loophole when he’s lying-without-personally-feeling-that-he’s-lying (MAG040, Elias: “so, I assumed [Gertrude] was dead and left the investigation to the police, for all that good it did me.”). That counts as lying for me, but maybe not for him, apparently :w

Plus, Elias’s reasoning about the tape recorders seem to follow Jon’s, a bit in the same fashion (possibly overheard him, and is using his arguments?):

(MAG126) ARCHIVIST: […] There was a tape recorder waiting for me when I sat down. […] I’ve decided to let the tapes run. They’ve… proved useful before, so…

(MAG127) ELIAS: […] And as to whether he will ever hear this, maybe he’ll get the tapes. Maybe he won’t. But the recordings have helped so far, so…

Not the exact same phrasing for once, but roughly the same intention, except for one thing: “THE RECORDINGS HAVE HELPED” WHOM/WHAT, ELIAS. (I’m really not sure he meant “they helped Jon in the past” here.)

- In the same fashion: I wonder whether he can see what Martin is currently doing, or if Peter’s influence prevents him from accessing him, since they’re working closely together? What does Elias think of Martin working directly under Peter, and “isolating” himself? You’d think that even if Elias only felt mostly disgust towards Martin, cheating on Beholding would be a big enough offender for him to snap about that…?

FUN THING: Elias… still has NEVER EVER. MENTIONED. EVEN. ONCE. “PETER LUKAS”.

He never acknowledged that Peter had taken over the Institute. He didn’t even mention that Peter might be supposed to protect the Archives team? If Peter is not great with computers and with administration work with “too many variables” (from a sea captain??? Really??), nor is he supposed to protect the Archives, nor does he share Elias’s priority of setting off the Watcher's Crown (as Peter is focusing on Adelard’s investigations instead)… why was Peter chosen as an interim director? What was he supposed to do, in Elias’s mind? I’m going back to this, once again: does Elias even know that Peter has taken over the Institute? And/or does “Peter” truly exist as a person/avatar/monster? Jon had immediately thought about the possibility that he wasn’t “real”:

(MAG123) ARCHIVIST: Sorry, you haven’t– BASIRA: Nop. Never seen him. As far as I can tell, Martin’s the only one who has. ARCHIVIST: … right. A–and you’re sure he’s… real? BASIRA: We get emails from him. Memos. […] ARCHIVIST: But i–if you’ve never…seen him, I mean…

And it’s true that Peter wasn’t exactly interacting with his surroundings in past appearances: he was isolated when drinking his coffee in MAG033 and then… didn’t actually command The Tundra (Carlita only spotted him when they left the boat at night). In-series, he only appeared to people when they were alone (MAG100 for Bryan; MAG108, MAG120, MAG126 for Martin). The only cases in which there were multiple people involved around him were in MAG066, when he and Salesa freed Vincent Yang from the box (… and Peter was implied to have betted on Vincent having died in said box), and in MAG101, when Michael recounted that Michael Shelley and Gertrude had met with Peter to get transportation to the Great Twisting. MAG126 implied that Martin might have been the one writing Peter’s emails (since Peter ~can’t stand computers~): is that because Peter can barely interact with the world around him / is only perceptible to people who have been marked by the Lonely? Or is that part of the plan to isolate Martin further – by making everyone think that Martin is actually “Peter Lukas” and deceiving everyone?

Alternatively: Elias is not mentioning Peter on purpose, knows in excruciating detail what is happening around Peter, and, whatever is currently happening, they’re in on it together, and it really doesn’t bode well for Martin even if the New Threat is actually a thing. ;;

- Biggest plot-twist, for me, was to learn that Elias doesn’t want Jon to see him and has taken extra measures to ensure that they wouldn’t meet. Basira had already mentioned that Elias had made a deal with the police (MAG122: “A bunch of Section’d officers took him in. He made some sort of deal, I think. But… he’s not getting out anytime soon.”) and we still don’t know the details of that one, though Elias just mentioned his “cooperation” (is it just behaving without making people’s lives hell in the prison? Or is it actively helping Section 31’d officers? I’m guessing that… selective omniscient powers might be relevant to their interests?)

