#yes he had to use his unique magic it was an emergency he insisted

[ryllen]

thank you for working hard x

#he deserves a big cold milkshake #twst #twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt #twst yuu #twst mc #twst baby #fanart #yes he had to use his unique magic it was an emergency he insisted #his daughter was crying #anything that involves his child crying is an emergency

[sinsbymanka]

This is a double whammy entry from me​ for @wickedwitchofthewilds​ Kinktober 2020 Prompts and @scharoux​‘s @cozy-autumn-prompts​. The prompts are “Quickie” for Kinktober and “Ripe for the Harvest” for Cozy Autumn Prompts. Thank you loves for running the event! 

I’m gifting this work to my dear friend @tuffypelly whose Athena Adaar stars!

I’m also submitting this for @dadrunkwriting this week! 

Title: As You Wish Pairing: Female Adaar/Blackwall, Female Inquisitor/Blackwall  Rating: E Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Semi-Public Sex, Sub Blackwall (Dragon Age), Blackwall (Dragon Age) Spoilers

Read on AO3

Thom never let her take care of him. 

Athena Adaar understood why, to an extent, he was like this. He’d spent so much of the past several years atoning for his sins trying to be the man he thought the world needed the most. A hero, a Warden. Of course it translated outside of the battlefield and bled into their personal life. 

She was his lady, and he wanted to serve. His pleasure was always secondary, always unimportant. He only wanted to bring her crashing to the edge again and again, clawing at his shoulders and chanting his name to the Maker. 

But this time… this time, she would take care of him. 

Athena tightened the last knot and stepped back to take a long, critical look at her handiwork. 

She could have snuck all the ropes up to her room, but the loft in the stable was far more convenient, and nobody would look for her here unless it was truly an emergency. And since Athena intended on taking her time… well, she wasn’t about to be rushed by some Orlesian having a meltdown about the price of grain or tolls on Inquisition roads. 

Plus. There was something charming about the image of Thom stretched out over a hay bale, his arms tied above his head to a post. The thick blanket would protect him and her from discomfort, but it didn’t disguise the sheer novelty of what they were doing. 

What was it the peasant children had called it? Athena had never been allowed close enough to play with them herself, she’d been a freak because of her horns and size long before her magic made itself known as well. But a part of her distantly remembered looking on with longing as human children jumped into a card, shouting…

A hay ride! A hay ride!

Well. She was about to have a much more satisfying hay ride. 

Thom stretched, testing the durability of her knots. His taut muscles strained and bulged before he gave up with a grunt.

“My lady.” He groaned, fingers gripping the ropes. “Is this truly necessary?” 

“Yes.” Athena decreed, tracing her fingers from his bound wrists down the tight muscles of his arms, giving one bicep a firm squeeze. “How else will I have my way with you?” 

“Any way you wish, clearly.” Thom responded drly. “Including trussed up in a loft.” 

Athena laughed softly, teasing her nails over his muscled shoulders, down the hard planed of his chest and into the thick hair. It was just as luxurious as Varric’s, even though Thom didn’t flaunt himself the same way their dwarven companion liked to. And honestly, that was all well and good, Athena was quite pleased to have this treasure to herself. 

She flicked her eyes from Thom’s chest down to the hard cock jutting proudly from a nest of neat curls the same dark color as the rest of his hair. “I think you’re enjoying yourself.” 

“At the mercy of a beautiful woman?” Thom chuckled low in his throat. “How could I not?” 

Athena smiled to herself, settling onto the bale beside Thom and leaning over him to capture his mouth in a soft, insistent kiss. She slipped her tongue past his willing lips, twisting it with his while she ran her hand over the soft beard he wore and up his jaw. 

She broke the kiss to brush the hair from his temple. Thom groaned and tried to follow, but couldn’t quite get the leverage he needed. Athena tutted, walking her fingers down his broad chest. “Patience, love.” 

“Let me taste you, my lady.” Thom pleaded. 

Athena just shook her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “That is not the game tonight, Thom. Tonight…” 

She trailed off, raking her nails over Thom’s abdomen, feeling his muscles tremble and flex beneath her touch. “Tonight, I’m going to taste every inch of you.” 

Before he could protest, she made good on her promise. Leaning across his prone body, she pressed feather light kisses over his shoulders, running both palms firmly over his chest. With the slightest pull of mana, she warmed her teasing fingers and used them to massage the muscles he put through their paces every day. 

She stopped at one jagged old scar, pressing a firmer kiss to it. “What is this one from? You’ve never said.” 

“Ah.” He coughed nervously. “I hardly remember.” 

Athena placed her hand over it, held his coal dark eyes with her own, and waited. She swore she saw color rising underneath the thick hair hiding most of his face. 

“I do seem to recall a rather friendly lass and her aggravated betrothed.” 

Athena’s laughter startled the birds nesting above, she heard them take flight in a flurry of beating wings. She dropped another kiss to the scar, shaking her head. “You scoundrel.” 

“Don’t tell Varric. He’ll want the whole blighted story.” 

“And then make up something much more exciting anyway.” 

Thom chuckled. “Sounds about right.” 

His laughter tapered off into a choked moan when Athena leaned over and flicked her tongue over that scar, letting her tongue trace his skin. She closed her eyes, beginning to work down his body with the patience and skill of a woman taught to control herself as a living weapon. And each press of her lips was another crack in his armor so that by the time she got to his thighs, she could hear his rasping breath above her. 

“Athena.” He croaked. “My lady, you do not have to-” 

She silenced him with the broad flat of her tongue slowly licking up his heavy length. It bobbed before her, a bead of clear fluid pooling at the tip. She flicked her tongue over it, collecting the salty liquid with a hum of delight. 

“I’ve wanted to taste you.” Athena confessed, her words ghosting over Thom’s cock and making him buck on instinct. “I’ve wanted to take care of you.” 

She looked from from beneath her lashes, settling her warm palms over the muscled thighs of her lover. She could see her wolfish grin reflected in his hungry eyes. “And now I get to do whatever I want with you, love.” 

She licked her lips slowly, wrapping her fingers around the velvet steel of his shaft. She squeezed lightly, watching Thom’s eyes close and his head fall back. He made such a picture, one that ignited a fire deep within the pit of her stomach. 

It was greedy, but she slid her hand to the root of his cock and opened her mouth, engulfing the tip in one movement. Thom’s broken moan echoed in the loft, his hips trembling with the effort to stay still while she sealed her lips over the sensitive head. She swirled her tongue slowly, listening to him gasp her name above her.

She swore the very sound made her slick with want. She closed her eyes, breathing through the sudden rush of desire in her blood. Achingly slowly, she slipped down an inch before licking her way back up, pulling away to press a filthy kiss to the head of his cock. 

“You’re going to kill me, my lady.” Thom breathed. 

“Never.” Athena promised. The very thought-

It reminded her of him in manacles. A cell door slamming closed. Cullen’s tortured eyes and Varric’s thick hand on her elbow. There was no room for those bad memories. Not now. Not here. 

She erased them the way she knew best, guiding his cock back into her warm mouth and listening to his shattered noises echoing in the loft. They made her skin prickle while she slowly lavished Thom with attention, tracing her tongue over the veins and ridges of his cock. He tasted of clean, masculine sweat. She could smell sawdust, hay, and something uniquely Thom that made her dizzy with want. 

That was before he began to spill praise from those sinful lips of him. 

“Athena, yes-” He groaned. “Yes. Like that. Maker’s balls your mouth. The things you do with it could make a priest sin.” 

Athena pressed her thighs together, trying to ease some of the unbearable pressure building between her legs. She made a little noise in her throat, beginning to bob up and down the proud length, covering him in her slick saliva. 

“And you’re a damn sight down there. I could watch you all day. Never seen anyone look so damn good with my cock in their mouth, never had anyone make me feel-” 

She sucked and Thom choked on his words, hissing and clutching at the ropes above his head. Athena smiled to herself, letting her free hand trace back up his thigh, scratching over his hip bones, before slipping down into the sensitive space just beneath his heavy balls. 

She pressed her thumb firmly into that sensitive skin and listened to Thom choke on a shout of pleasure that nearly made her burst into giggles around his cock. 

“I’m not going to last.” Thom moaned, fighting his restraints. “I won’t last and I want to please you, let me-” 

Athena pulled off Thom’s cock with an obscene plop at the same time her hand drifted lower. Her thumb teased the tight muscle of his ass while she smiled brilliantly down at Thom, at her mercy in the best of ways. 

“This pleases me.” Athena declared. “And I’ve brought stamina draughts. We have all evening, love.” 

Her thumb slipped past the muscle and he almost ripped the rope from the post, instinctively arching into her touch with wanton greed. Before his moans even died into echoes she descended onto his hard cock again, swallowing his length in one quick movement. 

He held himself tightly, always conscious of her comfort, but she could feel him trembling beneath her with all the fury of an earthquake or a storm. She crooked her fingers, searching for the perfect spot…

When she found it, he couldn’t help himself. He arched into her mouth in short, jerky thrusts and she sucked him eagerly. She hollowed her cheeks and flicked her tongue over his sensitive skin. 

With a roar and the creak of ropes strained to their breaking point, Thom succumbed to his orgasm. Thick jets spilled into her throat and she swallowed quickly, careful not to make a mess they’d need to clean up. When he finished, he collapsed with a broken moan of her name. 

Athena pulled her lips off and looked up at him, removing her finger gently and wiping it on the blankets, pulling off his softening cock. A thin string of fluid connected them for a moment before it broke cleanly.

Thom panted, limp and sated. Athena moved slowly, climbing gently over his form and reaching for the knots. A few quick flips of her fingers had them undone, unspinning and letting his arms fall. 

She caught them before they could, examining the red marks of the rope with a wrinkle of her nose. She ran her thumb over them in apology, calling mana to her fingers. 

“My lady… leave them.” Thom ordered gruffly. “It would… it would be an honor to bear the marks of your love.” 

How could the foolish man just… say things like that to make her melt? She ducked her head quickly to hide her blush, rubbing the marks soothingly before bringing his wrists to her lips and kissing softly over the thrum of his pulse. 

“As you wish, love.” 

“And as soon as I catch my breath, I’ll be repaying the favor.” 

Athena’s lips twitched and she leaned down, dropping his wrists to cradle his beloved face in her hands. 

“As you wish, love.” She repeated, brushing her lips against his in a soft kiss. “As you wish.”

#shameless smut #wwkinktober2020 #co-zautumn #dadrunkwriting #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #female adaar/blackwall #female inquisitor/blackwall #female adaar #blackwall #blackwall is still in the stables

[zettabita]

RIVALS: Thunder

Rivals Master List

-------------------------

a masaki ichijou x fem reader fic

Genre: action, romance Warnings: none! Word count: 2.6k+

-------------------------

“Shiba-san, I think I’m going to throw up.” 

You clutch the shoulder of Tatsuya Shiba, First High’s best technician and the one currently servicing your CAD. With a mildly concerned look, he steadies you and walks you to the stage riser. 

Around you, students hustle to and fro, working on computers, tinkering with CADs, and typing hastily on tablets—other technicians for First High. You see, it was the 2095 Nine Schools Magic Competition, and you, a bright-eyed magician hailing from a distant country, was chosen by your First High teachers and upperclassmen to represent the school for Ice Pillar Break. Not much surprise there—even amongst the Blooms students, you were considered one of the best: you learned ridiculously fast, your casting speed rivals that of Miyuki Shiba’s, and, although it wasn’t known to many, your Psion count was very, very high, making for a good starting set of talents for the flashy event. To top it off, you worked hard to keep your place in the prestigious school (one time, you had to explain to your Japanese classmates how and why you, a foreigner, topped the exam for Modern Japanese class). Unfortunately, though, your technical skills weren’t anything to write home about; you could barely calibrate a CAD to save your life. Well, that’s why you had Tatsuya with you.

“You’ll be fine. (L/N)-san. You just need to take your time.” Tatsuya reassures in his usual monotone voice. He pauses, as if thinking what to say, before adding, “Just don’t draw attention to your casting.”

Welp. Aside from the fact that it was your first match of the tournament, you were also horribly unlucky in that your opponent, Suzuki Mutsuba of Third High School, is the current shoo-in to champion Ice Pillar Break for the Newcomer’s Division. Her casting speed and aggressive tactics made her an extremely difficult opponent as she would be able to destroy the ice pillars quickly before you could even cast an offensive spell.

To overcome this, you and Tatsuya had agreed on using your speciality in Ancient Magic which would give you great burst damage and some stealth. It would, however, take a lot of time to cast, and so you had to constantly run a modern counter magic sequence to prevent getting slaughtered in the first couple of seconds while preparing for your Ancient Magic spell. The thought made you want to hurl your breakfast on Tatsuya’s shiny black shoes. 

“Thanks.” You smile weakly at him. “Well, if I lose today, at least I look cute.” Tatsuya, who, as expected, barely reacted, giving you a small smile. Well, it was true. Saegusa-senpai had insisted that the Ice Pillar Break event had also become a mini-fashion show in recent years, so she and some of the other female upperclassmen took a lot of pleasure in dressing you up. You wore a modernized version of your country’s traditional garb (“I absolutely insist! You’ll be a standout,” Saegusa-senpai exclaimed one time after a meeting, imploring you to send for traditional clothes), your face in light makeup, and your hair in a bun. You knew that with your outfit, you’d surely be a standout amongst the sea of competitors in kimono and hakama. 

To prevent yourself from throwing up, you had let go of Tatsuya and preoccupied yourself with fiddling with the stitching on your top, when a disembodied voice booms over the speakers in the holding room. “Mutsuba Suzuki, Third High School, versus (L/N) (F/N), First High School!”

You take a deep breath. You look back to your weeks of training: the tingle of electricity prickling your skin, the feeling of power dancing at the ends of your fingertips, the mental exhaustion from practicing deadly magic for hours on end. You remember the day you first boarded the plane for Japan at the behest of your government, scared that you wouldn’t make it in the suffocatingly competitive atmosphere of First High. You breathe in this moment now: you, who has made it this far and who will make it even further. Suddenly, you don’t feel like throwing up anymore.

“Go on and show them.” Tatsuya hands you your device, slender and silver, and your talisman, a pair of black gloves with a red inscription on the palm. You look into his blue eyes and see absolute certainty. In you, perhaps? There was no time to contemplate, so you take the device and put on the gloves, shooting him an eager grin as the platform begins to rise. “Yes, yes.”

You emerge into the light, your chin held high.

-------

“Oi, Masaki, it’s the foreigner girl!”

“Mm.” Masaki Ichijou, scion of the Ichijou clan and freshman ace of Third High School, looks up from his device to George and then to you at the center of the stadium. You were something of a spectacle at this year’s Nine Magic High Schools Competition, because foreigners were so rare at magic high schools, much less at a contest of Japan’s best up-and-coming magicians.

You emerge from the riser, your stance self-assured. Judging from the large screen flashing yours and Mutsuba-san’s faces, Masaki thought you were pretty, yes, but not in that demure Japanese way. Your wide eyes were intense and serious but a little restless and some strands of your (H/C) hair loose from your bun were fluttering in the wind. You were wearing some sort of unique outfit; probably from your home country, Masaki notes, and a pair of gloves. He eyes the CAD in your hand. General-type. General-type CADs can hold a lot of Activation Sequences, but it’s taxing for the caster. You using one meant you have some skill. 

“Ooh. General-type CAD. Still, she doesn’t look particularly tough.” George pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously. “Do you think I should still have the others take stats?”

Masaki was certain you weren’t a lightweight: after all, your home country sent you to First for a reason, and First sent you to this competition. First High is not a school to be taken lightly. He nodded. “Yes. Just to be sure.”

Still, as good as you may be, Mutsuba-san was probably better, Masaki thought. “But I don’t think she can win against Mutsuba-san,” He adds. “She tied with me in practice once or twice, you know.” 

George nods slightly. “Yes. Her control and cast speed are above average. And her specialty really is suited for this—“

The siren sounds, cutting off George and shushing the crowd. It’s time. After two counts, a screeching noise fills the air, and the match between First High and Third High begins. 

On the far right, Mutsuba-san, dressed in a pink kimono, outstretches a gun-shaped CAD and begins her offense. Masaki knows what it is from his practice matches with her: Phonon Maser, an A-rank spell. A bright beam bursts forth from the barrel of her CAD and vaporizes one of your pillars. Masaki’s eyes dash to the left of the field. You wince a little, your left hand gripping your CAD tighter and your right hand tucked behind your back, but you quickly resume your steady gaze and continue casting. A sequence forms over your pillars and a dull light begins to pulse over your own ice field. Soon, Mutsuba-san’s Phonon Maser only makes dents. 

“Data Fortification.” George makes a yawning motion. “Effective, but boring.” 

“Hey! I use Data Fortification.” Masaki says indignantly. “And her defense is decent.”

Third’s best engineer regards his friend dryly. “Mm. But it’s not your only spell. Miss First here isn’t even attempting an offense.” He gestures to the field. He was right. You were holding your CAD high over the ice field, as if commanding them to stay frozen—and they did for the most part, receiving Mutsuba-san’s onslaught of lasers relatively well. Still, Masaki thought, you weren’t making any moves to destroy Mutsuba-san’s pillars. 

“Yeah. As good as she is at defending herself, it’s useless if she doesn’t attack.” George nods in reply. 

A few more seconds of the standoff between you and your opponent pass. The young Ichijou takes a quick glance around. George looked like he was getting more bored with each passing second, and he wasn’t the only one losing interest. Many other Third students in the stand who waited eagerly for you a couple of seconds ago now whisper impatiently amongst themselves, bored and unimpressed by the seemingly one-sided battle. To Masaki’s right field of view, the First High students in their stand shift uncomfortably in their seats, visibly worried about the outcome of the match. It seemed that even they didn’t know what was going on. 

Masaki fixes his attention back on you who still kept up with your ironclad defense. Why did First High even bother to send someone who won’t attack, Masaki wonders. He tries searching your face, your figure, your magic for any indication of anxiety, uncertainty, or whatever one was supposed to feel whenever they were about to lose a match. With your steady gaze, (E/C) eyes fixed on the field before you, your defense magic constant in its impenetrability, you seemed too calm for someone about to lose, Masaki observes. And then it hit him. 

“It’s not calmness.” He murmurs.

“What?” George gazes at Masaki quizzically. With all their years of friendship, George has pretty much gotten used to his best friend’s mutterings, especially during training—he’s heard I have to get this perfectly or I need to adjust the hydrostatic pressure far too many times in simulations—and even learned to take some of them seriously. He’s written them off as telltale marks of a genius (because he himself does the same things when he’s zoning out in his lab).  

“She’s waiting for something.” It’s not calmness, Masaki thought. It was something more predatory. Staring at your face on the megascreen, he realizes that you, in all your non-aggression, were fighting back a smile. 

Prompted by Masaki’s fixation, George studies your figure with the I-discovered-a-new-Cardinal-Code look on his face, the look he uses when scrutinizing a research article or examining Akane’s new outfit (It’s a well-known fact that they like each other. Masaki long ago conceded to the fact that his live-in best friend and his younger sister Akane are practically dating.) As George looks over you, his eyes widen. “Look at her right hand.” 

“Huh.” Masaki studies your right arm tucked away behind your back, away from everyone’s attention. Your hand, covered by your glove with the red seal on the palm, was making some sort of small, rapid fingering motion, like you were weaving a thread or plucking multiple strings on an instrument. It was so slight and so seemingly random that even the announcers and Mutsuba-san did not even recognize. 

Masaki raises an eyebrow. “That’s Ancient Magic, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah. Her glove is the talisman.” George leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, as if waiting for something to unfold. As he did, he glances up at the sky. He then grips Masaki’s shoulder tightly.

The young Ichijou tries to slap his best friend’s hand off. “Hey, you’re going to ruin my uniform.” 

George didn’t seem to hear him. His gaze, now bewildered, was fixated on the sky. “By Kami-sama...” He whispers. 

Masaki glances up with him. The sky was dark, much darker than it was minutes ago. Clouds seemed to form quickly, almost too quickly, overhead. George‘s grip on Masaki’s shoulder tightened. “Masaki, don’t watch the field, she’s casting a—“

Before he could finish his sentence, you whip out your right hand and snap your finger. A streak of pure white floods everyone’s vision and a deafening clap thunders overhead. The stadium erupts in surprised yelps from the audience. The light soon disappears, revealing you standing there on your podium, gloved right hand outstretched and a wide grin spread over your face. 

Masaki hastily surveys the field, rubbing his eyes from the sudden flash of lightning. Half of Mutsuba-san’s pillars had exploded, boiling hot water sizzling on the grass around the ice field. The other half were melted to varying degrees. The ground underneath what used to be the center pillar, where the light struck, was scorched. 

“Well, well.” He clicks his tongue in amazement. “Thunder Cloud.” 

George’s red eyes widened. “That’s…that’s the A-class Ancient Magic that copies the natural lightning generation process...” 

“Yes.” Masaki let out a sigh. He’s seen the spell before when his father worked with foreign magicians from the tropical southern regions of the Asian Union, but he’s never seen them do the little motions you did. “Father used to know a few who could cast it. They literally create cumulonimbus clouds and separate the electrons in such a way to make the lightning strike an exact point. It takes a lot of Psions but it’s highly lethal. To cast it while casting a modern spell...”

George started typing on his phone furiously. “That’s next-level. Gotta have the team take note of this.” Masaki could only nod in reply. “Now that’s why First sent her.”

Mutsuba-san looked shocked that she only had half her pillars left within a fraction of a second and scrambled to cast a defensive spell, to no avail. You had already snapped your finger again, causing a large Sequence to form in the sky, and lightning strikes the pillars, this time stronger, brighter, and hotter than the last. 

The pair manage to just avert their eyes in time. There were deafeaning cheers on the right side of the stadium—probably First audience—and then they were drowned out by a crack of thunder like a whip. When the light cleared, there was nothing left of Mutsuba-san’s pillars, just the scorched ground upon which they once stood and steam rising from her side of the field. All ice and water had been vaporized.

The siren screeched loudly. “The match goes to (L/N) (F/N) of First High School!” 

