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royallyprincesslilly · 3 years

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Title: Hibiscus Kisses {6}

Chris Evans x OFC Ajali Rambaue AU {Ah-Jah-Lee, Ram-Bow}

Warning: Plot, Cursing, Angst, Blood, Lots Of Words, Death

Words: 8.3k

Summary: Ajali decides on a rash decision to go on a Disney cruise, not for her love of Disney, but because she needs time to figure things out after things get even more complicated in her complicated life. She only expected peace, quiet, tropical drinks, and an overabundance of Disney songs. What she got was more than she bargained for when the cruise of a lifetime on the brand new ship Enchantment turned into a nightmare. The only saving grace is that she’s not the only one living through the nightmare. Can Ajali survive the test of a lifetime and the dangers ahead of her, and better yet, will she finally be able to live a little?

Note: Please feel free to tell me what you think. I’m super excited to explore this one with you all. 🤗

As always, thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, please LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG! ❤️❤️

I appreciate each and every one of your guys’ support and love!

***VERY Loosely Edited/Proofread***

**Interactive**

Previous Chapters: {1} | {2} | {3} | {4} | {5} |

You must have stood at the back of the yacht for a while because the shore and the docks were barely visible at this point. Every minute that ticked by you weighed your options of just diving in and swimming back. Everything you came up with seemed fine to deal with. So what if your hair got wet and you had to go through your four-hour wash and treat routine. So what if you attracted a shark or two, you could swim. So what if everything in your bag got drenched, you could replace them.

With the number of rebuttals you came up with, you should have jumped in already. The major con that was flashing in your head in neon lettering was you are an adult and not a child who ran away from difficult situations. The sound of laughter had you turning around to see Chris laughing with Harper. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Scoffing, you turned back around and crossed your arms.

Almost a minute later you felt Chris standing beside you. “If you want to swim back I’m sure you could make it.”

If looks could kill, the one you gave him should have done it. All you had to do was push him overboard to a watery grave. Chris lifted his hands to show his no threat status and that was when you walked away.

“All right folks. It’ll be another forty minutes before we arrive at the best fishing spot in all of the islands. It’s my little secret. In the meantime, you have a choice of activities. You can go down below and marine watch, stay on deck and do some pictures and sights, or go into the bubble where you are surrounded by the ocean. It is optimal for fish watching. I’ll let you folks know when we’ve arrived.”

You nodded and walked toward the steps that would lead below deck. You fully intended to get as far away from him as possible. Ignoring the way he turned to you as if he had something to say, you carefully went down the steps and to the back of the yacht. There you found what Harper was referring to. It looked like an actual bubble with two seats. Once you sat down you saw why this was mentioned as the most sought-after experience. You really felt like you were alone under the ocean and not apart from it but one with it.

You watched a school of yellow and black striped fish swim by and a small box popped up to the right of the screen with a still photo of the fish and a few listed facts.

“Moorish Idol fish. These fish commonly inhabit tropical to subtropical reefs and lagoons. These fish usually travel alone or in small schools. These fish mate for life and adult males show aggression to one another.”

Your jaw dropped. You hadn’t expected it to be high-tech. In front of you, you grabbed the flipbook and flicked through it to see a variety of sea creatures. The announcement of another fish brought your attention back to the ocean before you and that is where your eyes remained. Creature after creature swam by and up to the glass. Each one was announced and described. As they came up, you took pictures of the pretty ones you liked ready to show them to your family when you returned home.

You were so wrapped up in fish watching that you didn’t notice that you weren’t alone until it was too late. Chris slipped into the seat beside you, startling you. Your harsh glare landed on him with the force of fifty blades behind it. He wasn’t looking at you though, his eyes were glued to the water and passing reef life.

“Oh wow, Nemo and Dory,” Chris exclaimed inching closer to the glass.

That was all it took for your attention to go right back, and lo and behold there were Dory and Nemo lookalikes.

“Wow.”

Mirroring Chris’s actions you slid to the edge of the seat as well and touched the glass. They were pretty in animation but that had nothing on real life. The orange and blue were so striking up close.