Elias not wanting Jon to see him leads me to wonder about two things: what is Elias waiting for – he described Jon as being in transition, so when and how is Jon supposed to reach the next stage (AND HOW CAN HE AVOID IT)? And why does Elias want to avoid being in Jon’s presence? Because Jon would punch him in the face? (Definitely, but there is a long queue :w) Because Jon would most definitely do the exact contrary of what Elias seems to be aiming for? (Nothing new in that regard :w) Orrr… because Elias thinks that Jon has reached a stage where Jon’s compulsion might work on him?

Anyway: there is something definitely funny in the way that… for both Martin and Elias, Jon is a ~*HIM*~-who-doesn’t-need-to-be-named:

(MAG126) MARTIN: […] It’s because he’s back, isn’t it. [SIGHS] He’s back, so now you’re going to be… around, again. Listening in. Mff. You missed him, didn’t you. … Yeah. … [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] Yeah, me too. […] PETER: You talked to him. MARTIN: I… I, I tried not to, I–I, I didn’t mean to… PETER: You talked to him. And that’s understandable, Martin, of course it is! Please don’t think I’m upset, it’s just… not ideal. Shows how much work we still have ahead of us. MARTIN: If I keep avoiding him, people will get suspicious. […] You said he’d probably never wake up. […] When all this is over, I’m telling him everything, with or without your permission.

(MAG127) ELIAS: […] It, it wasn’t recording, but… I assume this means he’s awake. […] BASIRA: You know he’s back. You’ve seen him. […] You figured you’d record us for him? […] Fine. So you won’t see him, but you’re happy for him to hear our conversations. ELIAS: He can listen all he wants, but he’s at a very delicate stage right now, and I… fear my presence would be a… a distraction. I’ve made it clear my cooperation’s contingent on his not seeing me, and my terms have been accepted thus far.

(Only moment Elias said Jon’s name was to diss him: “Then again: you are beset by enemies on all sides, Basira. And unless you expect Jon to record them into submission […]”. So Jon only has a name when it’s about trashing him and the fact he’s a nerd who can’t win in a fight. Elias, please.)

- By the way! The many shackle sounds gave us an indication: Elias must have the habit of using a loooot of hand gestures for emphasis, since it was clicking all the time when he was talking!

- Not the first time that Elias has acknowledged the tape recorders (MAG098: Melanie: “… Did…? Did you turn that on?” / Elias: “Hmm? Oh. You get used to it.”) or used them as a means of communication between him and Jon (he addressed Jon directly when recording in MAG092 and MAG120), but first time that he’s been directly asked about what he knows about them!

(MAG127) ELIAS: […] And as to whether he will ever hear this, maybe he’ll get the tapes. Maybe he won’t. But the recordings have helped so far, so… BASIRA: … Do you know what they are? ELIAS: What a question.

WHICH TECHNICALLY MEANS SHIT, THANK YOU E-LIE-AS. Could mean that He Knows Exactly What They Are And How They Operate; could mean that he has a vague idea; could mean that he has absolutely no idea and is bullshitting his way out of the question. Eff you, grinning man. (Sidenote: Ben’s delivery on that last line was so satisfying somehow??)

- “Sometimes I’m eating.” … Yyyyyeah but, Elias. Do you sleep? Jury’s out on the question. Relatedly: I wonder if Jon is wishing he didn’t need to sleep, but at the same time… he hasn’t mentioned sleeping since season 4 started, and we still don’t know if he’s still having The Dreams. When Basira listed off the overview of Jon’s powers, it would have been the perfect moment to try to sort out what’s up with those:

(MAG127) BASIRA: … So. You can’t be killed by a collapsing building. Major injuries scar up fast. You can force the truth out of people and knowledge pops into your head whenever you need it. ARCHIVIST: Yes. I, I think that about, that about covers it.