The stadium erupts in cheers, except for the pair’s stand, which consisted of Third students. Third High sat in stunned silence. No one had expected that you would defeat Mutsuba Suzuki, a member of the Ten Master Clans and a favorite to win the Newcomers’ Division for Ice Pillar Break in a complete wipeout. And in such a rapid and unexpected way, too.

George clicks his tongue in amazement. “Now, that’s one way to get everyone’s attention.”

“And the Clans’ attention, too.” Masaki says in a soft voice.

George glances at him and raises an eyebrow, a playful smile on his face. “Could it be that the great and super-single Ichijou Masaki is expressing his interest?”

Masaki glares at him incredulously and rolls his eyes. “Yes, George, I am extremely interested in this girl whom I’ve never met and whose background I have no idea about. What I’m saying is that defeating a member of the Master Clans is—“

The star engineer lets out a small chuckle. “Yes, yes, I know what you mean. Still…you never know, right?” 

Masaki exhales loudly through his nose. “I know a lot of things, George.” He takes a quick glance back at the megascreen, which shows you practically beaming as you wave at the First High crowd, as if you didn’t just cast very taxing and very deadly magic seconds ago. ‘(L/N) (F/N)’, it says on the screen. He thinks of you, you in the moment, smiling with the thunder. He tries to speak your name in his head, pronouncing the individual syllables the way he’s heard people speak names of your descent, seeing how each sound would fit in his mouth. At the back of his mind, he thinks it fits well, but he keeps this information to himself.

George didn’t seem to notice his best friend’s thoughts wandering. “Uh-huh. Well, I should go check on Mutsuba-san’s hardware. Catch you later.” He moves towards the exit with the leaving crowd but pauses at a notification from his phone. He scans it, eyes widening for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past couple of minutes. 

”What is it?” Masaki asks, just barely having snapped out of his reverie of you.

George turns to him, a wicked grin on his face. “Just got word from the team. She’s going to sub for Monolith Code.”

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Next: Spark I

#mahouka #ichijou masaki #masaki ichijou #masaki ichijo #shiba tatsuya #tatsuya shiba #mahouka koukou no rettousei #irregular at magic high school #irregular

[royalcordelia]

Summary:  After returning home from medical school, Gilbert discovers that the neighbor girl, Anne, has gone missing. He won't rest until he's found her, even if it means taking a leap of faith and venturing into his father's old wardrobe. (A Narnia!AU).

Notes: Merry Christmas @londonsboy​!! I was your secret santa this year and I was delighted to get to know you! Talking to you made me remember how wonderful Narnia is, and I realized that Anne of Green Gables and Narnia both have that same whimsical charm about them. I hope your holiday was cozy and lovely!  

*

1: A Child’s Lore

Gilbert remembers the Storygirl. He remembers the red twists of hair braided down her thin shoulders, each tied with bowed ribbons. He remembers the monarch butterflies balancing gingerly on her freckled fingers and the dimples haloing each half of her smile. He remembers cloaking himself away under the shadows of the treeline and watching the girl move slowly through the tall grass. With care and ease, she urged the butterflies to amble onto a nearby flower. 

“Would you care for a story?” she asked them. Gilbert remembers straining his ears to pick up any trace of her voice, tender and easy on his senses. “I won’t fault you if you fly away, but if you have a few moments to spare, I have such wonderful tales.” The butterflies remained in place, fluttering their wings slowly in the warm sunlight. 

“Very well, a story you shall have!” continued the Storygirl. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Cordelia. Oh, but she didn’t start out that way. You see, for most of her life, Cordelia suffered the great calamities that all poor orphan girls do…” 

Gilbert’s back slid down against the tree, somehow too captivated to tear his eyes away. He settled on the ground, pushing aside verdant brush to keep his sights on her. Never before had he taken himself as a fellow who enjoyed fairytales, yet something about this tale and her voice left him no choice but to listen. So he listened. He listened and listened until she whispered, “The end!” The blues of her eyes turned toward the trees straight at him as if she’d known he was there all along. And then, she ran off, disappearing into the heart of the valley forever.

He was only thirteen then, but he remembers. 

Now, he keeps the memory of the Storygirl in the same place he stores the memory of his father’s wardrobe—deep in the parts of his mind full of things he’d seen as a child, but could never prove the existence of as an adult. Myths, legends, and fancies of a child’s imagination. There lives the memory of the Storygirl and the days of yore when his father’s wardrobe held clothes, evergreen trees, and sweet breezes. 

Gilbert knows they’re not real. But sometimes he wishes they were.

2: A Silhouette

Avonlea is uncertain and strange when Gilbert finally returns home. As his carriage carries him through town, the heavy feeling sinks deeper into his chest. Where has that ethereal beauty of the island gone? It used to seep out of the red soil like petrichor, but now the air has lost its fragrant charm. Gilbert can’t help but feel as if maybe the magic PEI days of his youth had been but a childish whimsy, stripped away by inevitable adulthood. 

Then, the hazy memory of the Storygirl returns and for a brief moment. Uninvited, but not unwelcome. Gilbert closes his eyes and lets himself recall the details of her face. There’s comfort in his own childhood myths, as if he is not so far gone, after all.  And when he opens his eyes, he’s home. 

From the doorway, it looks like a portrait—Sebastian frozen on the parlor sofa with low hung shoulders, Mary holding his head to her middle and caressing his bushy silk hair. Gilbert emerges from the blue shadows of the entryway. 

He should announce himself properly. Perhaps attempt reentering with a wide smile and some kind of good news to brighten the mood. Instead, he hears himself say, “Who died?”

Mary tears away from Bash with a gasp, soaring over to the door to pull Gilbert’s face into the crook of her neck. 

“Gilbert! Were you due home so soon?” she says after drawing a watery breath. “I think we’ve lost track of the days!” 

“Yes. I’m on time down to the minute,” Gilbert replies with a smile. “Are you...going to answer my question?” 

Mary’s brows knit together in confusion as she pulls away to examine the state of his face. Her fingers smooth over the frown lines at the corners of his own eyes, but it’s Bash who answers. 

“No one died. At least, we really hope not,” he explains, distracting Gilbert from his vague answer by pulling Gilbert close for a hug of his own.  “None of that for now. Take your coat and shoes off before someone starts to believe that this isn’t your own home.” 

For the rest of the day, Gilbert tries to whittle out the truth from Bash at any opportunity he gets. At the lunch table, after recounting tales from college and his boring graduation ceremony. At the kitchen sink, elbow deep in sudsy water. At the foot of the garden, pulling weeds and sprinkling water onto thirsty soil. He tries again and again, but Bash does not budge. 

When evening rolls around, it’s pull has already lulled Gilbert to sleep on the parlor sofa. Across from him, Mary stitches together a small hole in one of his old shirts until her own exhaustion makes her prick her finger. 

“Can’t keep my eyes open a second longer,” she yawns. Depositing a kiss on Bash’s head, then Gilbert’s, she murmurs, “Don’t stay up too long. I want to keep looking in the morning.” 

Bash lets a moment pass when he hears their door shut, waits a few seconds more, then crosses the room to where Gilbert is sprawled out on the sofa. The newly minted doctor stirs at the feeling of his brother shaking him awake. 

“Mary’s gone to sleep. We can talk now.” 

Gilbert’s eyelashes are heavy, but he pries them open at the stony tone of his brother’s voice and pushes himself to an upright position. 

“So...What have you been hiding from me all day?” 

Bash’s lips press together. 

“Did you know the Cuthberts adopted a daughter?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Gilbert replies, confused why it matters. 

“They adopted her just before your father passed away, I heard. You went away to our steamer, then straight to college, so you never had a chance to meet her. But when you sent me and Mary to this house, she was here waiting for us. Someone had told her that she’d be getting new neighbors, neighbors that might face the same sort of hardships she did when she first arrived. She showed us around Avonlea, helped Mary clean the house after being empty so long. Her name is Anne. Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.” 

“Did something...happen to her? Do you need me to see her?” 

“You can’t,” Bash spits bitterly. Then, remembering himself, he says, “She’s not sick.” 

“I don’t understand, then.” 

Bash sighs, balling his fists in his lap. 

“Mary and I went to visit her son in Charlottetown for an afternoon last week. Anne offered to come and give everything a good cleaning while we were gone, as a neighborly gift or something. We tried to tell her that it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. She’s not one to lose battles. She arrived a few hours past dawn, but when we came back, she was gone. Then we found out she never went home to Green Gables. No one in Avonlea has seen her in over a week.”

Suddenly, it makes sense to Gilbert why the house is weighty with the feeling of loss . It has lost something. Gilbert doesn’t know this Anne, but whoever she is, she took the island’s light with her.

“What do you think happened?” Gilbert asks, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes.

“Someone broke in. Found a woman all by herself with no one around for miles. You can imagine the rest.” Bash holds his fist with his other hand, as if he might hit something if he lets go. “Anne is...a unique woman. Kind and brave. But to Avonlea she is strange and of varlet stock, and with the way they see Mary and I… Only a few families have been willing to help us look for her. Would you? In the morning? You know Avonlea better than us.” 

Gilbert doesn’t hesitate. 

“I will.” 

3: A Recollection

It just doesn’t add up, Gilbert thinks bitterly, splashing cold water on his tired cheeks. His reflection stares back at him, looking just as dejected as he feels. But what else could there be? I’ve already scoured the house. No signs of a struggle. Nothing broken or stolen. Guess I’ll just have to look just as hard in town. See if anyone knows anything. He scoffs. It sounds like something out of a children’s book. A fair maiden walks into a house that swallows her up whole. Too bad I’m a doctor and not a knight. He means it only in jest, but it sparks the flame of an idea in the farthest corner of his mind—the corner containing his childhood and its fanciful inventions. 

And then, there it is. A memory, a reminiscence of sorts. 

One wardrobe. 

One door drawn open.

One small Gilbert Blythe crawling into it. 

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven when it’d happened, nor can he remember why he’d even ventured into the wardrobe in the first place. Perhaps it had been a particularly clever hideaway in a game of hide-and-go-seek. Or maybe his father had sent him in search of his coat and something had tipped him off that there was more. 

The memory itself is relatively uneventful. Little Gilbert opened the wardrobe door, crawled in, and somehow, miraculously tripped into a bank of snow. The bank of snow was only a mere plot of land in a world Little Gilbert was not brave enough to explore. He’d scurried back to the door, but left it cracked open for just a moment longer to memorize the world he’d found. It left an image in his mind that he carried with him forever, a memory just as fond as that of the Storygirl—a patch of evergreen trees, sweet air, and an impossible winter magic. 

Let’s pretend for a moment this memory is actually a memory and not just a childish imagination, Gilbert ponders. If Anne came to clean the house, maybe she opened the wardrobe to clean it and organize it. Could she have fallen in? Maybe she’s lost! Maybe she has no way home and—

Dr. Blythe, get a hold of yourself. Exhaustion has made you mad. 

You’ll assist Bash in the morning, you’ll question the town’s people, you’ll come to the bottom of this. But you won’t be able to find her by courting such preposterous ideas.

4: An Act of Trust

His resolve lasts an entire hour.

Then it dissolves hopelessly and gives way to the memory of the Wardrobe-world.  Pacing in front of his father’s bed, Gilbert weighs whether or not he should indulge his childhood suspicions. It plays over and over in his mind, a frustrating possibility.

At first, he fights it.

If Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is really as headstrong as the Bash has described her to be, then perhaps she left on her volition, tired of small-island life. It can’t be that hard to believe that a woman could abandon a monotonous past in favor of whatever this young century has to offer her. Gilbert’s very last suspicion should be that Anne somehow found a magical world inside a wardrobe and never returned. Yet, here he is, nudging his foot along the carved trim of the wardrobe with an itching to open it . 

Damn it all. What is there to lose?  

Then he does open it. The hinges of the doors screech after being left to sleep, untouched for a decade. At first, it smells of mothballs and the stale smell of his father’s clothes. But seconds later, there’s a hint of sweet—

Gilbert slams the door shut. Absolutely not, he scolds himself. You’re hallucinating. You want this woman to return so badly that you’ll pretend she’s anywhere but dead in a ditch. But then again … Gilbert turns back to the door, placing his hand on the newly dusted wood. Who would know if he indulged in this wild feeling? Shouldn’t he, a trained doctor and an intelligent man, listen to his own gut? 

Alright , he decides. If he’s going to do this, he isn’t going to do it halfway. 

With a short breath, he draws the door open and closes his eyes shut. Then, he’s crawling in, a grown man squeezed into the tight confines of a wooden closet. It’s difficult to breathe above the heavy smell of age and wool, but just like before, it slips away into an unexpected sweetness. Gilbert crawls closer to it, hands and knees finding new space with every pace forward. Behind him, the wardrobe door is abandoned and opened, but Gilbert doesn’t come back out. 

Instead, his fingers find tall, soft grass and his intuition cries in victory.

5: A Twinless Shoe

Gilbert allows himself exactly ten seconds to sit and stare at the pleasant forest clearing before doing what any logical doctor might do in his situation—secede to the visual proof of a magical world and promptly begin observations.

On a first glance, the impossible world-inside-the-wardrobe doesn’t seem all too different than his Avonlea. There are clusters of trees surrounding the clearing, each crowned with vibrant shades of green, moreso than those of home. A mystical softness teems in the air like a breeze, loitering along his skin until he is a mess of goosebumps. A single lamppost towers over him catching sunlight, unlit but clean of moss or dirt. At its base, a leather boot, dainty and slim. 

Something clears its throat, propelling Gilbert’s soul from his body at the shock of it. He whirls around, grass stains on the knees of his trousers. Before him, sits a trio of white-tailed foxes, peering at him with more expression than should be allowed for such creatures. Gilbert tries to steady his pulse but finds the effort unsuccessful. 

“They’re only foxes,” he reasons with himself. “They make all sorts of strange noises. No cause for alarm.”

“That’s a foolish delusion,” the largest of the foxes answers. 

Gilbert blinks. The fox quirks an invisible brow.

��I beg your pardon?” Gilbert stammers. 

The fox stretches, equal parts annoyed and bored.

“With the types of humans that are supposed to stumble out of that door, you think you’d have a firmer head on your shoulders. Wonder what Aslan chose you for?” 

“I dunno, Rambleleaf. Maybe he’s here for entertainment?” the second fox pipes in. Turning her sunbright amber eyes to him, she asks, “Do you sing? Dance? Tell stories?” 

“That is what he brought Anne for,” the third fox adds. “Maybe one storyteller wasn’t enough.”

“I have a hard time believing that this schmuck could tell stories as well as Anne could,” Rambleleaf counters.  

“Anne’s here ?” Gilbert spits out, desperate. The conversation between the foxes dies out as quickly as it started, replaced by a stunned silence. They exchange a glance, as if deciding whether or not to indulge this fumbling fool in Anne’s whereabouts, but Gilbert is desperate. “Is Anne Shirley-Cuthbert here? I’m told she has red hair and freckles.” 

“You...you speak as if you don’t know her?” Rambleleaf queries, eyes narrow. 

“Not personally,” stammers Gilbert. He clambers to his feet and rushes to the foxes, who jolt but don’t shy away. It seems as if he has surprised them, as if they’ve never had a human kneel so desperately before them. “We’ve been looking everywhere for her, trying not to fear the worst. Her parents are friends of mine. They’re worried sick because one day she left to visit my family’s home and never returned. Please , will you take me to her. I need to make sure she’s okay.” 

“How did you know to look here?” Rambleleaf states, unconvinced. Gilbert can give them no answer, but the truth. 

“A feeling. I once came once here as a boy and remembered it, though I can’t say I know where here is.” 

Rambleleaf ponders this, his tail coming up to the underside of his chin, like a hand scratching at whiskers. His eyes trail to the boot underneath the lamppost, then fall undecidedly on the poor fellow before him. 

When finally he says something, it’s—“Who are you?” 

“Me? Oh, um, I’m Dr. Gilbert Blythe.” 

“Well, Dr. Gilbert sir, I’m Rambleleaf, or just Ramble if you’re nice about it. Welcome to Narnia.” The name Narnia sends a warm thrill down Gilbert’s spine to finally hear it. The existence of it is already enough cause for hope. Rambleleaf nudges Gilbert’s hand with a clawless paw and points over to the single boot laying sideways in the grass. “You’re in luck. We’re good friends of Anne’s. She sent us back to find the shoe she left behind, so if you want to see her, you can follow us back to the Larsack village. It’s not far from here. Just a bit north on the west border of the Western Woods.”  

“I’ll follow you,” Gilbert decides resolutely. 

“Good. Then grab that boot and we’ll be on our way.” 

Gilbert does as he’s told, pushing aside the frustration of being told what to do by a fox. With the shoe in his possession, he curses that he didn’t think to bring any sort of satchel or carrier case. Then again, he isn’t supposed to be here long. Just long enough to find Anne and bring her home. 

Then, without wasting another moment, the foxes disappear in the wood, leaving Gilbert to follow. 

And he does, the door to his father’s wardrobe entirely, completely forgotten.  

6: A Duet

They trek through the thicket of the forest until the soles of Gilbert’s feet have grown sore at the unfamiliar terrain beneath them. Having left his pocket watch sitting on his desk back home, Gilbert can’t be sure of how much time has passed—enough certainly for the foxes to have eased their snide opinion of him. He finds they like to listen, asking Gilbert all sorts of questions but offering no answers of their own. 

As it turns out, Gilbert is not so bad a storyteller, after all. 

“—but children believe in magic the way adults in my world don’t. So I told the little girl that the cure for her stomachache was a feather on the underside of her toes and all her laughter made her forget that she had eaten too many biscuits. Sometimes I think medicine has more possibilities than we can know. Certainly being here has…”

Gilbert slows to a stop and turns his ear to the sky. He draws in a quick breath of hope at the faint lilt of laughter, music, and one rich voice towering above it all. 

He takes off running, hopping over Rambleleaf and sprinting down the path. A crowd’s cheers and the minstrel songs grow closer and louder with each wide stride. He all but crashes into someone at the back of the crowd, scanning the clearing for a head of red hair and a face of sandy freckles. There are a few tents set up along the circle of the crowd, and in between them must be a hundred people sitting and standing, all with their attention locked on one person. From the back, Gilbert finds his view obstructed by some particularly tall Narnians. Just as he begins to plan a route through the mass of people, a soft paw nudges his ankle. 

“You’re just in time to hear her speak,” Rambleleaf says at his feet. “Can you lift me up so I don’t get stepped on? I want to see this too.” Gilbert kneels, allowing Ramble to hop onto his shoulder before embarking into the crowd, drawing closer and closer to the makeshift stage. 

And then he sees her and all the pieces of his mangled heart slant together, restoring it in one, breathless moment.

“The Storygirl, ” Gilbert heaves quietly. 

“That’s what we’ve taken to calling her here, too,” Ramble says. 

His Storygirl hasn’t changed a bit. There are still halos crowning her smile and kingdoms of possibilities in her eyes. But the young dreamer and commander of words Gilbert had seen in the fields all those years had grown so tall and beautiful that he had no words left for himself—only a fiery warmth and an insatiable desire to talk to her.  

“That’s Anne there?” Gilbert whispers to Ramble. 

“Unmistakable, right?” Ramble murmurs back.

“I’m going to get closer.”

“Oh, good! I can’t hear from all the way over here,” Rambleleaf agrees, nudging Gilbert with his nose. 

Gilbert collides with a few shoulders and elbows as he passes through, but only because he cannot tear his eyes away from her. He feels like the thirteen-year-old lad with weak knees and a pining heart all over again. When they’ve reached the makeshift stage, Ramble waves his tale to the Storygirl. The flash of white catches her attention and through the next words of her tale, she gives a dimpled smile and nod. 

Then her eyes fall on Gilbert and her tongue stumbles. He watches her gaze travel from his heart-struck eyes, to his Avonlea clothes, to her boot in his hand. Anne chuckled and extended her bootless foot. Gilbert blinked down at it, the “Doctor” part of his mind wondering if she wanted him to examine it. 

“The boot, Gilbert,” Ramble hisses in his ear. 

“Oh! ” 

Anne continues to keep the crowd enraptured in her tale even as Gilbert slides the boot over her lacy stockings and ties the laces. When he’s finished, she bends low to him and whispers, “Care to help me with my story?” 

“Me ?” Gilbert chokes. 

“Yes, Gilbert Blythe. You .” 

A shiver shoots like a flash of summer lightning down his back. How does she know my name? Gilbert’s mind wonders on repeat. He feels himself nod, only to be swept up onto the stage with her strong hands a second later. She offers Ramble a hand down, pressing a kiss to the top of his fur, then turns back to Gilbert. 

“Play along!” she murmurs quietly. 

Gilbert nods once more, turning nervous eyes to the crowd of onlookers. Beside him, Anne shoots back into her carefully woven tale. 

“It would’ve been easy for Cordelia to resign herself to the fate everyone wanted for her. But could she submit herself to everyday mundanities? Milking cows and pulling weeds? She could see the honor in these tasks, but somehow knew that her destiny laid elsewhere. She turned to a neighboring lad and asked him his thoughts.” 

Anne grabs Gilbert’s fingers and poses her body as if engaged in a conversation with him. Her tongue stills, and she urges Gilbert to take the next few lines. 

“Well, er…” Get it together, Blythe. He takes a deep breath. “The neighbor lad assured her that she bore enough heart and talent to succeed at any task she put her mind to. That it wasn’t a matter of finding her destiny, but...creating it? For herself.”

Anne smiles. Gilbert feels it thrum pleasantly behind his ribs. 

“Cordelia asked the neighbor lad if he would help her find the better feelings of her heart, the truth behind her soul and desires.” 

“He agreed,” Gilbert says resolutely. “Because the lad had already traveled across the world to find her. What was another journey?” 

7. A Pair at Tea

“You must tell me how you managed to find me!” Anne exclaims, pouring sweet tea into two small stone goblets. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, and Gilbert wonders if it’s the reason for the raspberry, rose smell of her.

Gilbert hasn’t quite shaken the timid nervousness. This is how he imagines he might feel if he were engaged in conversation with the King of England—only Anne is much more beautiful, even if she is just as intimidating. His eyes follow her hands as she hands him his tea, and he accepts the offering as something to occupy himself with.

He ignores her question. For now, at least.

“How...how do you know my name?” 

Anne smiles into her goblet.

“I’ve dusted your photograph hundreds of times helping Mary clean your home. You’re often all she can talk about when we’re polishing the silver or scrubbing windows.” 

“Really?” 

“Indeed. I know plenty about you, Dr. Blythe.” 

“Just Gilbert is fine,” he hums, cheeks warm. Then his eyes dim and he stares at his own reflection in his tea. “What sorts of things do you know?” 

Anne ponders this for a moment. Her fingers twist strands of hair into a gentle braid as she speaks, “I know that we just missed each other when we were children. That you left the island the same winter I arrived. I know that you’re the golden boy of Avonlea, and that all the mothers have been counting down the days until your return to marry their daughters to you. I know you won a prestigious scholarship that allowed you an excellent medical education. Congratulations by the way. I know—”

“ Alright !” Gilbert coughed. “I almost feel ashamed that I know barely anything about you. Only that you’re selflessly kind, a legendary master of storytelling, and that you’re unearthly beautiful.” 

Roses flourish her cheeks in lovely shades of red. Gilbert bites his lip to keep from smiling. 

“Anything you’d want to know, you only need ask. I’m an open book.”

“Then may I ask what it is you’re doing here?” Gilbert begins carefully. “The Cuthberts are worried sick. Bash and Mary, too. We all thought something terrible had happened to you.” 

“Terrible? Why? I’ve only been gone nearly a day. I’ve disappeared for longer periods of time into Charlottetown to visit friends.” 

Gilbert blinks.

“Anne, you’ve been missing for over a week. You came over to help clean the house a whole week ago.” 

Her face shoots up to him. 

“You must be mistaken. This isn’t my first time visiting Narnia. Time travels more quickly here than it does in Avonlea. That’s the way it’s always been.” 

“All I know is what I’ve been told.”

Anne rises from the table, a hand over her mouth. 

“A week? But...but how did you know where to find me?” 

It’s Gilbert’s turn to blush, but he answers honestly. 

“I think I accidentally stumbled upon Narnia as a boy, but always thought it was a dream or an imagination. When you went missing at my house, I just had this...feeling I couldn’t shake. I’m still having a hard time believing it, to be honest.” 

“For a man of science, I think you are doing admirably,” Anne says warmly. “I admit, I stumbled here in a similar way. I was going to wash your fathers old things because they’d grown so dusty, but I tripped into the wardrobe.” 

“That’s kind of you. To take care of my father’s things, I mean. Especially when you weren’t acquainted with him.” 

“Mary told me he meant a lot to you,” Anne answers easily. “Besides, you’re a man now. I thought you might like to wear some of his things to help keep his memory closer by. I know I wish I could. Wear my mother’s dresses, that is.” 

“Oh,” Gilbert frowns. “I apologize. I’d forgotten you’d lost your family too.” 

“An unhappy sort of thing to have in common with someone, I’ll admit,” Anne replies, a sad smile on her lips. “But you and I both have our makeshift families now. And this new little friendship of ours. That brings me to this question, though, Gilbert. How long do you plan on staying?” 

“How long do you plan to stay?” Gilbert replies, heart catching speed in his chest. 

“For the duration of the match,” Anne replies, as if it were obvious. 

“The...match?” 

“Ramble didn’t tell you? There’s a Storytelling Match that’s taking place right now. Whomever can spin the best tale will get to tell a story to Aslan, the King of Narnia.”

“Ramble did say something about Aslan bringing you here for entertainment.” 

“That’s only a guess,” Anne corrects warmly. “I’d like to win the match and meet Aslan, and then I plan to return home.”  

Gilbert isn’t sure what to say next. The right thing to do is return home and explain as best he can the truth behind Anne’s disappearance. At the very least, fabricate some lie that assures everyone of her safety and inevitable return home. 

But to his surprise, he finds he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to witness this storytelling match, support Anne and witness her victory. Maybe what Anne said about time in Narnia is right, after all. If they stay in Narnia for a while longer, perhaps it will be like no time has passed at all. 

“Will you stay, Gilbert?” Anne asks quietly. “I know you’ve just met me and that we’re barely acquaintances. I won’t fault you if you return back home to your patients and to our families. But…” 

“But?” Gilbert whispers hopefully. 

“But if you’d like to stay for a while and explore Narnia with me, I would welcome the company. In fact, I’d be glad for it.” 

“I’m so newly home that I don’t quite have patients yet,” Gilbert says offhandedly, mulling the idea over in his mind. “And there’s no guarantee that if I leave that I’ll ever be able to come back and see you. To make sure you’re alright.” 

“There’s not,” Anne agrees, eyes glimmering with warm light. 

He surprises himself with what he says next. 

“Then I’ll stay.” 

#anne of green gables #anne with an e #shirbert #shirbert fic #tessa writes #the truth always comes out in the tags and the truth is this #this was very hard to write #which is why it's a bit late #but i gave it 110%!! #so i hope you all enjoy it just the same #merry christmas and happy holidays to you all #i send all my love! <3

[literary-spirit]

Lessons of Devotion

Chapter 6

Bonnie spent the next several days restoring Rollo's former keep. By the end of the fifth day, she moved in and Queen Aslaug gifted her with a new bed, a table, two chairs, and a large barrel to use for baths. Bjorn gave her bulks of silks, linen, furs, and leather material to fashion a wardrobe that would range from great hall feasts to raiding next spring. For that task, her magic did the bulk of the work. In no time, she had several dresses fashioned after wears she'd seen on the hit television shows Reign, Last Kingdom, and Merlin. She even threw in some retro fits from her time period. For her raiding gear, she went straight Valkyrie from Thor Ragnarök.

She stared down at the leather black raiding outfit she wore, frustrated she couldn't see the gear on her in its entirety. Craning her neck, she looked over her shoulder to see if she could catch a glimpse of her butt. "Damn, wish I had the full-length mirror from home," she mumbled to herself.

Seconds later the mirror materialized in front of her. Her bottom lip kissed the floor. Although the emergence of her mirror from thin air stunned her, the reflection which stared back at her shocked the southern fried shit out of her. Instead of her sassy twenty-seven-year-old self-staring back at her, she was staring at her scared of her own shadow eighteen-year-old senior in high school self. The self who died before she even had the chance to graduate. How? Why? She rubbed a hand over her face, unable to believe the lie her reflection attempted to tell.

A knock sounded at the door and she hurried to cover the mirror with a few bulks of stray fabric. When she turned to answer the knock, Bjorn walked in followed by Torvi and the boys. Bjorn carried a chest, while Torvi held a battle ax and a sheathed sword.

"Bonnie, you fashioned your raider's wear?" Torvi placed the weapons on the table and hurried over to spin her around. "It's made so well, you're barely able to see the stitching. Look, how the chainmail overlays the length of her arms and bosom area. Bonnie you have to make me one. Wait until Lagertha sights this."

As Torvi continued fawning over the raiding outfit, Guthrum rushed over and wound himself around one of Bonnie's legs. Hali, not to be left out, toddled over with his arms raised. Bjorn, who had since place the chest on the table next to the weapons, watched her with a complacent expression locked tight on his face. Conflict, however, incinerated his eyes until they glowed brighter and bluer than a Brazilian sky. One could only imagine the battle which waged inside his head.

"Of course, I'll make one for you," she said as she leaned down to scoop Hali into her arms.

The intensity in Bjorn's eyes doubled, when his gaze traveled over her and Hali, "You'll have to wait until after you give birth to done the garb."

"It's enough to know I'll have it when time comes," Torvi insisted, standing back to stare down the length of Bonnie once more before turning to her husband.

"Bonsie, will you come before slumber to finish the saga about the street rat, and the Jinn?" Guthrum questioned.

Bonnie squatted with Hali still in her arms pecking away at her cheek, "Yes, and if we finish early we can start on a new one."

"Alright," Bjorn said, snapping from whatever mental deliberation he wrestled with to the point of distraction, "help your mother ready the keep for Lagertha's visit on the morrow. We'll fish in the harbor once you've finished."

Torvi and Bjorn exchanged a stare that screamed a thousand words without whispering one. Torvi glanced away first to regard her with warm eyes that put cups of cocoa and comfortable furry slippers to shame, "Will we see you at second meal? Queen Aslaug does enjoy squandering a great amount of your time." She finished with an eyeroll.

"I'll be there," Bonnie smiled, handing Hali back to Torvi.

With that assurance, Torvi nodded and ushered the children from the keep. After the door to the keep closed, Bonnie's gaze moved to Bjorn. He still watched her with eyes that burned her in a place she couldn't even begin to try and soothe. "What troubles you, my protector?"

"You," he straightened from his lean on the wall. With deliberate purpose he crossed the room. "You trouble me. So does your voice that I hear even when you're not near... and your eyes that forces me to misuse time because I'm occupied staring into the trees to find their likeness in hue... but let me not misremember your mouth! For how can I misremember your mouth which tempts and mocks me just so of the point of madness...your hair, in which my hands long to fist themselves...your scent, which intoxicates and besots me until I'm no better than the village drunkard." He paused to lift her onto the table. After cupping her face in his hands he continued, "Everything about you troubles me." He dipped his head to press a lingering kiss to her lips. "And it troubles me that I'm troubled by you. It troubles me that I can't merely make you my concubine because my heart refuses to recognize you as anything other than my wife...my future queen." He kissed her again, this time slipping his tongue between her lips. The taste of him ripped a moan from the bottom of her throat. Without any real thought behind the action, her arms snaked around his neck. "Marry me, Mystical One."

In that moment all she wanted to do was drown in him. To become overwhelmed by the absolute epicness of him. And if she was just a woman and him just a man with a heart equal in measure to the demigod who stood before her, then to him she would submit. Goddess, help her, she'd become his wife and carry a minivan full of children for him. Alas, she wasn't just a woman and he wasn't just a man. They both had roles to roll with and it was too early in the game to allow emotions to get in the way of them achieving the victory history had already saw fit to deny him.

"I'm sorry, Bjorn," she leaned back from his grasp, "I can't."

Several emotions filtered across his face, but the one of pain is the one which stuck with her. "Why? I know you would be my second wife, but you have to know you'd always be first in my heart."

"There's someone else, Bjorn," she said, figuring there was no better time than the present to make Klaus' place in her life known. "There's someone I left behind, who's waiting for me back in my land."

"And he holds your affections?" He backed away from the cradle of her legs. "Even now?"

"He's my family," she said, barely above a whisper.

Bjorn scoffed, before spinning around to stalk toward the door. Opening it, he paused, "Whomever he is, he doesn't deserve you. Anyone who could misplace one as rare and precious as you, doesn't merit the treasure the gods have gifted him." With that said, he left.

Bonnie's eyes closed, and there in silence she allowed the salty liquid droplets of pain to slip freely down her face.

****

"Mother said Bjorn has spoken to her of his plans to marry, Bonnie," Hvitserk said to Ubbe's back as he followed him through the forest.

Ubbe remained silent. He already knew of his older brother's plans to marry his Mystic One. Anyone with sight could bear witness to how taken he was with the girl. Odin's eye, they all were. Her beauty and exoticness was unique to any other in Kattegat. Hel truth be heralded, anyone in all of Norway. Yet, her physical appeal only attracted one's attention, it was everything else about her which intrigued. The whole of her is what provoked many topics of conversations at the long table and had every ear trained on what she would possibly say next.

"Well, she will not have him," Ivar said, while gripping the sides of the wooden plank on which they dragged him. "She will have none of you. You all see the way she gazes upon me, hmm?"

It was true. Whenever in Ivar's presence, she couldn't keep her verdant pigmented eyes from meeting his. The strangest thing. One would think she didn't even see him as a cripple, but instead as an unbroken man who was capable of being her provider and protector.

Sigurd scoffed. "Have you ever even been with a woman, Ivar?"

"Sorry, Little Brother," Hvitserk laughed, leaning down to ruffle Ivar's hair, "Nestled between those dark thighs is my home and I do mean to return to the comforting heat of her hearth."

They reached the edge of the forest which gave way to the cove. Hvitserk was about to pull Ivar out but something with in the falls of the water snared his awareness. He raised a hand to signal for Hvitserk to halt. The shadow in the water moved into view and their collective breaths caught. There in all her bared radiance stood the matter of their debate. Her body was beyond perfection. Even through all the froth lathered over her golden bronzed skin, he could tell her tempting frame was crafted by and for Odin. For what mere mortal man would be worthy of a woman such as her?

"I don't understand?" Ivar mumbled. They turned to see there little brother gawking at the overexaggerated man stand towering in his lap. Fear glistened Ivar's already too blue gaze, "What is happening?"

"What don't you understand?" Sigurd frowned, barely tearing his eyes away from a now rinsed clean Bonnie. "Is that your first one?"

"Looks like you're not quite so boneless after all, Little Brother," Hvitserk said, reaching down to squeeze Ivar's shoulder.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Ubbe's mouth as he returned his gaze to Bonnie. She now stood on the rocks near the waterfall rubbing a liquid substance of sorts into her skin which made her rare hue glisten in the sunlight. Unable to resist her any longer, he left the cover of the trees.

"Ubbe!" he heard Hvitserk hiss.

"Where's he going?" Sigurd panicked.

"Where do you think?" Ivar answered.

****

Bonnie stood in front of the waterfall, dipping her head back. She allowed the supernaturally heated water to rinse the homemade co-wash from her head. With the pads of her fingers, she gave her scalp a deep massage. Her eyes slipped closed. Mm, she needed this after how things went down with Bjorn. No matter her feelings, she couldn't afford to lose focus.

Ansel's warning growl from the bank alerted her to be on guard. Her eyes snapped open and collided with a bottomless sky-blue gaze. Ubbe towered before her bared tanned, hard, ripped and cut the hell up with godlike precision. For a full minute they remained struck in awe of the other. Unable to take her eyes off of him, she backed away. Once she bumped into the large rock holding her belongings, she squatted to retrieve her shower scrub and a scrap of linen from her basket.

When she reclaimed her spot in front of him, she commenced to bathing him. She started with his face, and then worked her way down to his solid shoulders. There, she kneaded the rigid muscles into pliable submission. After she relieved the tension in his neck she moved on to the firm hills of his chest. With ease, she glided the rag over the dipped crevices of his abdomen. She lifted her gaze to stare in his eyes as she attempted to wrap the linen scrap around all eight inches of him. Which was no easy task since the girth of him was almost the size of her ankle in width. Once secured in her grasp, she gave him a few firm tugs that earned her a long-drawn-out moan and a couple of grunts.

"Don't marry Bjorn," he demanded in a hoarse broken whisper.

She gave him another massage infused pull, "I wasn't planning to."

"Good," He leaned down and captured her upturned mouth with his.

The kiss he rocked the hell out of her mind with was nothing like she believed him to be. Under all that arctic chill simmered a passion so fierce and wild she'd nearly missed the splashing of the water in the distance. She severed her lips from Ubbe's in time to see Sigurd and Hvitserk's glorious but naked form trotting over to them.

"Shit," she hissed, and broke away from Ubbe.

Snatching her basket from the rock, she disappeared behind the curtain of frothy falling water. Quickly, she put on white bikini bottoms and a matching wrap top, items she managed to displace from home in 2018. Once dressed she stepped back through the waterfall.

Hvitserk greeted her with one of his signature wide smiles. "Our turn." When he glanced down at her bikini bottoms, a frown battled back his previous good cheer, "What are those? Is that some strange fabric barrier to preserve chastity in this Mystic land of yours?"

"Why is your muff bare?" Sigurd questioned, fucking all over the boundaries of her personal space. "Have you not completely reached womanhood yet?"

"First, I'm not done with Ubbe yet, so you'll wait your turn." She began, addressing them both with her chin raised and hands planted on her hips. "Second, these or bikini bottoms and they're made for swimming, not preserving chastity, Hvitserk. Third, Sigurd, I'll have you know I'm all woman and the reason there is no hair down below is because I prefer a clean canvas down there. And Fourth," She looked over the three of them, "where's Ivar?"

"Back on the shore. He can't swim," Sigurd said, his tone dismissive.

She stepped closer to Hvitserk and Sigurd, palming each of their cheeks. "Will you both please get him and place him here on the rocks. This platform is large, flat, and stable. It should be safe enough for him over here." When they nodded their assent, she stood on tip toes and kissed them each on the corners of their mouths.

Once alone, Ubbe wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. "I apologize for my brothers' interruption. Can I come visit you at your keep after second meal?"

"Isn't that normally when you meet Margrethe in the barn?" She asked, watching as they placed Ivar on some sort of wooden raft.

He yanked her backwards through the waterfall. When they were obscured from the view of his brothers, he allowed his hands-free reign over her body. One reached up to palm her breasts, while the other slipped into her bikini bottoms. He devoured the side of her neck with open mouth kisses. His thumb grazed over her clit in persistent brushes, provoking her overheated good-good to ooze her need all over his hand. Whimpering, she silently urged him on by further parting her legs. Instead of giving into her quiet demands he kneaded her breast and tweaked her nipple. The roughness of his touch had her grinding into the heel of his hand.

"I do not care to meet Margrethe in the barn this eve," he rasped next to her ear. "I'd rather greet the next rising in your bed. Now will you have me, Valkyrie?" He tried to press two fingers in her entrance, but her good girl being a tease refused admission. After a brief pause, he downgraded to one finger and she still refused to bloom. "Are you a-,"

"Where are you two?" Sigurd yelled from outside. "We need help getting Ivar off the raft and on the boulder."

"Do you think they're-," Hvitserk began.

"No," Ivar cut him off, "Bonnie's, girdles are not nigh as light as Margrethe's."

She broke free of Ubbe's hold and straightened her bottoms. After stepping back through the waterfall, she jumped from the rock into the water and swam over to the raft. Ivar searched her face, and then looked over her shoulder at Ubbe who'd just reappeared back through the froth of water. A smirk settled on his all too willing lips.

"As I said before," Ivar said to no one in particular, "Some girdles are light and others..." his dancing gaze moved to regard her, "not so much. Greetings, my love. My brothers tell me you requested my presence over on that boulder."

Her heartbeat tapped out a peculiar rhythm upon hearing Ivar refer to her as his love. "Yep, I wanna bathe you and wash your hair. Do you have any objections to me doing so?"

His brows leaped to his hairline as he shook his head, "N-no."

For the next couple of hours, Bonnie bathed, shampooed, and groomed the Lothbroks. They each seemed to bask in the attention. Especially, when she braided Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd hair in actual designs instead of the sloppy twists they usually wore. Since Ivar's hair wasn't yet long enough for braids, she trimmed it into a precision cut. By the time they made it back to Kattegat the second meal had already begun. She was late for dinner with Bjorn and Torvi. If she didn't hurry she'd miss it altogether.

"I'll see you guys later," her gaze darted to Ubbe first before moving over all of them, "I had fun, thanks for helping me to take my mind off things."

She turned to walk towards Bjorn's and Ivar grabbed her wrist. "What things?"

She squatted and kissed him on the lips. "It doesn't matter." With that, she stood and hurried away.

****

The next rising after first meal, Bjorn greeted his mother in the great hall. People who remembered her from long before as Ragnar's first wife waited in Kattegat's long house to welcome her. Although he was happy to see his mother, only half his heart cared she visited at all. Bonnie's refusal still pained him. Why would she choose another over him? Surely, he couldn't be the only one between them who harbored such affections.

"I said, how have you fared here since your return, my son?" Lagertha's voice, delivered him from the torture which was his thoughts.

"Distracted it would appear," Astrid, his mother's...Astrid said.

Bjorn waved off their observations. "I've fared well enough. Although, Floki has informed me that the fleet he's building for the Mediterranean won't be available until next spring."

"Oh," Lagertha reached up to rub his back, "I'm sorry, Bjorn."

He shrugged. "Just as well, Torvi's carrying again."

"Bjorn, this is wonderful news," Lagertha hugged him, her smile nearly splitting her face in two. "The gods have truly favored you and Torvi."

This time he felt his own smile creep into his eyes. "They do, in truth Bonnie has assured me this babe will be a girl."

"Bonnie?" Confusion snatched Lagertha's head to the far left.

"The dark woman he brought back from his last raid," Astrid enlightened, "The one he placed under his protection."

"Ah," Lagertha's pale brows shot up as she gave a slow nod. "I remember. How is she? Is she still a part of your household?"

"No, she now resides in Rollo's former keep," Bjorn answered, while tracking Ubbe's march into the hall.

"That's better for all," his mother exhaled, seeming somewhat relieved.

"No!" Bjorn snapped, dragging his attention from Ubbe. "I do not think it's better for all. I suffer-w-we suffer very much from her absence. The sooner she agrees to become my wife, then and only then will we all be the better for it."

"Your wife?!" Lagertha low hiss shrieked. "Did you leave your wits in the wetlands of Frankia? Bjorn, you know nothing of this woman!"

"You're wrong," he placed a palm at the center of his chest, "I know exactly who she is, and I know exactly where she belongs."

"And what of Torvi? Is she content with this usurper stealing her way into your lives and making a home of your marriage?" Lagertha questioned.

Bjorn folded his arms, weary of the entire discussion. He wasn't Ragnar, Torvi wasn't Lagertha, and Bonnie wasn't, Hel take her, Aslaug. "Torvi embraces the idea of Bonnie joining us in matrimony."

His mother's eyes flared. She scoffed in disbelief. "You've been bewitched. This woman has bewitched you, just as Ragnar was so many years before you. What is it about Lothbrok men that breeds witches?"

"Mother, it may be best if you rest," Bjorn said, leveling her with a glare that would make steel fold, but more than likely meant less than horse shit to Lagertha. "The journey from Hedeby to Kattegat can be exhausting." With that said, Bjorn turned and left the great hall.

Once Bjorn disappeared from sight Lagertha looked to Astrid. "Take care of her."

Astrid nodded her understanding.

****

Unable to stay inside any longer, Bonnie decided to take a walk along the shore of the fjord. Though they were on the brink of winter, the beauty of Kattegat was heart snatching.

In her own time when she traveled, she never even considered visiting Norway. Now that she found herself stranded there surrounded by its people and exquisiteness, she couldn't understand why this place never made the bucket list.