But Jon didn’t add anything. I have no inkling of what is going on in Jon’s head: was he actually less aware of the true nature of his dreams than we had accounted for at the end of season 3 (MAG113: “I’m not too concerned, to be honest, my dreams are, uh… Well, let’s just say I don’t think they’re going to be letting anyone else in… any time soon.”)? Was he made to forget about the content of his dreams when he woke up from his coma, in the same way that he forgot the end of the Unknowing? Is he hiding that information from Basira because he’s trying to make her trust him again, and feels like it could be a deal-breaker? (He’s making efforts to be transparent with her, though… but is he exhaustive in that transparency? He, of all people, should know that hiding things has proven to be a wrong course of action, and so far in season 4 he has been precisely sharing and trying to talk to people, though…).

I guess that we’ll need to wait for a push in order to find out what Jon knows/remembers about his dreams: whether an old statement-giver coming back, whether a new person coming to give a live statement (what will Jon do in such a situation?), whether… MAG120’s tape resurfacing, which could be soon.

(MAG126) ARCHIVIST: […] There was a tape recorder waiting for me when I sat down. They’re not even hiding it anymore. There weren’t any tapes from when I was… away – I checked. Whatever they are, they are here for me.

(MAG127) ELIAS: Er, I’ve found one of these in my cell? It, it wasn’t recording, but… I assume this means he’s awake. […] And as to whether he will ever hear this, maybe he’ll get the tapes. Maybe he won’t. But the recordings have helped so far, so…

^He’s probably referring to the time he was comatose but, technically, Jon went “away” at the end of MAG117, so that could include the tapes of MAG118 and MAG120. Both involving Elias. Elias clearly said “the tapes”, plural, in MAG127, so maybe getting that tape recorder will unlock the missing ones, which could just… reappear? No idea.

- Oh My Gods, Elias:

(MAG127) BASIRA: … So why am I here? What do you want that’s so important you needed to tell me to my face? ELIAS: I believe you’ve recently lost Melanie. BASIRA: … We saved Melanie. ELIAS: As a person, yes, but as a defender…

Melanie, from off-screen: STOP TELLING PEOPLE I’M DEAD. (That was so mean and gratuitous and savage, ELIAS???)

There is something absolutely disgusting in the way Elias managed to turn one of the only good things that have happened recently (they managed to remove the bullet from Melanie! She’s a bit more of herself again! She’s getting emotions back!) into… a loss. Was it because she was infected by The Slaughter that Elias wanted to hire her in MAG084? We know from MAG106 that the fact that she didn’t have many people around her helped:

(MAG106) MELANIE: Threaten then. I’ve got nothing. ELIAS: That’s… almost true. Your life is indeed shockingly absent of any meaningful connections. That’s actually one of the reasons I chose you for this job. [PAUSE] Your father was your last real anchor, wasn’t he? [STATIC BEGINS.]

But it was “one of the reasons” (potential others being: Melanie listing how she’s reached the end of her options in MAG084); did Elias already know about the Slaughter-infected wound?

… ;; I REALLY don’t like that Elias is ~offering his help~ for the Archives now that this part is getting better. What is the trick. How is he planning to get some power back through the option he’s ~generously~ mentioning to Basira.

(MAG127) ELIAS: As a person, yes, but as a defender… I would have thought you would want all the help you could get, or… have you forgotten what happened last time you lay your guard down? BASIRA: … We’ll work it out. ELIAS: Possibly. Then again: you are beset by enemies on all sides, Basira. And unless you expect Jon to record them into submission, it would seem you’re in rather dire need of another option. BASIRA: … And you just happen to have one. ELIAS: I might have an idea, yes. BASIRA: And what does it cost? ELIAS: Just some of your time, Basira. Just your time. BASIRA: … [SIGHS] Okay. Let’s hear it.

(Gods!!! I hate it!! I love how he’s good at what he’s doing!! Hitting where it hurts – that “last time you lay your guard down” might be about The Flesh attack? And as usual, he sounds totally rational, getting you when you’re in a weak spot, when you’d need help!! There are obvious parallels with the way Peter handled Martin in the meantime: both playing on the way Basira&Martin feel responsible for the others’ safety, both being ~logical~ and insisting that their deal is mostly in your interest…)

What is the triiiiiiiiiick, WHAT IS THAT INSISTENCE ABOUT “TIME”………..