As she continued along the bank a cloaked figure sitting on a large rock staring out at the sea caught her attention. Loneliness wafted off of him in dejected waves. When she'd binged the series with Caroline Ivar was never one of her favorite characters. He reminded her too much of Klaus. Always hurting and terrifying others to distract from the obvious detail that he too was also hurt and terrified. Back then she had zero compassion to give to bullies who thought to offer reason behind their madness. At least not until Damon became her best friend and she fell face first in love with Klaus. Now after seasons of judgement from her something within urged her to offer Ivar the consideration she never did when she watched the show.

Wrapping her cloak tighter around herself she made her way over to him. Once at his side, she joined him in staring out at the clear waters of the fjord. For a while, neither of them said anything. They just existed together in a shared moment of peace.

A several more comfortable minutes of silence, Ivar spoke without turning to look at her. "I'll wager you're pondering what a cripple could possibly be considering as he gazes at waters he can never be minded to tread."

"You're considering how far you'll go," Her words brought his disbelieving blazing stare to hers, "But you don't have to worry because you'll go far, Ivar. You'll go further than you can ever think to dream or imagine." She reached inside his cloak and interlaced her fingers with his. Laying her head on his shoulder, she turned back to the fjord.

He rested his head on top of hers, "Why'd you kiss me, hmm?"

"Because I wanted to and I knew you wanted me to," she answered reveling and drowning in him all at the same time. "You bother me, Ivar. The last time a man bothered me I fell in love with him."

"You mustn't do something as foolish as to offer me your heart, my love," He cradled her hand in both of his. "I may do something as equally foolish and accept it."

She lifted her head from his shoulder to study his face. What she saw there was the strike of lightening she'd waited twenty-seven years to see. How did one come back from Nirvana and settle for the lack-lusterless of reality? The mundane of good enough. Was he the reason? Far away yipping of a dog snatched her from the brink.

"I have to go," she whispered.

He studied her for a moment before nodding. "Alright."

She pressed her mouth to his and took a minute to savor his lips. He moaned into the kiss, reluctantly she pulled away. After she gave herself a second for her world to start spinning again, she slid from the rock and darted off toward the woods. Inside the forest, Ansel barked for her to follow him. So that's what she set out to do. After a half hour of nonstop running she could no longer see Ansel. Bonnie called out to him, but only silence answered her in return. She glanced about the overhang she stood on. Everything and nothing looked familiar. Hell, she didn't know north from south. She'd do better waiting for Ansel to return for her. She walked to the edge. A view of the fjord feeding water into her cove greeted her.

A grin teased her lips. Thoughts of her bathing the boys shamed her better judgement. She would have never pulled that shit back in Mystic Falls as a senior in high school. Hell not even as a senior citizen. With thoughts of the day before still trailing across her mind she backed away from the edge. Bjorn's sacred arm ring slipped from her wrist. When she was unable to locate it among the leaves she dropped to her knees and started sifting through the brush on the ground. As soon as her hand connected with hard metal she exhaled. She didn't know what she would tell Bjorn if she'd ever loss the symbol of their vow. Quickly, she slipped the sacred arm ring back on her wrist.

When she moved to rise something hard bashed her in the head. Fingers tangled themselves in her hair as blunted nails clawed at her scalp. With unnecessary force her head was jerked backwards. A cold jagged edge of steel bit into her neck and slid from ear to ear. The sound of howling dampened her hearing as her attacker drug her by her hair to the edge of the precipice. A well-aimed kick to the center of her back sent her tumbling over the edge. Her heart stopped long before the near freezing waters of the cove embraced her.

#bonnie bennett #ivar the boneless #bjorn ironside #hvitserk #the vampire diaries #vikings #tvd fanfiction #time travel #crossover #ubbe ragnarsson

[pixelgrotto]

Night City, I barely remember ya

I beat Cyberpunk 2077 last month, and honestly, I haven’t thought about Cyberpunk 2077 that much since.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. CD Projekt Red’s follow-up to The Witcher 3 was meant to be the sort of game that would stick in your mind after completion. It was promoted over eight years of hype stemming from its initial 2013 reveal as a example of CD Projekt’s infamous “vodka and Slavic magic” - a behemoth destined to change open world RPGs forever. But in the roughly 12 weeks since its release, the stuff that’s happened to Cyberpunk 2077, including its delisting from the Playstation store for being chock full of bugs and the theft of its source code by hackers, has been more cyberpunk than the actual game.

I was one of those people super hyped for this game when it was first announced. I mean, the Witcher franchise left an indelible impression on me; how could I not be psyched to see its devs tackle one of my favorite sci-fi genres? But my hype deflated over the years, largely due to tales of terrible crunch emerging from CD Projekt’s studios and social media marketing that was ill-advised at best and transphobic at worst. Everything seemed to slowly hint that the game’s vision of “cyberpunk” - a genre that can tell incredible futuristic tales of social upheaval and marginalized peoples - would be mostly style with not so much substance.

Despite me keeping my fingers crossed, the end product is pretty much what I feared - and I guess I should’ve known, since the official sourcebook for Cyberpunk 2020, the tabletop RPG that CD Projekt Red used as inspiration, actually lists “style over substance” as one of its rules.

Cyberpunk 2077’s main story revolves around a merc who dreams of big time heists in Night City named V. After a heist goes south, V ends up absorbing a biochip made by big bad corporation Arasaka that features the captured personality of rockstar-turned-terrorist Johnny Silverhand, played by Keanu Reeves - who, to be fair, does a good job with the material he’s given. Cue a bunch of quests that revolve around V and Johnny coming to terms with each other, taking down Arasaka and figuring out how to separate the chip from V’s brain.

In theory, this sounds like a cool way to explore the very cyberpunk themes of identity and what it means to have a corrupt company preserve a human soul beyond its organic shell. In reality, though, the story’s a surface level examination of these concepts, and Johnny Silverhand remains a massive dick throughout most of the game, only becoming relatable if players give him the benefit of the doubt - which they’re expected to do because he’s played by Keanu Reeves.

Johnny’s animosity towards Arasaka is also never completely outlined. He - and most other characters in Night City - keep telling V that corporations are awful because they disregard human rights and destroy the environment, but we never get many chances to see for ourselves how Arasaka and similar companies, like Militech or Kang Tao, actually do this. Arasaka does kidnap Johnny’s ex-girlfriend and is behind the tech that transfers his soul to a biochip, yes, but Johnny also threatens to destroy them at all of his shows and eventually sets off a bomb in their headquarters. Not that I’m siding with the corporation, but for much of the game we’re expected to treat them as the number one enemy simply because other characters say so, which is very much a “show, don’t tell” missed opportunity. If anything, Arasaka’s portrayal feels more like a vestige of the cyberpunk genre’s unfortunate maturation during the 1980s, where the fear of Japanese conglomerates taking over the world was common and a future where Asian companies were all-powerful instead of Western ones seemed like a dystopia.

Cyberpunk 2077 is very much caught in that yesteryear mold, featuring elements that might have been progressive in the 1980s but seem passé now. For a game that relied on questionable representation of trans people in its marketing, there were no notable trans NPCs that I came across, and even though there’s a robust character creation system where you actually can make a trans person, the game makes the troubling decision to only offer binary pronouns tied to V’s voice. Despite the fact that many of the best modern cyperbunk works deal with body augmentation and the line between man and machine, most of the physical modifications you can pay for at Night City’s “ripperdoc” facilities are niche features that only offer minimal stat boosts, with only two major ones that I know of - the mantis blades and gorilla arms - actually causing extensive changes to V’s looks. And finally, while there are tons of characters of color in the game, ranging from the Haitian Voodoo Boys gang to V’s “friendly ethnic friend™” Jackie Welles, most of them are varying degrees of stereotypical. For instance, Goro Takemura, an ex-Arasaka employee, sends you text messages reminiscent of haiku at one point because he’s Japanese and has to talk like a formal, honorable samurai or something.

If you’re able to look past these issues - along with the myriad of bugs that Cyberpunk 2077 shipped with - there’s still the niggling feeling that this game could have been so much more. The signs of a troubled development process are numerous, and there are Reddit threads packed with still-visible remnants - like useless combat skill perks and an entire metro system - that were part of gameplay elements gutted at some point in order for those overworked CD Projekt Red programmers to make a long-delayed release date. Even mainstay stuff in the open world genre - like the police chases common in the Grand Theft Autos - are absent, and Cyberpunk 2077’s 2018 demo, chock full of promised features that never made it into the final product, has to be one of the most notorious bits of smoke ‘n mirrors “gameplay” in recent memory.

Perhaps most bothersome is the feeling that a lot of your choices don’t seem to matter all that much in Cyberpunk 2077, which once touted itself as “a full-fledged RPG, not a shooter with RPG elements,” but ends up feeling more like the latter than the former. The game’s three different lifepaths - nomad, streetkid and corpo - only amount to about thirty minutes of unique playtime at the start and a few different dialogue options. The vehicle combat sequences that punctuate key missions are largely scripted, looking cool but offering little consequences depending on what V aims at. The side quests I encountered had minimal branching paths, and the only time the main story opened up to offer some real choice was in the game’s final chapter. Considering that CD Projekt once developed The Witcher 2 - a 2011 game that branches dramatically at its halfway mark to the point where a lot of folks insist that you need to play it twice in order to feel satisfied - Cyberpunk 2077 feels like a step back.

And yet, despite all of these criticisms, I still put nearly 80 hours into the game over the course of December, January and February. You don’t do that for something that’s patently unfun, so let me be clear - there is an entertaining experience buried beneath an avalanche of unfulfilled potential here. Driving on my Akira-esque bike through Night City’s slums as the game’s best song bumped on the radio, taking out legions of baddies with my mantis blades and relishing in the game’s extensive photo mode (as you can probably tell by my screenshots above) was a good time. In spite of his assholery, I did feel something akin to attachment for that bastard Johnny Silverhand by the finale, and there were a few key moments - like when I was scuba diving in the ocean with my girlfriend Judy, looking at the remains of a town destroyed by the land seizing machinations of corporations - that felt like this game had something to say beyond “bang bang gunplay and neon aesthetic.”

But at the end of the day, while I do feel moderately interested in someday checking out Cyberpunk Red (the newest iteration of this franchise’s tabletop RPG), CD Projekt’s seven-year-hyped-up behemoth has largely faded from my brain one month after beating it. On Twitter, I’ve seen Cyberpunk 2077 described as something akin to a flashy Netflix series with lots of fanfare and flair but not much else - and I can’t really argue with that statement.

Night City was supposed to be the stuff of a long-term relationship. Instead, it feels more like a fling.

#pixel grotto #now playing #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk #cd projekt red

[soulmate-game]

Crack One shot

Soulmates were real, but there was no universal type of bond. The only agreed upon fact was that everyone only had one soulmate, and that was whatever that person needed most in life. If what they needed most was a romantic partner, their soulmate would be romantic. If they needed family or a lifelong friend more, then that would be the bond they would have. It could show up in any way, some more common than others but many unique to that pair or trio of soul bonded individuals.

Marinette had arrived in Gotham last week. She had won the Wayne Enterprises International Scholastic Competition for her and her class, the reward for which included a month long trip to Gotham. Three of those weeks would be spent in Gotham Academy during the week, with the weekends spent in personalized internships with Wayne Enterprises employees.

Except Marinette, who as the winner of the competition, got her internship with Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake themselves.

And after finding out that Robin was her romantic soulmate on her first night in Gotham? She was really hoping this internship would go smoothly without any life altering discoveries.

Someone needed to flick Tikki for not giving her enough good luck though, because that did not happen.

Marinette thought stumbling through her and Robin’s game-styled Bond would be more than enough confusion and complication for at least the rest of the year for her. But no. No, of course not. Because when she met Bruce Wayne at his manor for their first official day of internship on Saturday, nine days after arriving in Gotham City, she shook the billionaire’s hand for the first time.

And when their hands connected, the only thing in either of their favor is the fact that Alix had turned down the invitation to come with Marinette and therefore the only other people in the mansion were Bruce’s family (including Alfred, of course). Because as soon as their hands touched, bright silver light shone for a moment before what was basically a holographic screen popped up. On it in bold black font were the words:

— SOULBOND INITIATED STATUS: Familial FAMILIARITY LEVEL: Introductory BONDED INDIVIDUALS: Bruce Wayne (AKA:REDACTED) and Marinette Dupain-Cheng (AKA: REDACTED) INITIATE SOULBOND GUIDE? (Y / N) —

“B-But I already met my soulmate on Thursday!” Marinette objected, eyes wide as she pulled her hand away like it burned. “This can’t— this is a prank, right? New WayneTech or something?”

Unfortunately, Bruce stares at his own hand in similar shock.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng, I also already met my soulmate,” he informed gravely, poking his palm with the index finger of his opposite hand. “But look. I did not get a physical mark from my romantic soulmate, but…”

Marinette knew. She didn’t want to acknowledge it, but she knew. Everybody with a physical soulmark said that you knew when it was real, when it wasn’t paint or a tattoo or anything else, because it felt real. In some intrinsic, magical, mysterious way, everyone intuitively knew if a physical mark was or wasn’t genuine.

And the little, silver bat signal on the center of Marinette’s palm was definitely genuine. Her eyes went wide at the sight of it, and the information on the holographic soulbond-board changed.

BONDED INDIVIDUALS: Bruce Wayne (AKA: Batman)

Bruce showed Marinette the small silver ladybug symbol on the exact same spot on his own palm.

And Marinette Dupain-Cheng (AKA: Ladybug)

“What the fuck?” That was Dick, who was the first to get over his shocked silence. But not very well. “What. The. Fuck? If Bruce had a familial soulmate, I would have thought it would be me. You know, first adopted son and everything,” he waved at himself, but his tone wasn’t jealous. It was just confused. “Or any of this other adopted children,” Richard gestured to the line of them next to him. “Why get a familial soulmate now? And why have two soulmates?”

The last line on the hologram began to flash insistently.

ACTIVATE SOULBOND GUIDE? (Y / N)

“I, uh, think we should click yes, Monsieur Wayne,” Marinette suggested, lifting her hand to do just that before pausing and glancing at her new (what? Father figure? Uncle figure? Oh my god if Bruce was Batman, did that mean Damian was Robin? The builds and estimated measurements matched up. Did that mean Bruce—) “Mon dieu, you’re supposed to be my father in law figure,” Marinette realized aloud, her face suddenly paper white at the realization.

“... I agree, let’s see what this ‘Soulbond guide’ is, exactly,” her familial soulmate decided to say, ignoring her realization entirely. He pressed the ‘Y’ with one finger before Marinette or his other children could protest. The silver screen changed, the text melting away in favor of showcasing a horizontal line. Until that line spoke, and moved to show the wavelengths of its voice as it did so. Like a digital mouth. Occasionally text would pop up to complement or supplement the spoken words.

“Hello. I am your SOULBOND guide, A.I.D.E, or Autonomous Introspective Destiny Escort. I am a pocket personality created by the Universe and Fate Itself as your guide and informant regarding your soul bond, and nothing but your soul bond. My knowledge may extend to some aspects of your personality, memories, background, and motives behind actions, but otherwise does not delve far beyond the specificities of your Bond. Even my knowledge of your timeline and social structure in your reality are limited. That being said, do you have any questions regarding your Bond?”

“Oh my god, it even reflects Bruce’s emotion issues,” Jason breathed, thoroughly intrigued and entertained.

“But what does that say about Marinette?” Tim shot back. “She isn’t emotionally stunted like both of her soulmates.”

Yeah, everyone agreed at that point that trying to hide their identities from the French girl was a moot point.

“No,” Marinette agreed slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t even want to ask what you mean by emotionally stunted, because if Robin is any indication…” she winced, and several people in the room chuckled. Jason outright cackled. “But after dealing with HawkMoth for so long and not being able to let out any of my negative emotions, I developed a kind of mental system I guess. I just kinda… click and delete my anger or betrayal as often as it takes, if that makes sense.”

“That is not healthy, and we will talk about that later,” Damian said instantly, not looking pleased. Marinette just shrugged and grinned at him sheepishly.

As usual, Bruce was the first to actually begin to interrog— ahem— ask questions.

“Why do we have two soul bonds?” He asked, getting right to the point.

“In your case, it is due to your alter ego BATMAN. BATMAN has been a separate part of yourself, or at the very least you have seen him as separate from yourself as Bruce Wayne, for more than eighteen years. This grants BATMAN his own soulmate, as if he were his own entity. People such as Superman do not have this attribute, as they are fully cognizant of the unity of their two identities. BATMAN’s soulmate is Marinette, a familial soulmate. In her case, Marinette is in possession of the Ladybug Miraculous, which holds the power of Creation. This, along with the fact that Marinette is what is classified as a TRUE LADYBUG and/or a CREATION SOUL, gives rise to the possibility of a second soulmate being created for her as the need arises. This was compounded by the fact that she, like you, also sees LADYBUG as being a separate person from her own identity as Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Since she has held both a true CREATION SOUL and maintained this mindframe of being two separate people for several years, LADYBUG was granted a soulmate of her own, which is you. Does that suitably answer your question?”

“The first of many,” Bruce admitted grimly, turning to Marinette. “Do you want to ask anything else, or get on with the internship?”

“Just one question today,” she answered immediately, her mind buzzing. “What does the soul bond allow us to do, and how do we activate it?”

“You can activate the Soul Screen and myself by tapping your soulmark with that intention in mind. Your abilities are as follows; Mental Communication link— a two-way telepathy activated on command only when the Bond Mark is activated. Surveillance— the ability to see through your Soulmate’s eyes through the Soul Screen in emergency situations only. Bond Text— The ability to send written messages to your Soulmate by holding onto your soul mark, imagining the contents of the text, and sending it. Nobody except your soulmate will be able to see said message, and it will appear on the palm that hosts that individual’s Soul Mark. SOS— If one member of the soul bond is in life threatening danger, the other member’s bond mark will glow and a meter showcasing the endangered member’s life force will appear next to the mark. Upon the life force extinguishing, this Bond will permanently dissolve. Resurrection, time travel, and magical Cures will not revive this Bond.”

“In other words, the Universe is calling both of you out for being reckless and is only giving you once Chance here,” Barbara surmised ruthlessly. “Good luck. Alfred, what’s for lunch?”

As everyone filed out of the room with the dissolution of the Soulbond’s novelty, Damian, Bruce, and Marinette were left standing in awkward silence. Silently, Marinette shut off the Soul Screen and A.I.D.E with it.

“... we won’t be able to keep secrets anymore,” Marinette said, seemingly just thinking out loud. “Once we activate the Soul Screen, AIDE will totally rat out any we try to keep.”

“She was my soulmate first, Father, so I’m stealing her now,” Damian said by way of warning Bruce before he picked Marinette up and carried her away. The billionaire playboy philanthropist just stared after them, wondering what the hell he did to taunt the Universe into making him the butt of all of its jokes.

He tapped his ear twice, a different bond awakening. “Selina? Please tell me you’re in town. I think I’ll crack out some of the good alcohol tonight.”

“Celebrating something?” The familiar voice purred in his ear.

“Coping.”

—*—*—*—*—* This is not at all canon to the original story, but takes place in the same universe. Just an idea I had for a second that I wanted to write a stupid one shot for. This is crack and I’m okay with that.

#maribat #daminette #mlb x dc #platonic brucinette

[angst-fairygodmother]

Hi! I'm the one who sent you the fake dating prompt with Klaus. Oh my god. I'm speechless. But you have to tell me, do they really get married?No pressure but maybe a part 2?

I’m glad you enjoyed it! 😁 It was a blast to write!

I really love this request and I tried to write it a couple of different ways throughout the day, but they haven’t been good. Probably because I don’t have a lot of quality wedding experience. I’ve only ever been to one. He married her for money, it was an epic disaster, they were talking about the divorce by the time their limo pulled up to the reception. And I don’t tend to watch the kind of movies/shows where weddings are prominent either, unless you count Princess Bride, Lord of the Rings, sort of epic fantasy weddings.

So instead of a proper fic, I’m going to try a little bullet-point style thing:

When you meet Klaus upon release from rehab, the first thing he does is pin you to the nearest vertical surface and kiss you thoroughly

By the time he’s done with you, you have a five pointed star of marks centered at the junction of your shoulder and neck

And you feel wobbly and drunk on his touch

He wraps his arm around your waist and then interlocks his hand with yours, keeping you tightly pinned against him as he begins walking with surprising purpose

He uses his free hand to wave to a few people and greet them when you pass. One or two he stops and whispers something to that you can’t catch

Eventually you ask where you’re going, and he tells you it’s a surprise

Then he leads you to a small consignment clothing store and picks out a ridiculously fancy outfit for each of you, insisting that you change into it immediately and wear it out of the shop, carrying your old things in a brown paper bag

You resume your walk in the same position as before, and again ask where you’re going. He simply grins cheekily at you

About a block and a half later, you realize where you are

“I’m serious if you are Babe. Courthouse is right over there. Let’s get married.”

“We need witnesses. Alive ones, no offense Ben if you’re here.”

“I’ve got it all covered. Is that a yes?”

You just grin and kiss him in answer. He literally jumps for joy before dragging you the rest of the way at a run.

When you arrive on the courthouse steps, there are a half-dozen people waiting there, most of whom are people he had talked to earlier and one you recognize as his brother Diego.

An older man in a suit greets Klaus and they step off to the side to have a hushed conference. When they come back, the man stands on the top step and Klaus pulls you to stand in front of him, facing each other and holding hands.

You aren’t really paying attention to the words being said by the Justice of the Peace, you’re too busy grinning stupidly at Klaus and trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest. It’s so bad that you almost miss your cues for the vows which you both make up on the spot instead of using the traditional ones.

“Shit!” Klaus suddenly shouts, bringing the whole impromptu ceremony to a screeching halt. “I forgot rings!”

With a laugh, one of his mysterious friends pulls some twine out of a pocket and a few beads out of another, braiding a pair of makeshift but actually quite beautiful rings for you with stunning speed. You think it might be actual magic,

The rest of the event goes off without a hitch (except the whole getting hitched part)

Diego claps him on the shoulder and says something about needing to get back to work, then turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. I don’t know why you picked him, but I’m happy for you.”

Klaus tells you that your vows were beautiful, and that they made Ben cry (as if you didn’t notice that he himself was quite misty-eyed)

Then you both go back to your apartment. He insists on carrying you over the threshold, suddenly lifting you up just before you can cross it, even though your doorway is quite narrow and you smack your ankle, hard, against the frame.

It swells up fiercely and turns purple quickly. So instead of spending your wedding night as most newlyweds would, you spend it in the Emergency Room getting your broken ankle splinted

He makes it up to you the following day though. All day. And well into the night. The doctor ordered bed-rest, so he makes sure you stay in bed, even if there’s not much resting involved.

He also swears he’ll get proper rings for the two of you. But you refuse the idea, telling him you like the ones you have. They’re unique, just like the pair of you

#Klaus Hargreeves x reader #Klaus x reader #reader insert #wedding #a sequel #this is the first time I've done this style of thing #I think I like regular fics better #but this was kinda nice for this particular concept #It lets me cover a lot of ideas quickly #so maybe I'll mix these in with regular fics in the future #or maybe I'll turn this into a proper fic in the future #who knows

[plotholefragments]

Pinkie was pushing herself harder than she ever had. She didn't have her usual supply of cameras hidden around for camera-related emergencies, so first she had to find some. Thankfully she found a room with a box of disposable cameras just waiting for her.

She almost stopped by to say hi to Sonic and Twilight, but Pinkie Sense said not to interfere. She grabbed several dozen cameras and stuffed them into her mane then dove into the box—

—to reappear next to the table for TARDIS one. "Hey, everycreature!" she yelled, holding up a couple of the cameras. "Who wants to take some pictures?"

Immediately several children and at least two teenagers rushed forward. Pinkie handed out a few cameras, admonished them to take turns, then pronked off towards TARDIS two.

And so on.

When she gave out the last camera at TARDIS twelve, she collapsed. Not in a dead faint, but awfully close.

"Getting on all right, then?" an older gentleman said, leaning over her.

Pinkie lazily looked up at him. "Doctor number twelve?"

"Aye," he said with a smile. He reached down and helped her to her hooves. "What you're doing..." he began.

"It's gonna work, right?" Pinkie said.

Twelve shook his head. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Pinkie smiled. "So... does that mean I can borrow your TARDIS to develop the film?"

Twelve sighed. "Leave it in Eleven's," he said. "I'll make sure it's ready by the time I'm here."

Pinkie's right hind leg twitched. "TARDIS one is done!" Without waiting for a response, she pronked over a nearby wall—

—and landed sideways in the middle of the crowd at TARDIS one. A few kids laughed, and a few more laughed when she sprung up. With a smile and a thanks, she collected the cameras and disappeared.

Collecting the remainder of the cameras didn't go quite as quickly. One Doctor, with an impressively long scarf, insisted on taking a picture with her. Another group of middle-aged Gallifreyans were still debating what kind of pictures to take—Pinkie took the camera herself and ran them though some rapid-fire poses. But eventually the cameras from all twelve groups were collected.

Pinkie parked herself outside of TARDIS eleven. Gingerly, she knocked on the door. "Excuse me, Miss TARDIS?" she said. "I know it might be impolite, but I have a lot of pictures to develop and I need a time machine for that."

The door swung open.

"Thanks!" Pinkie said as she pronked inside. Five seconds later she pronked out and into TARDIS twelve. Five seconds later she pronked out of that, her mane filled to bursting with photographs. "Thanks again!" She pronked into the shadow behind the TARDIS and came out into the out-of-the-way corner she'd been frequenting earlier.

She took three whole seconds to survey the area. Plan made, she pulled a piece of her mane out, stuck it in her mouth, chewed it for a bit, then pulled out the sticky bubble gum and used it to attach the photos to the wall.

There were a lot of photos. Enough to cover both walls of the corner, from the ground to twelve feet up.

Pinkie took a moment to survey her handiwork, and, with a nod of satisfaction, fell backwards to get the guest of honor—

—and fell on her back.

“Ow,” Pinkie muttered, her voice cracking. “That hurt.” Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself back to her hooves. She’d been able to ignore the fatigue while she had the project to focus on, but it all caught up with her suddenly.

“Why couldn’t I go?” she mused out loud. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes again and focused on her Pinkie Sense: her unique brand of magic that let her be where she needed to be, know what she needed to know, and do what she needed to do. She focused inward, trying to find what she needed.

The results were… confusing. Which, to her, was a new experience. The ninth Doctor was somewhere impossible, which she guessed meant he was in his time machine. Even with her magic, she wasn’t sure she could get there.

She looked up at the collage of photos. All the people that the Doctor had saved today. All the stories she had heard during the party.

“No,” she said, steeling herself for one last jump with her magic, “you’re going to laugh today.”

She took one last breath, and pounced.

She emerged in a circular room that had seen better days. There were several support beams exposed (not on purpose), exposed wiring everywhere, and piles of junk and broken armor everywhere. The focal point was the center console, itself charred and broken, the center column wheezing as it pumped up and down.

“How the hell did you get in here?” the Doctor yelled, frantically getting between Pinkie and the console.

“Woooooooah," she said, wide-eyed and looking around. "Is this your time machine?"

"It's my TARDIS," the Doctor huffed. "And you can't be here."

"But I am here," Pinkie said with a grin.

"Yes, you are!" the Doctor yelled. "Inside a TARDIS that is inside the time vortex! So how—"

"Wait, we're traveling through time right now?" Pinkie interrupted, still grinning. "That's so cool."

"Yes, it is, and it's also—"

"Are you running away?"

"What?"

Pinkie lost her grin. "Are. You. Running. Away."

The Doctor matched her stare. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Why shouldn't I?" the Doctor yelled. "Why should I stay there? Among all those people who lost their homes because of me? All those children without parents?" He pointed at Pinkie. "And don't tell me everything's going to be all right. I'm the Doctor. I'm a time traveller. You think I don't know what my future selves being there means? Of course this isn't the end. I did everything I did so it wouldn't be the end! But that doesn't change what I did. That doesn't change everything that happened in this war. And I don't need anyone, especially stupid horses, telling me to be happy!"

Pinkie blinked. "Okay!"

That brought the Doctor up short. "Okay?"

Pinkie looked up at the center column. "Can you get back on your own?"

A pleasant chime sounded from the console. The Doctor turned to look at that, then glared back at Pinkie. "Don't talk to my TARDIS."

Pinkie smiled back at the Doctor. "I'm nopony's messenger pony," she said with a malevolent grin.

The Doctor tensed up.

"I'm a delivery pony."

Pinkie pounced forward, grasping the Doctor in a perfect hoofball tackle, and the two of them fell backwards—

—onto the floor of the photo room. The Doctor immediately sprang up and looked around, ready to defend himself against Pinkie, but he was alone in the room.

Not seeing anything else of interest, he walked up to the walls of photos.

"It's not everyone," the tenth Doctor said, walking into the room with Eleven and Twelve close behind. "But it's a lot."

"But..." Nine stuttered. "They lost their homes."

"They'd already lost their homes," Eleven answered. "Whether by weapons or by policy, the Gallifrey they knew was already gone."

"But I pulled the trigger!" Nine yelled.

"Yes," Twelve said, smiling sadly. "You did that. And because you did that..." He walked past and pulled a photo off the wall. "This child will grow up. They'll go on to study science and advance the understanding of the multiverse." He motioned to another. "These teenagers are going to end a refugee crisis in another world by sheer force of will."

"Stop," Nine said, defeated. "I don't... I don't care what everyone's going to do. What phoenix will rise from these ashes. Not when there should never have been a fire."

"No, Doctor," Twelve said. "There should never have been a fire. But there was one, and you put it out."

"The war is over," Eleven continued. "They have a chance to rest, now."

"And everything that happens," Ten concluded, "can only happen because you ended the war."

Nine let out something between a cough, a laugh, and a sob. And then another one. Twelve stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Nine grasped onto Twelve's coat like a life preserver, laughing and crying all at once.

Off to the side, where Nine had originally fell into the room, a pattern of three balloons was scorched into the floor.

#turns out this scene is 1000+ words #oops #but Pinkie's CMOA is worth it #been bugging my wife with this so here it is #this is where I killed Pinkie Pie #doctor who #mlp:fim #pinkie pie #fanfic #sketch #friendship is multiversal

[iwillhaveamoonbase]

We Could Be Heroes ch. 7

Runaan gripped the steering wheel as he and Ethari drove to the office of the Xadia Dispatch. “You’re sure your friend’s sister is going to be acceptable?”

Ethari shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know a lot about her. My friend seems to think so and she’s got the best reputation on that whole paper. Did you schedule an appointment?”

“Aye. I’m not taking any chances to let anyone fuck with my kid.”

Ethari side-eyed Runaan for a moment. Ever since they had told Rayla to move in with Callum, Runaan had been silent on the subject. “I like Callum. I can see that he’s good for Rayla.”

Runaan sighed before running a hand through his long hair. “I do, too. I’ve been keeping tabs on him ever since Bandlr sent that first email. Doesn’t party, doesn’t dabble in dark magic, is known for being respectful towards women and elves. I know it was Rayla who fought telling us when they got serious and he still took half of the blame.”

Ethari was quiet for a moment. Rayla had always been just as stubborn as Runaan and her parents. It was both one of her best and one of her worst qualities. “I just don’t like the world he lives in. I have nothing against King Harrow and everything I’ve ever heard about Queen Sarai was positive. It’s just, Rayla’s been taught to live in the shadows and the sun is going to be on her from now on.”

“Trust me, Ethari, I don’t like it either. No one should live the way he does. Every little thing is picked apart, even his relationship with the King. No wonder he’s tried to keep a low profile since he entered the university. Yes, he lives in the lap of luxury and has never wanted for anything, but if that’s the price, I wouldn’t take it.”

Ethari kept an eye on the map as he hummed in agreement. “It’s coming up, get ready to turn left.”

Runaan moved to the left lane and turned on his blinker. “Got it. Now, if they refuse to let us in, I will run my blade through them until we get to the top floor.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m more serious than I am making cake for Rayla’s birthday.”

“Have you talked to Lain or Tiadrin?”

“No, and Rayla hasn’t either.”

“I wonder if they even know.”

Runaan was silent, his fingers minutely clenching the steering wheel. It bothered all of them that Rayla was not in contact with her parents. Lain and Tiadrin had missed far too much and communicated far too little. Perhaps, the honor of being part of the Dragon Guard came with a price far too steep for anyone with a family.

Runaan pulled in to the Xadia Dispatch office, a stylish building that obviously had some human influence if the giant windows and bright white walls with no greenery was any indication. Ethari gently squeeze Runaan’s hand before they parked. This was not going to be easy.

Getting to see the editor-in-chief was, shockingly, the easy part. The moment they stated they were the parents of the elf dating a human prince, the whole office seemed to be in an uproar. There were people coming up to them begging for the chance to interview Rayla. How on Earth any of this got so big so fast was beyond Ethari’s comprehension. It all seemed too fantastic and easy.

When Siobhan, a Tidebound elf, came into the editor-in-chief’s office, he realized just how easy their path had been so far. “I thank you for the opportunity, but I must decline,” came her even and slightly detached answer to their request.

Runaan clenched his fists again, though his face showed no sign of the turmoil Ethari could feel brewing in himself. “Why?”

Siobhan sighed. “The truth is, I don’t approve of their relationship. I don’t think I’ll be fair during the interview. I understand you want someone with integrity, but I’m not the person for the job.”

Ethari jumped in before Runaan could do further damage to the situation. “Then who do you recommend?”

“Everyone here is chomping at the bit for this opportunity.” A nonchalant shrug and a gesture towards the office accompanied her words.

“We don’t want just anyone. This is our niece. How this first interview goes is going to have a big impact on her life from now on. People will remember this. Who do you recommend?”

She looked down and shuffled through the list of reporters that the editor-in-chief had been so kind to give them. “None of these guys. Not her. Definitely not him; he has an anti-human agenda.” After a few minutes of this, she groaned. “It looks like I’m your only real bet. Everyone else has fudged interviews, has an anti-human stance, sensationalized something or other, or is just a bad reporter in general. This is…this is big and you need someone who isn’t going to treat it like a circus or an opportunity to spread their own agendas. I’ll do it, but I can’t promise anything. Once I go down there, I’m not going to hold back. I may very well insult your niece or her boyfriend. Are you alright with that?”

“Can’t you do this without your own bias?”

A snort and a head shake was her answer for a few moments. “See, everyone says they can, but no one does. We all come from places and experiences that have shaped us and our opinions. Emotions can run high during things like this. Not only that, but you have to understand that anyone who sees them is going to be judging something or other. They may judge Rayla’s clothes or Prince Callum’s knowledge on the sky arcanum. They could be judging if they sit too close to each other or not close enough. It’s going to happen and judgements can be placed in the opening and closing paragraphs that we are allowed to have. Not only that, but the editor-in-chief is able to make changes to fit their own rhetoric if they really want. It’s not ethical, but it can happen.

“But it’s even more than that. You said that you’ve met Prince Callum, right? Well, if it was as an introduction as her boyfriend, that means that this relationship is serious. It is possible that this could lead to marriage. And everyone is going to grab a hold on that. Your niece is going to be entering a world, perhaps until the day she dies, that is not as sparkly and shimmery as it appears. There is nothing like it in Moonshadow or Tidebound culture, not even Silvergrove, but I’ve been to a few events held on the border by the nobles of Katolis. It seems like they want for nothing, but they are held so strictly by decorum that any little thing that goes against it reflects not only on them, but on their families. And the world eats every little thing up and twists it until it’s something completely different.”

Ethari turned to Runaan, a tense look on his face. Runaan looked back and nodded, a silent agreement to whatever Ethari decided was best. Ethari sighed before turning to Siobhan. “We’ll take whatever you can give us. Just…try to be kind.”

Siobhan looked straight at them both, flickering her eyes between them. “I swear to be honest; nothing more nothing less.”

Runaan stood and crossed over to her, hand out. “Deal.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Harrow looked over at Ezran as they adjusted their clothes. The rest of the Pentarchy had called an emergency meeting following Callum and Rayla’s announcement. A part of Harrow hadn’t wanted Ezran to come. He knew that there was going to be a lot of tearing down of Amaya and Callum. Ezran had insisted, calling it his duty as the future king and as a member of their family. “Are you ready, Ezran?”

“I’m not. Are you?”

“I’m never ready for a meeting with the Pentarchy. Queen Aanya’s mothers were excellent queens and good people, but it’s not about that. You have to understand that every ruler in there is not just thinking about what they want. They also have to think about their people and how best to serve them. Because Katolis and Duren are the border to Xadia, we are in a unique position and we have to respect that we are a group of five kingdoms trying to find reasonable answers that all of us can live with. Not necessarily like, but live with.” Ezran nodded, still looking a little scared. “When my father took me to my first Pentarchy meeting, he told me that I didn’t have to say a word. I could simply be an observer. It’s up to you if you want to talk or if you want to listen.”

“What did you do?”

“I listened. But this is far more personal than talk about trade. This is about our family. I’m going to have a hard time holding my own tongue, so I’m not going to tell you to hold yours.”

A guard came in, looking annoyed as he saw the two before putting on a neutral face. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, it’s time.”

“And so, it begins.” They walked from Harrow’s room to the meeting room. There were two extra chairs, one for King Ahling’s son and heir and one for Ezran. Harrow stood in front of his throne and gestured for Ezran to stand with him. “We do not sit until everyone has come. King Ahling is a little older and his knee has started to give him trouble, so he is the only one allowed.”

The kings and queens slowly filtered in, Queen Aanya stood the tallest of them all despite her youth and short stature. Prince Kasef tried to stand proud and acted like he belonged there. Instead, he looked like a child that still didn’t know what he was doing. After their greetings, they all sat and looked straight at Harrow and Ezran. It was silent for several minutes, fidgeting galore among the normally to-the-point royals. Queen Aanya shrugged before standing. “No one else wants to breach the topic, so I’ll do it. King Harrow, Prince Ezran. It has come to our attention that Katolis has not only one, but two members of its royal family in relationships with elves. We understand that Katolis and Xadia share a border and its position makes this far more likely than say, Evenere having the same situation. However, it does not change the fact that Xadian influence could start seeping into Katolis and then make its way into the rest of the human kingdoms. In full-confidence, and as clear as possible, we would appreciate answers you can give that will let us know that Katolis still has the Pentarchy’s interests at heart.”

Harrow nodded and turned to the others. “Anyone else have anything they would like to add to the matter?”

King Florian stood up, his arms behind his back. “Yes. Your step-son, Prince Callum, already has too much influence as a member of the royal family and his efforts in becoming an archmage without dark magic cannot be replicated. He continues to spout nonsense about how he accessed sky magic and it has led to nothing. Moonshadow elves can cast illusions, can they not? How does even he know that it’s not all a ploy to get him to the border and this Rayla isn’t there to influence him?”

Harrow waited for someone else to speak up, but the rest of the room fell silent. He stood, letting pride for Callum’s accomplishments seep into his voice. “If I may, I would first like to address my son, Callum. Callum unlocked the sky arcanum by chance when he was seventeen. He had been practicing with a primal stone and got very good very fast. He had grown up around dark magic due to my former councilor, Viren, and his former girlfriend is a dark mage herself. My departed wife, his mother, Sarai, had detested dark magic and her influence caused him to reject it and call it what it is; a short-cut that takes lives that are not the caster’s to give. Viren launched an attack at the castle and Callum had no choice but to break the primal stone to protect Ezran. In a moment of necessity, he took away his one shot at continuing to do magic.

“Viren had sent shadow wolves to in revenge the next night, attacking Callum in his sleep. My son fought the dark magic in him for several days. When he awoke, he talked about sails, and wings, and how the wind and sky relate to everything. I couldn’t understand what he meant, but he drew a rune and used ‘aspiro’ without the primal stone. You’re right, Callum can’t fully explain to anyone exactly what he has done or how he has done it, but he is making efforts to. He’s trying to unlock at least one other arcana so he can. You must all remember; my son is a nineteen-year-old young man who is still learning about himself and the part he plays in Katolis now that he is no longer a child. He is doing his best and I believe he will get there.”

“And what of my second question? How do you know this isn’t all an illusion?”

“Moonshadow elves cannot hold an illusion for more than two years on this grand of a scale. It would be possible if Callum wore something imbued with Moon magic or had a rune forcibly put on him. We already checked for those possibilities. When Callum came with me to visit you two years ago, Queen Fereeda, that was because it was going to take him as far away from the border as we could get. He was stripped of his clothes and checked by healers for any signs of runes, unusual markings, or something lying under his skin. He was then made to replicate every spell he had learned since he began using the primal stone. Callum was still capable of doing magic to the exact same degree he was when we were in the castle back in Katolis. I understand your stance, which is why we had it done in the first place. We couldn’t be too careful, because Viren could have made an illusion as well and was trying to take control of the Pentarchy through Callum.”

King Florian nodded his assent, clearly placated for the moment. Queen Fereeda stood, locking eyes with Harrow. “I remember that trip. It is how King Harrow says it is. Prince Callum spent much of his time on the furthest possible reaches away from Xadia. He also told my own mages to stop using dark magic and try to use the sky arcanum. There was no result. Should my mages have been infected with dark magic, King Harrow? Or perhaps breaking a primal stone is the answer?”

“I can’t answer that question for you. Neither can Callum.”

“It’s been long enough,” the frustration they all probably felt was clear in Fareeda’s voice. “He should have an answer. I have heard rumors that he has officially been labelled as a potential threat to Xadia. My mages think he is a threat to humans. Why should we believe he isn’t? I understand that he is your son, so I ask you not to think of him as your child, but as a king would his subject.”

Harrow leaned back, stroking his chin. Ezran was practically humming with nervous energy, but Harrow saw that there was so much understanding brewing within him. Ezran would make a good king if he continued to have his good heart and understanding nature. “I’m not discrediting your stance, Queen Fereeda, but I must ask: does any of this have to do with the fact that Callum does not come from nobility? It’s not a secret that his mother was from a military family and his father was a poor artist. And this would not be the first time someone has given Callum less credence because of his parentage. Would you trust him more if he was of my blood?”

Queen Fereeda looked like she wanted to say ‘no’, but quickly stopped herself. There was silence until Prince Kasef stood up. “With all due respect to Your Majesties, may I interject?” Harrow nodded his assent with the others. Prince Kasef was not known for being sharp and was more well-known for his hot-headed behavior. But, the point of these meetings was to give everyone a chance to say their peace. “I would trust him more if he was of your blood, King Harrow. He has no real ties to you beyond his mother’s marriage and she passed long ago. He could very well be conspiring with the elves in Xadia and has been this whole time. As for the time in Evenere, what if there was a Moonshadow elf on board who cast an illusion on everyone? Frankly, your step-son shouldn’t have even been in the palace all these years to start with.”

Harrow was about to give a rebuttal before Ezran stood up. “With all due respect Your Majesties, I would like to say something on my family’s behalf.” The nods of assent were all Ezran needed, but he still looked to Harrow for permission. Harrow gave him an encouraging smile. “You say that Callum has no ties to our father. That’s not true. Callum is my half-brother, we share the same mother. His first tie to our father is through me. His second is through our mother, who loved our father and stood by him. His third tie is through the official adoption that took place a mere month after our parents were married. His fourth tie is the familial bond he and our father share, even if it is not by blood. His fifth is through Callum’s loyalty not only to our family, but to Katolis as a whole. I get what you’re saying, but I respectfully disagree. Callum would never act against our father, the only father Callum has ever really known.

“Questioning Callum’s loyalty to the good of Katolis, of human-kind, and all of the efforts our father and mother made is the same as asking anyone else here if they are loyal to the Pentarchy. As for the magic, I understand what Callum says when he talks about it. But I also know Callum better than anyone. There is a method to what he says. Perhaps that time when he was free from all distractions was what was needed for him to understand how it works and there are distractions everywhere now that he’s awake. Everyone is pulling him in a million directions and demanding answers. And when he gives them, they aren’t good enough. He hasn’t even graduated or been able to use any other primal magic. Give him time; he’s getting better at explaining it. This is new territory for the world, not just him. I would never go up to you, Prince Kasef, and demand to know exactly why horses in your country are paler and taller than most in Katolis without giving you time to do your research. And even then, it’s not equivalent. That research has already been done; this hasn’t.”