1°) I really hope that whatever he told Basira, Basira won’t play along with his game. The tape recorder cut at this point; Jon won’t know about Elias’s offer if Basira doesn’t tell him. I really hope that she’s not planning dissimulation – Martin is already doing that and it… doesn’t sound good already. If they scatter, if they hide and keep things from each other, they can be sure that Elias will get some power back this way……………

2°) Regarding the ~cliffhanger~ of Elias having a suggestion to make regarding the Archives team’s new “Defender”, there are many options and, even amongst characters we have already met, they’re all interesting.

Daisy? Sounds the most logical, since we can assume (from a narrative standpoint) that she’s not totally dead + Elias mistakenly called Basira “detective” and called her in – she would be the one who would agree to do anything to get Daisy back. (Though… anyway, Elias couldn’t have called anyone else: Melanie would have skinned him anyway, Martin is off, and Elias doesn’t want Jon to see him.) Is the mention that Basira would only have to give “time” because she would be supposed to take her place inside of the coffin…? (Past victims seem to just disappear inside of it, though.)

Simon Fairchild? Jon said that he didn’t want to meet him a few episodes ago (MAG124: “Fairchild seems to travel far and wide for his victims, with no motivation other than… variety. I do not think I ever wish to meet him.”), would be Very Elias to just throw the old man at Jon as a result.

The Section’d officer who arrested Elias / the Legend who punched Elias? He sounded like an awful guy but HEY!!! He punched Elias. Melanie would love to hear about how it felt, and she needs some cheering up. And I wouldn’t put it past Elias to rec the guy who punched him.

JUDE PERRY? Would be amazingly awful for Jon and also worst choice ever, which is why Elias could go for that one.

Julia&Trevor, having managed to come back from the US? Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t dream of Trevor hunting in the Archives. (Okay, maybe I just want to hear Julia again because nnggg. Maybe.) (Also!! They burned down Ivy Meadows (and Melanie’s father), so if anyone should get to meet them, it’s Melanie.)

Spider-people and/or Annabelle? Can’t say for sure, but I feel like whatever the spiders are doing, they’re enjoying their lurking in the shadows for now (and given that they sent Oliver to wake up Jon, they seem to avoid direct interactions with him).

Mikaele Salesa? He had contacts with the Institute, knew Gertrude a bit, and we only know that he disappeared(status is unknown, “he hasn’t been seen for almost two years now” in MAG045, which took place in September 2016). Plus, Salesa knew Peter Lukas…

Breekon or Hope, depending on which of them survived Daisy’s wrath? I really don’t think so (if anything… the surviving one might be a threat for the Archives), but their fake accent would drive Jon CRAZY so fast, probably, and I’d be here for this.

Sadly, if Jon’s dreams from MAG120 are any indication, he’s presumably dead, but I can’t help but think about Mike Crew for the Hilarity. I mean! He wrecked Jon (a bit) and:

(MAG091) MIKE: You’re sure I can’t get you a cup of tea? ARCHIVIST: Uh, it–it’s fine, really. MIKE: Okay. You just seem a bit… jumpy, is all. […] ARCHIVIST: You… There was, there was a book? Er, two of them, at least. Er… Ex Altiora, The Boneturner’s Tale. You, uh… I think you threw a guy off a skyscraper in Paris. MIKE: Hmm. Last chance for that cup of tea. ARCHIVIST: I… [STATIC] Where did you get that scar? MIKE: [LONG SIGH AS THE SOUND OF RUSHING AIR RISES] And I was trying so hard to be polite. […] We have a lot in common, really. After all, what, what good’s the height, the terrifying draw of gravity, unless you, unless you really know the scale of what you’re facing?

He said they Vast and Beholding had “lot in common”! He makes tea!! (Wrong person, but still. He likes to make and offer tea. A spot was left… vacant, for that role.)

tl:dr BEHOLDING-STATEMENT YIIISSS, and I’m so glad and mad to have heard Elias again, already =DD

We already have MAG128’s title soooo… personal speculation would be about Breekon &/or Hope, maybe the coffin already? And/or a Buried statement? Regarding the title’s double-meaning (/if taken literally): Sounds Like A Big Lie anyway :|

#at least we got ONE jonathan with self-preservation skills? #the magnus archives #tma liveblog #mag127 #tma season 4 #tma spoilers/