Kasef glared at Ezran before giving a stiff nod, finally sitting back in his chair besides his father’s throne. Instead of being upset, King Ahling laughed. “Well said, Prince Ezran. Between you and Queen Aanya, I feel like the Pentarchy is going to be in good hands.” Harrow noticed Kasef grit his teeth a bit at the praise.

“Thank you, King Ahling. I will admit that it is selfish of me to want to protect Callum. He isn’t just my brother. He’s my best friend and the one person I’ve always turned to when I’m scared, nervous, or simply so happy I could burst. We are a pair and, when I take the throne, I plan to have him right by my side. There is no one else I trust with my life more. He gave up magic, his destiny, to save my life without a second thought. That speaks more for his character and his devotion to peace and our family than anything I could ever say in this room.”

Queen Aanya stood, slowly looking around the room. “If everyone is satisfied with those answers, then I must ask that we turn to the subject of General Amaya and General Janai’s upcoming nuptials.” Kasef stood up quickly, taking a step towards Aanya. “Why are you the one in charge?”

Aanya raised a brow before slowly looking Kasef up and down. It was painfully clear just how unimpressed she was by his actions. She tilted her chin up and met Kasef’s eyes. “Because I’m the one that called this meeting. My people have benefited from Katolis’ help, but I will not pick a side based on that. I will also not stand back and let a war happen if I can help it. Technically, our war with Xadia has been at a standstill for generations. Battles have not been fought, few killings have been done in revenge, and the Dragon King, as well as the royalty of the Pentarchy, have not been assassinated by either side. I don’t know what’s going on in Katolis, nor do I understand Prince Callum’s ability to use magic, but I do know that I want peace. My people want peace. If Katolis already has two members of their royal family in relationships with elves, then they are closer to reaching an understanding with Xadia then the rest of us. I want answers first, but I would not be opposed to standing behind Katolis and King Harrow if it meant even a simple alliance. We must look past our prejudices and all the hatred that has been spread throughout the centuries and realize that all of this could finally come to an end.”

Kasef looked at Aanya and then at Ezran. “What of dark magic? The elves will not stand down until humans have stopped using it. We will not ask our mages to stop using our best means of protection!”

Aanya snorted before raising a brow. “That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you said, Prince Kasef. My mages also do not want to give up dark magic, but Prince Callum’s abilities give us hope. IF he can explain it and it can be replicated, they are willing to give up dark magic. Only a fool ignores the damage dark magic does to the mind and body. If they aren’t willing to use primal magic and the elves are willing to come to an understanding, then they will no longer be under my protection. King Harrow, you are the most aware of the dangers dark magic presents. Please, share your thoughts.”

Harrow waited for Ezran, Kasef, and Aanya to sit before standing. King Ahling was right about Ezran and Aanya, but something about Kasef was not sitting right with Harrow. ‘Maybe he’s trying to prove he can be king when his father dies.’ “You all know the story of how we saved Duren from famine using dark magic. You also know that that story ends with the Queens of Duren and my wife’s deaths. After that day, Viren, my most trusted advisor at the time, continued to offer ‘creative’ solutions using dark magic. I picked and chose which ones to use, but I began to see what my wife had always seen.

“It was starting to twist him and we relied too heavily on magic instead of coming to a decision sooner. Queen Aanya, I apologize for what happened to your mothers. The blame for that day rests just as squarely on my shoulders as it does Viren’s. He suggested it, but I chose to do it. Sometimes it is tempting and there is no right answer. I can’t tell you what to do concerning your mages or dark magic. What I can tell you is that I no longer want it in my kingdom. The only person who is legally allowed to perform dark magic, currently, is the Lady Claudia because she uses it to keep her brother walking. Even then, my son is making efforts for her to discontinue her use of dark magic and she knows that if she uses it for any other purposes, she will lose my support.”

Everyone seemed satisfied with his answer, but Harrow wanted to nip the issue with Amaya and Janai in the bud. “As for General Amaya and the General Janai; they have both spent a lot of time on the border. Through peace talks and mutual respect due to their combat skills, a friendship was formed. Both Amaya and General Janai are private people and have kept some information to themselves, but I have no reason to believe that it is part of some plot to invade Katolis. General Janai has already come to Katolis and has been respectful, kind, and understanding. The Sunfire elves, due to Janai’s high position in their military and her sister’s position as leader at Lux Aurea, have agreed to pushing peace talks beyond the border and as deep into Xadia as possible.”

Aanya nodded. “Anyone else have any other matters?”

King Ahling raised his hand. “I, personally, am all for peace and for the potential future that has been presented to us. King Harrow, my one concern is still your step-son. I respect Prince Callum. He has been quite pleasant, if not quiet, every time I have met him. He understands that Prince Ezran is your heir and has no desire to go above his station.” Harrow gritted his teeth a bit. He knew that him being king was a mere accident of fate. Callum was just as much the future of Katolis as Ezran and it seemed like the world preferred to imagine Callum as a potential usurper or as a shadow. He had taught his sons that they were no better than anyone else because of their stations and to use their stations to help make the world into a better place. Perhaps, the rest of the Pentarchy needed the same lesson. “He needs to either explain the sky arcanum, and human mages need results, or he needs to unlock another and explain that one. Otherwise, I’m going to have to wonder if all of it is an illusion or a carefully crafted ruse. As to how it’s been going on so long, I’m not sure.”

Harrow locked eyes with all of the rulers, paying careful attention to Prince Kasef and Queen Aanya. He would need to talk to Kasef as soon as possible. “I understand and will pass on the message. When I have an answer, I will be sure to call the Pentarchy to meet. Until then, please have faith in my son’s efforts.”

A call to lunch led everyone to leave the hall. Harrow quickly called for Kasef, causing him to stall. “Yes, King Harrow?” His voice was taut and his jaw squared.

“Prince Kasef, I noticed you were upset with your father’s praising of Ezran and Aanya. You must understand, Queen Aanya needs positive influence from the rest of the Pentarchy. She is surrounded by sycophants who would destroy Duren if she let them. It does her good to hear from her peers that she is doing well. As for my son, it’s his first meeting here. I’m quite proud that he has spoken well, but you have spoken well yourself.”

“For a spoiled brat? I know how everyone sees me. I won’t deny, I’m not as intelligent or strategic as Queen Aanya and speaking like Prince Ezran does not come easily to me. My father admires both of them, and your other son, greatly. The last time he came back from Katolis, all he could talk about was the great future mage, Prince Callum, and how Prince Ezran will never have to worry about the same things Queen Aanya did as long as Prince Callum is around. Even if he’s nothing more than a step-prince.” That last word was sneered as Kasef made full eye-contact with Harrow. He must have known how it upset Harrow to hear that word. Yes, Callum was his step-son, but Callum was his son in his heart. He never appreciated the term ‘step-prince’ and had frequently tried to quash it. Unfortunately, the press got wind of it and refused to let it go.

“My sons will not follow my path and are already questioning what is thought to be truth. I admire them myself. Prince Kasef, please, be wary of those who try to whisper in your ear and tell you what the truth is with no evidence.” Harrow gave a quick bow to Kasef and left to join his son and Queen Aanya for lunch. He needed to be around those who saw reason after that headache.

#rayllum #rayllum fanfic #tdp #the dragon prince #we could be heroes #moonbase fanfics #au

[fulgensun]

Some of the things I wished the Ultimania could explain properly but never did: why did the best swimmers were sent to the underwater canal of Via Purifico to be killed (I’d say they got the you-are-not-worthy-to-be-sent-to-the-actual-Via execution actually, but Evrae was waiting for them in there, so idk) -- and, is Tidus the dream of Bahamut’s Fayth?

It is commonly believed so, and I like to think so too -- except it is not the actual truth. Which is way boring than anything else haha. The book reveals Bahamut, being the most powerful and probably ancient Fayth, “is there to act as a representative of all existing Fayth, who share the same thoughts and consciousness”. Fayth were weapons Summoners from Zanarkand used to fight -- as they did not uniquely rely on machines. While the Temple makes Spirans believe they were people who willingly gave up their lives to help people find a way to defeat Sin, in reality, they’re older than Sin itself and were victims of what Ultimania calls ‘forbidden rituals and magic’ invented by Yu Yevon himself -- basically the same ritual he taught his daughter, and that Yunalesca used to turn a guardian into the ‘Final Aeon’. Caging the soul into stone and manipulate the pyreflies to call Aeons as means to fight the War.

So the Aeons used to long for life and for their hometown, Zanarkand; that’s why many of them used to wander around the Dream city, out of nostalgia. Bahamut is the only example we are given, seeing how he supposedly hanged around Tidus from the very beginning-- even before Jecht came to Spira. All hints that he is deeply linked to Tidus -- he’s there when Tidus used to try and emulate his father, there when Tidus is told his father may never come back again... heck, Bahamut even stops time for a moment, to try to calm Tidus down during Sin’s attack. The Fayth realize they ‘must move forward’ (something they had forgotten in 1000 years) and try to stop the dream the moment Jecht becomes Sin -- a corruption of a dream.

“ The fact that Jecht, a man from Dream Zanarkand, had become Sin had a considerable impact on the behaviour of all Fayth, for someone created to be eternally at peace and in dream-like life had been caught in the terrible spiral of tragedy of Spira. This was a problem for the Fayth, who had always appeared indifferent to Spira’s status quo, and made them realize their dream had to find its end, even if that’d made them disappear. ”

It’s interesting. It implies that, had Auron chosen to be the Final Aeon instead, Tidus would have never come to Spira, the dream would have never ever ended and Yuna’s story would have been just a continuation of the spiral too. So why would Bahamut’s Fayth insist to watch over Tidus even before the dream got corrupted and his father touched Sin, then ?  As a sucker for symbolism myself, I’d say it was predestination -- no coincidence; the Fayth might have sensed it, or known it that those two would have become more than mere dreams -- it’s never revealed. For example, I always believed Bahamut had chosen to appear as a child for that reason too: not only it’s very ironic the most powerful Fayth appears as a little kid, the one most difficult to obtain too (and that Braska got first-- symbolism !); but Tidus hardly trusted adults, and still kinda doesn’t (he even says it, thus not yet considering an adult himself), while he was revered by and adored children. As a child, he could keep an eye on him easily, and the statue clearly shows the ‘sacrifice’ for Bahamut was not a child -- the soul took that form on purpose. The fact Tidus knew Bahamuth from childhood but never questioned the fact he didn’t grow, can make us even think he believed him to be an imaginary friend haha !  Still...

“He has nothing to do with the Summoning of Tidus or of the Dream City” -- indeed, for that’s mainly the job of the Fayth on Gagazet: they were the remaining alive inhabitants of Old Zanarkand, gathered on top of the mountain by Yu Yevon who transformed them into a Fayth for himself and the Dream City -- (consider that Old Zanarkand was a monarchy, Yu Yevon its king/dictator and in the novel, people of Bevelle call Yunalesca the ‘Summoner Princess of Zanarkand’ -- their reign was not a pacific one, as they did brainwash people, even kids, to send them to murder Summoners in Bevelle; now it kinda makes sense that Shuyin, an inhabitant of that very Zanarkand, didn’t want his lover Lenne to go to war too).

Yet Bahamut is the one speaking to Tidus, visiting him in dreams, revealing his true nature to the boy and, at one point, even appearing to him as he almost risked to die at sea in Djose, to bring him back to safety !  Yes, technically, Tidus is the product of the dream of the Yu Yevon which is supported by the Wall of Fayth, but willingly or not, his bond with Bahamut was there, forming even before the story had even started. It is collectively believed, and rightly so ! -- that their bond is similar to the one between Yuna and Valefor, because it kinda is, despite him not being Bahamut’s direct dream.

But wait... so I was bummed. I need to finish translating the little trivia of the FFX novelization in the Ultimania Omega but I don’t know how much other info about Bahamut’s link with Tidus will be there, honestly. But in X2 Ultimania, in Yuna’s POV story/thoughts, there’s something interesting: in the Good Ending, Yuna says she somehow ‘felt’ Tidus had returned:

“ You’re now emerging, somewhere in Spira. I can feel that. The fragments you left here, of the person who has been watching over me anywhere I went, finally came together as one to be born. Not as a dream, but as a reality. It feels as if I’m pressing my ear on your chest to hear your heartbeat. We’re connected. Valefor and Bahamut -- it’s something akin to the bond that connects the Aeons’ souls. I can hear your whistle ! ”

Yes, Bahamut might have appeared to her in the Farplane as, again, ‘representative of all Fayth’, to gather up the fragments of Tidus’ thoughts and pyreflies and grant him life at Yuna’s wish. But there is, as always, something more. The same something they did write Yuna to feel, in there -- ink on a page, Valefor and Bahamut. And I’m so grateful for that: it makes sense and gets the two of them a beautiful, strong meaning to their bond and lives too...

#long post #meta tag. #▐┊ headcanon. #[ TY YUNA ] #[ for acknowledging it ] #[ yodels this is long but i have no regrets ] #[ in this house we pretend he's his dream HHH ] #[ and something more ] #[ i dont say it. yuna does ]

[mothmanhamlet]

Feelings are Fatal

I’ve decided to put all my fics here on tumblr, so here we go I guess

Logan is decidedly against love, but the very feeling he hates may just be his downfall.

Logince, 4231 words, Hanahaki au/High school au

Warnings: Major character death! Blood! Kinda swearing idk

Hanahaki Disease. It was just another fact of Logan’s life, the almost magical sickness that caused flowers to bloom in ones lungs as a result of unrequited love. He had to write a paper about it once, about when humans discovered it and how it affects humanity. He got a good grade on that paper, even though he didn’t understand it. Yes he understood the phenomenon, but how anyone could feel that deeply simply evaded him.

He used to pride himself on that, the fact that he always put logic and reason above emotion. It let him get good grades in every class he took, it made sure he focused, and it helped him get through high school without a hitch.

Well almost. Before he could glide through school into an Ivy League, he met Roman Prince.  

Roman Prince was the resident drama star and popular kid. He was conventionally attractive, with his curly brown hair, unblemished skin, and light brown eyes. A hopeless romantic, he was dramatic and confident. He and Logan shared Literature and World History together for almost two years.  

He could remember the day they first met, 2nd period English Literature. It was a rather bright room with handwritten posters plastered anywhere there was room. A giant messy whiteboard was at the front near the door with a square of desks facing it. The desks seemed to be one for every two people, an odd choice for a teacher but a completely average choice for that particular one. He remembers taking half of one in the front corner.

Once the bell rang to start class, the teacher, Mr. Picani, emerged rather ceremoniously from behind the desk. Immediately, he introduced himself and scribbled “Romeo and Juliet” on the board. From there, the class launched into a conversation about the story, most of them having already read it, which soon turned into a debate.

“It’s just so tragic, they were in love and had to die because of it, what could be sadder?” Roman announced, standing up and waving his hands around to accentuate his point.  

“They knew each other for a month at best and then killed themselves, how is that a tragic love story?” Logan said with a scoff.  

“How could you just say something like that about one of the greatest love stories of all time?” Roman gasped, turning his attention fully to Logan.

“Juliet was thirteen, she didn’t know what love was.”

“Oh and you would know better?”

“Actually-”  

They continued their debate for almost all of class, ending with both of them literally out of their seats and yelling at each other. It was intense and probably not the best first impression. It also caused their suddenly pacifist teacher to switch around their seating, so they ended up right next to each other in a swift move Mr. Picani called the “Get-along-desk”.

For the first few months, it was a hell-scape. Their interactions were explosive, they always had different opinions and neither were willing to compromise. For a while, they just refused to talk to each other, after all it did seem like the logical move at the time. That didn’t last long, as being desk-mates meant being project partners and projects meant communication. If not for Logan’s refusal to disrupt his own learning, they probably would have been kicked out of class. Even in History they weren’t safe, somehow always ending up partnered together. Logan found it infuriating. Roman thought with his emotions, he relied on abstractions and was too stubborn to let go of them. Not to mention, arguing with him was like arguing with the personification of the Uno reverse card. Roman would say that he was the stubborn one, focusing on facts and figures exclusively. Four whole months went by and no one thought they were capable of getting along.

That was until Roman’s twin brother transferred into their class. Remus was everything Logan despised, doing everything thoughtlessly. He would place nightmarish takes on their reading, placing what ifs where they had no business being. Logan was sure he lacked the capability to take anything seriously. Roman could barely stand him too, Remus being the antithesis of him despite the fact that they shared DNA. If Logan hated Roman, he despised Remus.  

So of course, when it was time to do team debates, Mr. Picani made the mistake of pairing them against Remus’ group. It didn’t matter how they felt about each other before, they were against a common enemy and needed to best him.

As rivals they were strong. As allies, they were damn near unstoppable. Every issue they had was put aside as they worked on an argument about the feminism of Pride and Prejudice. They used every second of class, discussing evidence and building upon ideas. They even went out of their way to work after class. Logan was finally able to see Roman’s strengths, how passionate he was, how driven he could be, and the creativity he had in every aspect. Sure enough, they got the highest grade in the class, and a friendship was formed. Albeit, it was uneasy and reluctant, but it was a friendship nonetheless.

Soon, unease and reluctance grew to respect. Respect grew to appreciation. After a few months, lo and behold, the get-along-desk had worked. They were not true friends, but they were doing better. They started to acknowledge points they made, even adding in some occasions. They made small talk too, Roman talking about his rehearsals or telling about another person he just had to meet (but ultimately never would). Logan would start to ramble about something he learned. It was little things like that that made their friendship.

It was mid-March when Logan noticed it. Everything had seemingly calmed down since Remus had gotten expelled for performing the macarena during an assembly for the 15th time, and he and Roman were slowly becoming at least acquaintances. They were in history class at the time, when Roman turned to him while they were working.

“European society really did peak in, like, the 1300’s huh,” Roman said nonchalantly, pointing to a knight’s uniform. Of course, Logan was annoyed with him. Somehow, he managed to forget the black plague, despite it being the focus of most of the unit. But it was a different kind of annoyance, more amusement than anything else. And of course Roman    wanted to be a knight, he already had the chivalry and honor down to a tee. But he was thinking about that too much.

It was a weird sensation Logan didn’t entirely understand. He probably should have thought about it, as that would be the logical thing to do, however Roman had told him continuously that emotions were illogical and that same weird part of him wanted to listen to Roman. So instead, he ignored the feeling and lectured him on the black plague. It was easy enough to ignore.

He felt it again in English the next day, while he was reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. They weren’t required, he simply wanted to. He remembered Dorian reminding him of Roman. A little narcissistic, a bit vain, beautiful. Beautiful. His brain got stuck on that word for a while. He thought Roman was beautiful. But emotions were illogical, so he ignored it. It was easy to ignore.

It continued to be easy to ignore. Sure moments like that would pop up, more and more frequently as time went on, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter the bursts of unexplainable happiness that Logan felt when he saw Roman. It didn’t matter the times Logan lost the ability to articulate in his presence. It didn’t matter that Logan could see just how nice and charming and unique Roman was. It didn’t matter, because he could ignore it.

By the end of the year, he could safely say it was harder to ignore. What was once subtle, was now strong and demanding in his head. That was also the time Logan realized it was hopeless to even want what he now knew he wanted. Over the year, he learned that Roman was in fact, a hopeless romantic. However, the endless string of people Roman fell for had a few things in common. From what he heard, they were all emotional, dramatic, popular, and perfect. Just like Roman.

So, when the year ended, Logan did what he did best when it came to his feelings about Roman. He ignored them.

The summer passed as the summer always did. Logan did mathematics camps, biology camps, astronomy camps, anything that kept him busy and learning. It was almost boring, how routine it was. The only thing that kept nagging at him was his ‘crush’ (the others at camp had taught him the term) on Roman. It never went away as he had hoped, yet he still continued to neglect it. Unfortunately, like a wound left unattended, it would begin to fester.

The school year began, and Logan could almost remember the happiness he felt when it started again. Classes were where he found his confidence, where he was listened to and respected. He was good at school, because it let him use logic and reason generally without complication.

There was, of course, one minor problem. He was waiting in his new English class, coming off of the high that was impressing his orchestra class, as he sat down at an empty table. This teacher seemed much like his previous one, bubbly and energetic. There were more technicolor posters adorning the walls, but everything was less cartoonish. In addition to the spectacled teacher who insisted they call him by his first name, this class seemed to have a TA, a dark shadowy man who must have been a college student. Logan had to have been distracted while taking everything in, as he failed to notice someone sitting next to him.  

“Hey Microsoft Nerd, ready to win English again?” Logan turned to see a smiling Roman facing him. Besides simply being startled, Logan jumped at seeing Roman again. He didn’t think Roman would actively seek him out like that.

“Roman, you cannot win English as a class, or a language for that matter, it is not a competition,” Logan said, adjusting his glasses. He forgot how pretty Roman was. It seemed his brain was at it again with this inconvenience.

“Au contraire, Pocket Protector, we can and we shall,” Roman said with a grin, his eyes lit up like candles.

So Logan had to be with Roman for another year, which was fine except for the fact that his feelings came back swifter and stronger. It was like his brain couldn’t stop noticing Roman and his smile and how he talked about the things he loved and how good he was.

He did fine, keeping it in the back of his mind, till around mid-October. That’s when he first noticed it.  

He was in his bedroom, at the clean white desk doing his homework. He had a cup of tea next to him, his books in front of him, and everything in order. Standard studying procedure. He remembered taking a sip of tea and coughing violently, his lungs burning like a wildfire inside his chest. Coughing and sputtering, he remembered thinking it was the tea, that he attempted to breathe while drinking it. It wasn’t until the burning died down and he felt something soft between his teeth did he understand. Removing it, he could see how bright red it was, a thick petal with uniform teeth marks pressed into it. It had to be a poppy. Coughing again, he feels another, more curly petal. A red carnation. They looked striking on his desk, in a room of mostly neutrals and deep blues, they added color. They popped so strangely it almost hurt to look at. They were objectively beautiful, plump and bright, but what they symbolized horrified Logan. He had really fallen for him, there was no turning back, not now. There wasn't much he could do now.

Well.  

Seeing as it was hopeless anyways, no one else needed to know. It was his secret, his mistake to be hidden. So, instead of telling anyone or getting a doctor or doing anything, he swept the red abominations into a little blue trash bin.

He remembered the next month at school being pretty easy, all things considered. He would go about his day as normal, minus the new addition of a water bottle for him to place the horrible beautiful petals. Roman would look at him or smile at him and his chest would ache, but he was sure it would get easier to ignore. He was very good at ignoring.

Harder than that, was explaining how his trash bin became full of scarlet, slightly damp, flower petals. It didn't completely sell him out though. No, that was a few weeks later, when he was in the middle of dinner. They sat rather quietly as usual, when Logan felt the recognizable burning in his chest, however this time was worse, feeling like lit kerosene all the way up his throat. He realized in that moment he was unprepared, no way to hide what would inevitably fall from his mouth. After a minute of wheezing, Logan looked to his plate to find a full, slightly bloodied, red carnation.  

His parents stared at him with wide eyes, flitting between the plate and him. It was as if they couldn’t process what had happened. He didn’t want to tell them like this, but it was too late for that now.

“Logan, I think we should schedule a doctor’s appointment,” Logan’s dad said, clearing his throat. It was a simple announcement, one that ended the conversation as they went back into silence.

One week of mild suffering later, Logan was sitting in a doctor’s office, waiting for the doctor to come back with the results of his blood test. He didn’t know how it worked, or why they needed a blood test to determine if he had flowers in his lungs, but he decided not to question it.  

The doctor came in with a serious face, as if he was about to deliver bad news and they didn’t already know the answer. He gave his parents a brochure, one with all the options they had, although there weren’t many. There were pills he could take, but they were new, expensive, and had a nasty habit of giving people cancer. There was the tried and true method of explaining your feelings in the hopes it wasn’t actually unrequited and you just thought it was. Then there was the option most people chose, the surgery. It was generally reliable and probably the safest option. It did remove your ability to feel most emotions, but to people with this kind of problem that was kind of a bonus. A security that it won’t happen again.

In the car ride back, Logan already knew what would happen. Sure, a confession would be easy, but even worse than his mild fear of humiliation was his parents’ strong fear of him getting a boyfriend. Or any romantic attachments for that matter. They were of the opinion that school and work came first and anything besides that was a distraction. He himself prided himself on a similar outlook.

“Logan, I think you should get the surgery, it may not seem ideal, but I promise    you it will pay off in the end,” Logan’s mom said from the front seat of their car. It was nothing Logan didn’t expect, so he simply sat there looking out the window at the trail of cars around them.

“Ok.”

The next day of school, he was filled with a sort of relief. He would be rid of these emotions that had been annoying him for months and trying to kill him for weeks. He was more relaxed. Unfortunately, because no good thing goes unpunished, he forgot his water bottle in orchestra. Which meant, he wouldn’t have it till after his next class, which just so happened to be English.

He did alright, all things considered, until they were allowed to research for their essays. He felt a burn in the back of his throat that meant flowers were coming. He started to cough, attracting the attention of the others at his table, a blonde girl, a redhead boy, and of course Roman. The emo TA also started to look at him, which was one more step to explaining his… Condition to the class.

A solid minute of wheezing later, two bright red and bloody flowers appeared in his hand, a carnation and poppy each with some stray petals. That drew a little more attention. The teacher gave him a concerned glance, but after Logan shook his head at him, he retreated. A few straggling eyes were suddenly on him, but the ones he was focusing on were the ones sitting right next to him.  

“So you do have a heart Lo,” Roman said, reaching out to touch a petal. He had to be dreaming. Roman couldn’t know. Roman wasn’t allowed to know. And Roman had many nicknames for him, but they were never his name. It was as if it were too personal. “I’m very sorry about whoever this is, and I would fight them anytime.”

Logan put on a brave face and straightened the blue tie he tended to wear. “Don’t feel too bad, I’m getting the surgery for it in a month or two.” Maybe if he didn’t look at Roman he would be better at talking about it.

“Oh, good luck then,” Roman said with a smile as Logan looked at him. He could have sworn he heard the slightest bit of sadness in his voice, but Logan was never very good with emotions.  

Three weeks came and went without much notice, except for the occasional brave soul asking about his illness. Logan remembered the answers he gave to be extremely clinical, using a lot of logic for a emotions based affliction.

He sat in the doctor’s office, a cold and sterile room, waiting for the doctor to come back with his X-rays, just so they could make sure the surgery would go on as usual. His mother, sat next to him in a light colored chair, squeezed his hand.

“They’re going to fix you, don’t worry,” His mother whispered. Moments later, the doctor came back into the room, clearly trying not to look distraught.

“I’m afraid we ran into a complication,” the doctor said, looking at his mother, “Your son is extremely far along in the disease, and the roots of the flowers grew in an unfortunate place in your son’s lungs. Trying to remove them would cause extreme scarring that would inevitably lead to pulmonary fibrosis, as well as cause severe damage to the blood vessels. Not to mention the fact that his brain is still developing, which means that the alterations to his limbic system could result in abnormal developments. What this means is that your son does not have a high chance of survival, should this surgery go through. I apologize that we were not able to identify these things beforehand, and you still technically can go through with it, though I would not recommend it.”

His mother’s face fell. Logan himself could barely acknowledge what had happened, the words refusing to run through his brain. The pure cleanliness of the room became all the more oppressive, the walls were beginning to close in on him. This, Logan would remember as the beginning of the end.

The next week of school was weighted and dull. His parents started to fight about whether or not he should go on with the surgery, and every day he continued to cough more and more. His parents announced that the next week would be his last at school. It was the march of his last year at high school, it should have been the home stretch for him. In many ways it was.

His last week at school was possibly the most difficult part. He had to explain to his teachers that he would be leaving, he had to watch their faces drop as they realized why he might not come back. His English teacher, Patton as he insisted they call him, cried when he told him. He thought Logan couldn’t see him, but he was able to see the small drops of water in his eyes. Even Virgil-the-TA was a little sadder. He decided no one else would know, if he could help it. Except Roman. As much as he hated the thought of telling him, Roman was his friend, technically his only friend. He deserved to know, Logan decided. He deserved to know everything, or at least a shortened version of it.

Soon, it was Friday. His last day of school went without much fanfare, besides his teachers becoming sentimental. He had also neglected to tell Roman, effectively waiting until the last possible moment. It neared the end of English class, and Logan was prepared. When they were allowed to talk, he turned to face Roman.

“Roman, I’m going to be away from school for a while and do not know when I’ll be back, or even if I will return,” Logan said in his usual directness. It was… Odd talking about his likely death. “So if this is the last time we ever speak, I just wanted to tell you that I-” No. He couldn’t do it. Roman would blame himself for it, and Logan refused to put that on him. Roman didn’t deserve to blame himself for this. For him. “I always thought of you as a friend. A best friend I suppose.”

Roman looked at him with a mixture of shock and sadness. “Logan I li-” Roman said quickly before pausing, letting out a sigh. “Logan, I’m glad I could be your friend. A best friend.”

And that was it. Logan got on with the rest of his day, and went home.

That lead Logan to where he was now, around three weeks later. He was sat in the chair in his room, as usual, reading a book. It was Astrophysics for People in a Hurry, and he had read it hundreds of times. He always wanted to study space. The pristine whites and grays of his bedroom were tinged red from coughing fits in the middle of the day. Flowers could be spotted in the corners of his room, the only mess in his neat space. It used to feel comfortably organized, now feeling distant and damaged. Nevertheless, he essentially lived in his room, no reason to go outside when he was going to die anyways. No reason to leave his room when his parents were always fighting about him. They were still considering surgery, or at least his father was.

He felt another cough rise in his lungs. He had almost gotten used to the pain. Slowly stumbling up and to the trash can, he choked through the pain. He could feel the warmth claw its way up his throat, burning.  Moments later, he could see two blood-soaked flowers, a poppy and carnation perfectly intact, stem and all. But they didn’t stop. A stream of blood followed, nearly filling his mouth, staining his lips and teeth red. In that moment, he realized just how little time he had left.

He turned over to the light switch, turning it off, then closing the drapes to his window. In the darkness he walked over to his perfectly made bed, and lied down. He could stare at the childish glow-in-the-dark stars he had placed up there, simply because they looked nice. He simply laid in the silence, staring at his own stars.

They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But a flash was the wrong word. No, Logan felt every moment leading up to this wash over him in a wave. Every mistake, every choice. He wondered if things could have been different. Maybe if he had never argued that first day, if he had never talked to Roman Prince, maybe he could have avoided all of this. He could have been on his way to a college, then to a job, and to a life. But it was too late for that. It was too late for him. It was almost over and he had lost.

Logan stared at the stars in thought. Soon, he lost track of time. He didn’t know how long he waited there before his vision started to blur. His vision started to fade, going darker and darker till he was staring into the face of the void. He felt his body lose the warmth it once contained, his energy dissolving. Despite it all, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, fighting for his life. Soon, it too gave up, slowing and stilling. He felt a soft pain surrounding his body, dulling his senses to numbness. Through the ache in his chest his breathing slowed. He gave out a small cough and a sharp breath in. As he released the breath, he felt himself let go. He released himself to the icy nothingness moving in on his brain. He couldn’t hear or see or feel anymore. He was still and detached and nothing anymore. He was finally gone.

#logince #major character death #mild blood and gore #hanahaki #sanders side fic #logan sanders #roman sanders #angst #sanders sides

[spiltscribbles]

The Lightwood Banes

I don’t know if anyone else agrees, but I like have an irrational need for Malec ensuring that  Rafael has like a connection to his birth place of Argentina. Like I know that they are Nephilim over all else…But just imagine it!!

•The Lightwood-Bane’s take an annual trip there every spring after Rafael asks if he could see his old friends who are still ravaging the streets of Buenos Ares, and being the sweet, empathetic child that he is, Rafael wants to ensure they are all right.

•Magnus and Alec have really long talks for every night for over a week about whether or not it was a smart idea to visit the place that had brought Rafael such pain only a year prior. Both truly worried over the possibility that wandering those streets again would perhaps once more  bring about the nightmares that they had so forcefully staved off from their eldest child.

•Eventually it’s Max, in the devastating simplicity of a five year old, who informs Magnus and Alec that “If I didn’t see Aunt Izzy or Uncle Si for a year, I think I’d cry.”

•So with an exchanging of a  glance, the pair finally resolve that they as his family should help Rafael with whatever kind of closure he desires.

•When the little family of four finally get to Buenos Aries, Magnus immediately flourishes in the hustle and bustle of the cosmopolitan city, leading them to the Mundane Hotel that they will be staying in.

*•It doesn’t take long for them to decide that Rafael would act as the translator, due to neither Magnus nor Alec being versed in the unique inflection of Argentinian Spanish. (Both having been taught the language in Spain’s dialect.

•For the first few days they take part in all the touristy adventures that is basically required. From savoring a helping of Argentinian stakes, to taking photos by the Botanic Garden. But  it’s on their fourth day in the city, while walking through the lively streets, when Rafael leads them to his favorite refuge when he was an orphan.

•”It’s called *El Ateneo Grand Splendid*” Rafel jovially tells his fathers and brother as the four sum step into the artfully designed baroque theatre, one which Magnus is positive they would have walked right past if Rafael hadn’t insisted upon their stopping.

•Once they walk indoors, the family, save for Rafael, have to catch their breath at the beautiful  sight of people meandering around the imposing stage, freshly brewed coffee, and newly bought books clad in each of their hands. And suddenly Magnus and Alec realize the reasoning behind their son’s partiality towards reading novels.

•They end up staying there for the entire evening, throwing Alec’s carefully crafted agenda to the wind. They revel in the warmth which seems to exude from this place,

•Rafael shows them all his favorite nooks to read in silence, and how he’d tuck away the particularly interesting reads, because, “I had no money to buy it, but I was afraid that someone else would before I finished.”

•That explanation may or may not have evoked a sudden need for Magnus to extend their already vast library within the loft, and fill it to the brim with texts that he thinks his eldest son would enjoy.

•Max loves seeing the happiness on his big brother’s face when he’s recalling memories he had within the confines of this wall. And even he can recognize that this place symbolized one of the safe places for Rafe.

•By the time they finally walk out, newly purchased books in a bag that Alec carries, and warm hot chocolate placed firmly in the boys’ clasps, the sun begins to dip into the horizon, casting away fleeting rays of light to pan across their faces.

• Rafe tells them that, “It’s not far from here.”

•Magnus and Alec don’t need another moment to comprehend the meaning behind his words, and allow themselves to be led to the one destination that Rafe wanted to see most of all.

•Alec couldn’t tell if it was the alleyway that he first found Rafe warding off a demon, or if they simply all look the same…But either way, the boy walks in with ease, and calls names unfamiliar to anyone else in the family.

•With a tentative stumbling out of the shadows, three terribly gaunt faces emerge. Brightening considerably once spotting the dark haired boy.

•”Rafael!” they exclaim while tackling into a group hug.

•”Where have you been?” is the most prominently spoken question asked within their rapid tongue.

•With a step back, Rafael gives a prideful flourish of the hands, and introduces them to, “Mis padres y mi hermano.”

•The children give the three strangers wide eyed stares, disbelieving that Rafael had truly found a family of his own…One which each and every one of them yearned to have.

•After a substantial amount of time passes with Rafael answering all the inquiries his old companions of the streets have, Max bursts into their chatter. A tiny, toddler finger pointing to a bundle of withered blankets, knitted together from their frayed edges, which creates a pitiful  simulation of a tent, in attempts to protect them from any on coming weather changes.

•”Oh awesome! Is that where you live!”

•They all give a shy nod of the head, not expecting the pleading by the little boy to his fathers.

•”Can we go camping too dads! PLEASE!”

•Magnus and Alec just give in, knowing that Max won’t relent in his begging, and that he’d most likely forget by the time they get back to New York.

•Another hour passes until Magnus and Alec can lead the children, willingly, to a near by orphanage, telling them that, “You’ll be safe here.”

•All and all, it was an amazing trip, and Rafael seems more content than they’ve ever seen him.

•So the night after they get back, Izzy of course insists that the whole gang have dinner in her and Simon’s cramped apartment.

•So while Simon helps salvage the three course meal his beloved wife had  asserted in making, and Max is dutifully playing a game with his Uncle Jace and Aunt Clarry, Rafael squirms himself between his dads who are slumping against each other on the sofa. Both yet a bit jet legged…(Or is it portal legged? :S)

•”Thank you guys for everything,” Rafael tells them, a gentle smile on his face. “It was awesome.”

“Of course my dear,” Magnus yawns with a smile of his own as he snuggles closer to the boy. “But you don’t have to thank us.”

“Yeah Rafe,” Alec runs a hand through his son’s thick locks. “It was a fun family trip. Maybe we’ll do it next year.”

•A sudden warmth blossoms in Rafael’s chest, because yes! Yes, they were his family. He actually had a magical warlock, and courageous Shadowhunter as fathers. And he even had a baby brother who mimicked his every movement just because he actually looked up to Rafael.

•”I love you guys.”

***

•They end up actually going the next year, joined by their newest addition to the family, Gigi. And Rafael is as excited as last year, because now he also gets to show off his baby sister too.

•But Rafe is only slightly disappointed, and mostly elated when he gets to the orphanage and finds out that two of his friends have been adopted, and the third is in the midst of paper work.

•Because now they might be able to have their own family. And maybe even they had the chance to experience the immense amount of raw joy he has when waking to his spectacular family each and every morning.

***

•They end up going around the same time of year for the third time in a row, and have all silently settled to the fact that it has become their own kind of tradition.

•Of course, Magnus insists upon the requirement for them to take a family portrait in the traditional Argentinian garb for their family portraits. Because seriously, “Look at my boys dressed as little Gauchos.”

•Gigi loves any opportunity that she gets to put on a dress and get a dolled up.

•“She gets that from you darling,” Alec states matter-of-factly when their only daughter demands upon a gem incrusted cowboy hat for the photo.

•surprisingly, Alec holds out until their fourth  trip until Magnus finally convinces him on taking Tango lessons with him. Because seriously, “Darling the locals describe it as sex while standing, and if you give a fraction of your talent in bed. I’m sure we’ll be the most brilliant students there.”

•With a very reddening face, Alec clambers out a few “Your unbelievable,” “I can’t believe I’m engaged to you.” Until he finally gets to a resigned “Fine, but I’m not dressing up in that ridiculous attire.”

•Of course he does

•And OMFG can you just imagine a little Rafe dressed in a Messi Jersey<3<3

•And I have wayyyyy to many feels about this, and this has become to long already. I”M SO SORRY

#Malec #Lightwood Bane Family #Magnus Bane #Alec Lightwood #Max Lightwood Bane #Rafael Lightwood Bane #GIGI Lightwood Bane #Shadowhunter Headcanons #Headcanons By Len #I'd love to know if anyone else felt this #lol

[spiderbob007]

The Legend of Massey: The Origin of a Killer Cat

The blight had decimated what was once a verdant valley within the Emerald Isle. Those that prospered by buying, selling and trading their wares with other members of the community found themselves at best destitute and at worse vilified. Tucked within a small cottage on the outskirts of the scant village of Wet Spoon, lived Donald O’Shea McFerguson, a once renowned merchant able to find the most obscure of relics to sell to the more sophisticated members of the community. Donald was said to have studied at the feet of the Merchants of Venice, but in truth he was an economics prodigy, who created a unique model of finance that is little understood, even by the most sophisticated of scholars. But in times with little opportunity for fortune and a population that was draining from the land for new prospects across the Atlantic, Donald was a desperate man – a man susceptible to the mischief of those rarely seen creatures known as the Leprechaun.

 Deep within a dank cave lived one of the most malicious and malcontent mischief makers among his kin. Other leprechauns regarded him as a menace to be avoided, even when he was in the best of moods. Striking without warning, he was not selective in the target of his pranks. It was rumored that he pranked a stone to the point of making it weep. This gossip is often used as an explanation by the peasantry for why the stones are wet on autumn mornings, without a cloud in the sky.

 Leprechauns love desperate times, for this is when the greed, envy, and wrath of others is more readily manifest and harvested for their amusement. Contrary to legend, leprechaun’s do not possess vast caldrons of gold coins. In fact, they are mendicant creatures more likely to beg and steal than earn or find their fortune. In lean times, the fairy people suffer along with Mother Nature’s children, but they will willingly go malnourished in exchange for the joy of causing other’s mirthful misery. Thus, is the dynamic that was about to forge a bond that would go unbroken for generations.

 With the potato crop failed, Donald was finding that the notches in his belt were not only going in the opposite of their usual direction, but he was having to resort to boring new holes in the leather every week to accommodate his dwindling waistline. While foraging in the forest under an extremely gnarled and uninviting oak tree near a stygian cave, Donald heard a hiss and a spit. He stood straight and silent, listening for signs of the Celtic Cryptid. The surly wildcat was known for dropping down from tree branches onto the neck and shoulders of unwitting victims leaving them with lacerations that required the attention of the local barber. Scanning his environment, Donald spotted a pair of golden eyes leering at him from the canopy above. Suddenly the creature’s eyes softened, and he heard a gentle purring noise. An orange and white cat emerged from the leaves, gently and timidly moving along a branch as though it feared falling from what to it must have seemed a cataclysmic height. Regaining his composure, Donald reached up to the timid creature and for a moment paused, thinking it was going to bite him from fear or malice, but the cat allowed him to gently cradle it in his large arms. Donald pondered upon a name for his new companion, in that moment he could have sworn that he heard a gentle whisper through the trees say – “Massey.”

 Massey proved to be a competent hunter, often disappearing in the night through a cottage window and returning in the morning with a rabbit or vole. Although a meager meal to share with a grown man, Donald was happy for the supplement to his diet and the companionship that his new pet would provide. Meanwhile down in the village of Wet Spoon the remaining citizens were complaining of household items disappearing from their homes along with food from their cellars and pantries. There was no signs of forced entry and no clear suspects.

 When the duly elected shire-reeve left with his remaining family members for the shores of America, the local hide tanner appointed himself to the position. Billy McBruce O’Sparkle, had no knowledge of investigative techniques nor juris prudence, and he began randomly pointing his crooked finger at anyone who had ever crossed his path, which was pretty much everyone. Running out of suspects to investigate or persecute, Billy remembered the trader who lived on the outskirts of town. Oh, Billy really hated that guy for his clever skills at making deals. He was convinced that Donald had swindled him out of several tanned hides that Billy traded for exotic wares from the Orient rumored to have been crafted by the hands of the Masters. Whatever wizardry was required to make the trinkets change shape; Billy was not skilled enough to discover. “Phooey ahn 'is poehzzles!!” Shouted Billy. “I'm goin to get to de bahttom o' dis case if it's de last din I evr does!”

 The Irish are a superstitious people with good cause. The island serves as the epicenter of supernatural occurrences that begot the traditions of Samhain to protect mankind from the winnowing season when spirits wander the countryside and demonic forces from beyond the vale of human understanding hold sway over reality, giving birth to creatures both monstrous and beguiling. Among the fairest and most feared creatures to hold sway over the fates of mankind are the Banshee. Their pale skin and trellis of fiery hair lure the unwitting to a fate heralded by their caoine cry which marks the doomed for imminent death; although unique among her kind is a coral-haired giantess gifted with a matriarchal kindness and a warrior’s spirit – D’Arcee.

 The knocks came hard upon the oaken door of Donald’s cabin, and he could hear the angry voices on the other side; one in particular was high and anxious; proclaiming with righteous fury that Donald was a “cheat an uh swindler.” Before Donald could get the door fully opened, the rabble crashed into the main room and grabbed him fast. Billy began shouting orders to have the cabin searched “frahm tahp to bahtoom,” as Donald’s neighbors began to turn over furniture, pull aside bed sheets, and destroy priceless treasures from lands to the east; all the while a certain orange and white cat peeked down from his ceiling perch with a slight grin upon his feline countenance. The sudden and strangely haunting sound of a cat’s meow drew everyone’s attention to a bundle hidden high in the dark of the rafters.

 The young Danny O’Witwicky McWheelie, being the nimblest among the posse and due to his tendency to talk in rhyme the most likely to not be mourned if he fell to his demise, was enlisted to climb into the attic. Untying the bundle from its perch, Danny tossed it down and all manner of necessities spilled onto the floor. Knowing that there was no reasoning with an angry mob, Donald mustered his strength and took the distraction as an opportunity to make his escape. When in need of preserving one’s own existence, even the stoutest of men can harness unnatural speed that they would normally never achieve, and Donald was deep into the forest in a very short time.

 The angry villagers searched for hours and were soon inclined to return to their squalid abodes with the coming of dusk, when suddenly they could hear the mewling of a cat. Massey had found Donald taking refuge in the hidden hollow of a massive and gnarled oak tree in the center of the forest that as a child he had often played in with his imaginary friend. “Silence you auboehrn 'aired devil,” he muttered under his breath, but the cat was insistent and began to dig his claws into Donald’s flesh. Unable to suppress his pain and anguish, Donald cried out with a wounded howl.

 Hearing the echo of Donald’s anger, the villagers were mustered for vengeance once again and had soon surrounded his oaken refuge. “Ye mought as ell soehrrender Dahnald,” proclaimed Billy. “Dere'll be no escape fahr ye now!” Donald continued to cry out in anguish from his malicious companion’s continuous assault upon his leg. “Fine! If dat's dey way it's goin to be, den we'll boehrn you ooeht!” Billy then gave the order for the other villagers to use their torches to set the oak ablaze; when suddenly there was a mournful wail, a flash of light and the appearance of a giant goddess towering above the tree. Shock taking command of their senses, the villagers bolted from the wilderness and no one ever dared speak of the night’s misgivings for fear that the banshee would return to claim their soul.

 It is said that magic is only science that we don’t yet understand, but true magic is beyond the comprehension of the senses of humankind and as such when witnessed, causes a form of madness that enables the mind to interpret the indescribable. Angered by the sudden appearance of his spiritual sibling, Massey dropped all pretense of being a feline and once again took his natural form. Leprechauns are powerful mystic beings, but in comparison to a banshee they know it’s best to use guile instead of brute-force magic. “Good evening to you sister,” Massey cordially remarked, fiddling his fingers behind his back. D’Arcee only regarded the diminutive demon with suspicion, but in keeping with the etiquette of their kin, returned the courtesy; but she was quick to pivot and questioned the occurrences within the forest and her sibling’s probable role in the evening’s shenanigans. Feigning indignity, while maintaining a respectful tone, Massey assured D’Arcee that he was only attempting to rescue poor Donald from certain death. At this remark, Donald suddenly broke from his shocked stupor and accused the creature he believed to be his cat of orchestrating the entire affair. Sensing that his canard was not fooling anyone, Massey was relieved that his spell was fully realized and unleashed a torrent of supernatural forces upon D’Arcee.

 What occurs next can only be interpreted with a human mind and in the language known to the author in description of the mystical occurrences that took form this night. The head of D’Arcee began to take a shape and appearance like that of a fiery-eyed jack-o’-lantern, and Donald was transported from his arboreal conclave to the cranium of his would-be savior. At the sight of what he had conjured, Massey burst out into peals of gleeful laughter; but it was short-lived. Magic like any commodity can be stockpiled for a time when it’s needed most, and Massey had been using his reserves with wild abandon to maintain his secret identity. D’Arcee to the contrary had been absorbing the magic of countless autumn seasons when the veil was at its weakest and unknown forces flowed into the realm of what we consider the natural world. With the twitch of her fiery eye, she was back to her normal form and Donald was once again in his cottage with no memory of what had occurred.

 D’Arcee leaned down to where her face met that of her would-be adversary. “Do you like playing tricks little one?” she uttered with cool disinterest. Massey shuttered with fear as her cold breath wafted over his face. D’Arcee pulled herself up to her full height plus several meters more, she considered her opponent for a brief moment and then she was gone. What stood in the place of the Leprechaun was once again a large orange and white cat, but this time there was no changing back.

 Donald found himself in possession of a cat, but yet he could not remember where it had come from nor why he felt compelled to keep an animal that seemed disinterested in anything other than eating and lounging in a sunny window. The people of the village seemed to know something about Donald that he himself was unaware of and in time his mysterious reputation earned him the interest of a girlfriend. Resolved to find a better life for his new family, Donald used his connections to book passage across the ocean to pursue prospects in the land of Virginia, where he adopted the less-Irish sounding last name of “Ferguson.” In time Donald’s family grew, and as all natural things do he was released from this mortal coil to make room for the next generation, but he passed on his experience and business acumen to his progeny, as well as an apparently ageless cat that always seems to find a home with a Ferguson with no one the wiser as to its true nature.

[fandomn00blr]

Nightmares and Chocolate

[Another chapter of my Amell Origins playthrough drabblin,’ also posted on AO3 (minus these sweet high-quality xbone screenies!)...]

---

Her hands. So impossibly soft on the top, but hard where the grips of her daggers and the trigger of her crossbow left rough callouses underneath. Running over her. Reaching for her. Grasping. Pulling. Digging. Tearing…

And...shrieking?

Solona wasn't sure if it was her own screams or somebody else's until...

Ah, yes. The Archdemon again. Lovely.

She had come to recognize the hideous monster that haunted her dreams, and she realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was actually beginning to understand its unintelligible hissing and garbled roars. She had started to feel its needs, its wants, its...commands. And at least some part of her wanted to obey.

Solona woke up in a fever-breaking sweat, her loose night clothes clinging to her. Alistair had said her dreams might get worse. Before they either got better or she just learned to live with them. He hadn't really been very clear about that.

“Warden Amell…?”

Her voice. Again. Still? Apparently, she was still dreaming.

"This is fucking torture!” she screamed into her pillow and tried to will herself awake before her dream twisted her desire for the pretty bard back into another nightmare.

“Oh my...torture?" Leliana peeked her head in under the flap of the tent’s entrance. "Solona, are you alright?”

“Leliana? Is that you?” Please don’t have claws…Solona thought, squinting up at her.

“I think so…?” Leliana didn’t sound too sure herself. And somehow, this was reassuring to Solona. “I heard you thrashing about and yelling."

Solona had convinced herself she'd only been imagining that Leliana had been setting her tent up closer and closer to hers each time they made camp over the past few days, and she hadn't dared to ask Alistair what he thought after their conversation a couple of nights ago. But it seemed she’d been close enough to hear her having this latest nightmare.

"I thought perhaps we were under attack?"

“Just in my sleep, it seems.” Solona laughed weakly, trying to play it off. “Alistair assures me that this is all perfectly normal.”

She rolled her eyes at herself. None of this was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again. Not that it ever really had been.

“Perhaps I can help? I have some good wine...and chocolate.”

"Ok, now I know I must be dreaming...”

Leliana laughed, ducking the rest of the way into the tent. "I always keep a stash of the finer things for emergencies," she smiled, so warm and inviting that Solona didn't care anymore if she was real, part of a dream, or even a demon coming to tempt her in her vulnerable state.

"Maker preserve me," she huffed, feeling her insides turning into butterflies as Leliana scooted next to her. She was a clammy mess, her hair stuck to her face and her thin nightclothes soaked almost all the way through. But here was the woman she couldn't get out of her head, moving closer nonetheless.

"Oh, yes. Perhaps we should say a prayer?"

"That's not exactly what I -- " But before Solona could finish, Leliana had knelt down right beside her, taking her cold hands into hers, even warmer than they'd been in her dream, the soft parts softer and the callouses right where she'd imagined them.

Solona swallowed whatever she had been about to say in protest, as Leliana looked up at her with an earnest plea half-formed on those lips of hers.

"May I?"

She was helpless to say no to her. Whatever she might be asking for. Her soul, maybe? "Go ahead…" she stammered. It was a low, hoarse, blunt kind of noise, in stark contrast with the light lyrical lilt of the bard.

"Maker, please grant us the hope and courage we need as we prepare for the darkness and the battles that lie ahead of us."

"In Andraste's name…" Solona began to murmur obediently. It might have been the first time she'd uttered the phrase since childhood, refusing to go to the services held in the Circle as soon as she was old enough to opt out of them.

But instead of finishing the prayer, Leliana leaned forward and pressed her lips against Solona's, dry and thoroughly unprepared as they were.

Leliana’s, on the other hand, were soft and warm. And gentle. Like everything else about her, at first glance.

When she pulled away, Solona caught just a flash of the darker desire in her eyes, too. But she looked quickly away before revealing too much, smiling bashfully down at the ground instead.

"I see the Maker's love in all things…" She lifted her face up with the rapturous glow she had whenever she spoke of the Maker, the creases and wrinkles that Solona had begun to look for because they were like cracks into who this woman really was had all gone smooth again.

“All things…?” Solona managed to choke out because if she didn’t say anything, she was afraid she might wake up from what she was almost certain now was another dream.

“Mmhm…” A hint of a wink, a tiny crease between her brows. A little quirk in her smile. “And your lips are as sweet a way to end a prayer as any I can think of.” Leliana blushed and then leaned in for another kiss.

“Wait!” Solona pulled back just before their lips could meet again, hating that the voice of conscience in her head telling her to do so sounded an awful lot like Alistair allofasudden.

“What is it?" Leliana's forehead creased suddenly with worry. "Oh no! Have I misread you? The flowers you gave me...the flirting…I thought…?”

“No. It’s just...well, Alistair has informed me that I’m extra amorous right now because of the Darkspawn blood I drank as part of my Joining...and well…" She really did sound just like him. What was wrong with her? "I would just feel bad if...”

“I understand.” Leliana sat back, her lips just barely pursed into a disappointed pout.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. I was the one who was being foolish. I feel I should explain…”

“There’s really nothing you need to --”

“I do not feel particularly beholden to conventional ideas about propriety when it comes to sex.” She blurted out, like some kind of confession.

“Oh?” Well this was certainly not something Solona was expecting to hear from the Chantry Sister.

“Physical pleasure is a gift from the Maker! As much as any other thing that makes us feel good and loved. I could not take the Chantry vows of celibacy in good conscience knowing I would be turning my back on these opportunities to experience the Maker's love...”

“Oh…” Solona nodded approvingly, as if she understood completely. In her experience, the Maker, if there even was such a thing, was cruel and distant. In the Circle, she’d only ever really heard about the many ways the Maker had chosen to punish his children. Especially the ones bearing the 'curse' of magic.

“I do not believe our enjoyment of these gifts needs to be wrapped up in the sort of relational demands and exclusive commitments people make to each other — the restrictions, the rules...”

Solona was beginning to feel as though she were listening to a sermon. But at least the message was something that interested her for a change. And the person preaching it was nice to look at.

Leliana blushed again, as if she had finally realized what she was trying to imply.

"I fancy you!" she laughed. "If I'm allowed to say so."

“You are. Allowed to say so…”

"But what I’m trying to say, is that if you do not return these feelings, it does not mean we cannot enjoy each other’s company while we have the opportunity to do so!”

“Oh, I’m familiar with casual sex, having spent almost all of my life up to this point in a Circle...” Solona laughed.

Leliana looked somehow saddened by this, which seemed more than a bit hypocritical considering she'd just offered a no-strings-attached encounter, but maybe she assumed casual sex in the Circle had nothing to do with the 'Maker's love' and therefore was excluded from this arrangement.

"I'm sorry. I must seem ridiculous to you," Leliana muttered.

“No! Not ridiculous! Your views are just...unique. I've never met a 'lay' Sister like you...or anyone who actually believes the Maker could be so...kind."

Leliana frowned again.

"But I think I do return your feelings,” Solona hastily confessed, hoping halfheartedly she might still be able to salvage this conversation. “And that’s why I think we need to just wait...until this nonsense with the Joining has passed.”

“Wait...so you do...have feelings? For me?”

“Yes. But it’s hard to figure them out when the Darkspawn blood is screaming at me through my veins like this."

“I see. That does sound quite awful."

Solona nodded.

"I um...oh this is so embarrassing! I promise I did not intend to throw myself so desperately at you like this! You just...you make me feel rather silly."

"Silly?"

"Yes. Like a young girl again!"

"Oh. Yes. Uh, same, actually…" But Solona knew it probably wasn't the same at all. Leliana as a young girl had probably been full of light and wonder and joy. Solona as a young girl had been even darker and more disagreeable than she was now.

"Disturbed," more than one of her teachers had called her, and if it hadn't been for the First Enchanter’s insistence that she was simply bored, and in need of more challenging training in spite of some of the senior enchanters' objections…well, she didn't want to think about that. It would've reminded her of Jowan's unknown fate, who hadn't been so lucky to have such a persistent advocate in Irving, and she wasn't ready to deal with the remaining guilt on top of everything else she was going through at the moment.

"Sorry…" She turned and smiled apologetically at her. "I drifted off into my head a bit there."

“It's fine. I imagine you have a lot on your mind."

They both sat in awkward silence for a moment until Leliana brightened up again. "Oh! I almost forgot! I really did bring chocolate and wine." She reached into the the satchel she had slung over her shoulder and pulled out a bottle and a little parcel wrapped in fancy gilded paper.

"Another gift from the Maker?" Solona asked, finally recovering some of her characteristic sarcasm.

"Oh no." Leliana looked darkly up at her, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "This comes from another realm, where the Maker's grace is spurned entirely…”

“I didn’t know they made chocolate in the Void?”

“No, silly! It’s from Orlais!" Leliana giggled, peeling back the pretty paper with relish.

Solona beamed at her and eyed the chocolate greedily as she snapped a piece off and handed it to her.

“It’s the good stuff,” Leliana assured her, unnecessarily.

Solona swallowed it too quickly to notice. “More…”

“I’m glad you like it.” Leliana broke her off an even larger piece. “Wine?”

“Maker, yes!”

Leliana smiled and pulled out one of the daggers she kept strapped to her body. With a mouth full of fine Orlesian chocolate, unable to even scream, Solona thought, if this is the moment this woman chooses to slit my throat, I will have at least died happy, and I want Alistair to know I had no regrets.

But in a quick flash of metal and sparks, Leliana slashed the blade against the neck of the wine bottle instead.

“Show off…” Solona murmured, but the fluttering mess in her belly had become far more demanding allofasudden. She began to wonder if a single bottle of wine would be enough to dull her all-consuming hunger, even just a little bit.

“An old tavern trick. Basic bard stuff…” Leliana smiled smugly, pouring a generous amount of red wine into a goblet that suddenly reminded Solona of the Joining chalice.

She took it from her anyway and swallowed it down as quickly as she could and tried not to think too much about it. It certainly didn’t taste like Darkspawn blood, anyway.

...

Somehow, along the way to finishing their bottle of wine and another bar of chocolate, Solona ended up lying with her head in Leliana’s lap, her hunger and restlessness somewhat satisfied for the moment by the indulgences and her company. Leliana ran her fingers through her long, dark hair, loosened from its messy bun, absently twisting it into little braids, while humming some unfamiliar song.

“What is that?” Solona asked.

She remembered Alistair had mentioned something about bards and their songs and how they could hypnotize you, and between the wine and the general lack of sleep, and the warmth of Leliana’s lap and the way her hands raked gently through her hair...well, she was feeling pretty drowsy.

“Just an old Chantry hymn. The tune is probably older than the Chant of Light, I imagine. It’s a bit absurd, I know," she laughed. "But I find it comforting in dark times.”

“It's nice. Nothing like the dreary dirges they used to sing in the Circle…" Solona yawned.

“Then I shall continue humming it for you. Until you fall asleep. Or until I do...whichever happens first.”

"Promise?" Solona asked, already halfway there.

Leliana smiled down at her, twisting a braid around her pinky. "I promise."

#dragon age #origins playthrough #warden things #solona amell #leliana #leliana/amell #leliana/female warden #my writing #fifth blight #long post

[pyrosophist]

Guide

Old, weary bones cold-bitten by wind are just enough to pull Ghilahim from his dwelling upon the Song. He prefers it to the solemnity of war, almost; to walk the camp grounds in the garrison of Sunsail is to hear the echoes of its battle, the fear and anxiety and violence. It is umbral, and discordant, and unfortunate.

Still, that does not stop him from collecting them and keeping them. It is his duty to preserve the warrior’s clarion call as well as his death. The song mourns the blood spilled in low, quiet notes, as though it is already tired of the conflict. He understands. The moments of peace within the camp itself, of rations enjoyed despite their scarcity and banter had between comrades and men-at-arms, are a balm.

He summons a summer breeze and lets it rest in a bonfire, the men and women surrounding it casting him an odd glance at the bronze light and the murmur of melody that wisps out of his hand. He offers no words, but allows himself to enjoy the solace, leaning heavy on his staff. Words and idle talk passes with some lifted spirit, and for that Ghilahim is satisfied; a bright-eyed woman and a man with the Flame in his heart bid him goodbye when he retires to his tent.

He doffs his gloves and boots and sits upon the edge of his cot, staff across his lap. It is an old man’s idle comfort, to move slowly about these things - water, hardtack, his dispensation of rations save for the jerky he’d used to gain favor with a ranger’s wolf. Subtle magic, captured in a breath of spice and a bakery’s warmth, makes it enjoyable where it lacks nourishment.

His thoughts linger, on the day prior. His fellow Oathsworn were each remarkable - the youthful druid, the woman who wore fear as a mantle, his witch-fearing friend who grasped hold of the song’s echo enough to recall a fraction of it. Beyond that, even- a child of Suramar, thrown from her place in the branch. He will chronicle so much during his time, here. It is the one thing which gladdens him, when he sits like this and lets the burdens of the day slough off his shoulders.

Still, rest does not find him. His troubles span far, invade his dwelling, just like the cold of this winter, like the Long Winter. (Sacrilege, he had called it).

He finds his incense sticks, places them in a burner and lights them with a memory of flame. He sits cross-legged upon the ground, closes his eyes, and holds his staff in his lap; he traces his thumb down grooves of aged wood, and breathes in the bitter smoke. In meditation, sensation ebbs out of him and the world slows.

---

He opens his eyes to a broad clearing, bordered by woodland shrouded in twilight. The sky above him holds a hundred million stars, cut through with so many colors of the cosmos. Around him, standing stones intersperse around the clearing, many enveloped at the base by roots, their faces engraved with innumerable glyphs.

He pushes himself to a stand, breathes in, enjoys for a moment the pleasant air and the lack of weariness to his body, the low timbre of melody as though the breeze that pulls at his robes accosts so many chimes.

He turns to behold Ma Vhelas’an. The Tree of Time.

It dwarfs everything - its branches, full and healthy, stretch high up into the air, its base a sprawling mass of roots. It silhouettes against the night sky, against the slow rise of the mountain behind it. His heart fills with satisfaction. Even if its birthplace is a husk, it still lives, it still lives; a constant, etched into the bones of the cosmos and eternity. He takes solace and gratitude in this fact daily.

He walks the pilgrim’s path up to its base, up a sprawling stairway not hewn but grown out of its mother tree. He pushes himself up, the effort easy with his frailty gone, and he is surprised but not unpleasantly so when he comes to the edge of the deep hollow in the tree’s base and finds a woman.

She sits at the edge, comfortably. He knows she is tall - taller than him - with platinum hair and tanned skin; she wears the armor he must don when he marches into battle, and idly she keeps a straight, slender blade across the lap of her robe. The lines of her face and figure are hard and sharp, but not jagged - not anymore. Her grief is long past, softened into steel and wisdom; she is unique, among the five of them.

“Laetha,” he greets.

“Abelas.”

He sits, the air between them familiar and comfortable. He depends upon her in many respects, especially recently; he knows he is not a warrior, but she is.

“It’s gotten cold, hasn’t it?” she asks.

“Mm.”

“Are you having doubts?”

“It is not the Keeper’s place to doubt, Laetha.”

A dry laugh. “I guess so,” she admits. A moment passes in quiet, eyes turned up to the stars.

Ghilahim sighs. “It reminds me too much of the winter we endured on our journey,” he murmurs, silent at length, gathering his thoughts. “The people starve as their protectors endure siege from every side. The Ban’dinoriel has been undone at the behest of my high-born kin, and exiles return for their rightful place in the land.”

His jaw works, jutting side to side. “It is difficult not to doubt,” he admits. Divorced as he is from worldly matters, here besides his friend and beneath the singing tree he can be himself. He can doubt. “But I cannot afford to.”

Laetha shifts, setting her sword to the side and drawing her knees up to her chest. “We’ve all had doubts, Abelas.”

“Yes.” “Don’t let it get in the way of the forward path,” she elaborates, nudging him when he falls unto a far-away stare. “There is a path ahead of us, however treacherous. There’s a reason the tree called you.”

“I am a poor fit to wage war,” he says, ruefully.

“You helped people emerge out of the Invasion.”

“The Legion does not wage war,” he retorts. “It exterminates.”

“It isn’t so clear cut now, then.”

“No.”

Quiet.

“I wear your armor into battle, and see the oath-sworn meet others in battle, bloody and violent, and I doubt myself,” he begins, voice barely more than a murmur. “You would have been better, at this. The greatest warrior of your age.”

“What happens after every battle, then?”

“I would be there for you.”

“You’re not supposed to be a fighter, Abelas,” she counters, voice rising with a flickering mote of anger. “I was never supposed to be a warrior, either. It was an aberration. It killed me.”

Ghilahim’s brows draw down, together. He ruminates on the deep, wrinkled lines in his palm.

“The Redarrow boy will not become his forefathers,” he murmurs. “I know this concerns you, it-”

“You’ll make sure of it.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” she insists. “They don’t need more warriors, they need healers. A guide. There’s no reason for you to stop walking the path solely because it is fraught with snow and blood.”

A grimace, however faint. “You’re right, Laetha,” he says, kneading a hand into the aged lines under his eyes. “As ever, I value your counsel.”

“You’d better.”

A small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. It fades.

“The storm that approaches us may be a long one,” he says, straightening back and fixing his eyes on the horizon. There is only the edge of twilight vanishing into the stars, but he can envision it. “The prosperity we enjoyed once is all but lost, and it may never return. But I can hold.. a memory of it, perhaps. The knowledge of its cost. How we might rebuild, after it is passed.”

One day, things will take root once more. It will be changed, but in changing it will be renewed.

Such is his duty, to see it through. Whatever the cost.

#my writing #prestige class #treesinger mystic #ghilahim #the sunguard #thesunguardmg