“They’re even best friends in real life,” Chris quietly said.

For the next few minutes neither of you spoke again you were too wrapped up in looking at all the fish that passed by one after the other. When you’d reached a part of the ocean where life was scarce, you sat back and crossed your arms.

“Can I please explain?”

You sighed and dropped your head back to rest on the hard headrest, keeping your eyes trained in front of you.

“I promise I’m not this asshole you have me pegged as in your head.”

“So you don’t go around trying to charm women out of your panties and in your bed for notches on your bedpost?”

“God no!”

You rolled your eyes not believing one word.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to nothing but good,” Chris replied holding up three fingers.

A smirk teased your lips at the Harry Potter line he’d just repurposed for his own use mixed with the Hunger Games salute. You shook your head unable to ignore how adorkably stupid he was.

“You know those two have nothing to do with the other, right?”

Chris slyly smiled and shrugged. “It’s sorta my thing. Sleeping around and I have nothing to do with each other also.”

You snorted and shook your head. He was smooth.

“You’re real smooth, I’ll give you that.”

He sighed and turned his body more to you. “It’s a misunderstanding,” Chris began.

“Let me stop you there. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time anyone starts off with that, chances are there was no misunderstanding,” you dryly informed.

“That high? Okay, then I fall in the point one percent.”

You glared at him again but he didn’t back down, he held your glare but behind his eyes, you saw nothing but sincerity rather than the hostility you had spearing behind yours. When you didn’t object, he opened his mouth to speak again but you looked away.

“There’s no need.”

“Why won’t you let me explain?”

You knew why. If he explained and the explanation seemed plausible and he looked sincere the chances of you believing it would be eighty percent and that was high. You would then continue spending time with him because you did enjoy his company and conversation and eventually sleep with him. Maybe. Letting him explain was step one that would lead to a series of missteps. Then you’d find yourself in a situation come the end of the cruise when both of you went your separate ways. There were too many what-ifs in the air.

“Ah, I think I know. If you let me explain then this image you have of me being a womanizer who is after fast and quick ass, who would come on a cruise to chase women for a notch would be debunked. If it is debunked, then you’d have to admit that you liked spending time with me and enjoyed yourself. Then you’d have to admit that what might have happened if my phone didn’t ring wouldn’t have been a one-off. You’d have to face the possibility that there might be something here past our physical attraction.”

Well damn, you thought. For a moment your thoughts betrayed the steely animosity in your eyes and you knew your shock shone through. You quickly looked away from him and tapped into your inner Elsa while watching a school of white fish pass by. You could feel him beside you staring at you as if trying to crack your resolve. You fought against him and kept your breathing slow and steady.

“You don’t have to tell me I’m right. I know I am and it’s not because I’m a cocky prick. It’s because—,” Chris paused then sighed heavily before he continued. “I liked spending time—with you. Like really liked it and this was before anything physical happened. You’re funny and fun and not phased by this thing called fame that is wrapped around me. You probably don’t understand it, but that’s something refreshing and attractive to me.”

Unable to resist any longer, you sneakily glanced at him while wondering if any part of what he’d just said was possibly true.

“Before I came on this cruise to get away from my life—run away from my life.”

Your interest piqued. Why was he running away? Didn’t he have everything?

“My friend, the one you heard on the phone was teasing me about the reason. I didn’t want to give him the real deal so I kept quiet which led him to the conclusion that it had something to do with a woman. It didn’t but he thought it. So the phone call was him stating his opinions again, his way of life. Now I’m not condoning what he said at all but that’s his life. I didn’t come here for any of that and that night wasn’t about that for me.”

“What was it about?”

You blurted the question without a thought and once you’d asked, you regretted it. The answer wouldn’t do you any good.

Sighing, you looked back out to the water. “Don’t answer that.”

And he didn’t. The silence stretched and your thoughts did as well. You contemplated his explanation and the probability of any of it being true. He had all the reason to lie right now, but the more you thought about it the more you guessed he didn’t need to lie being who he was. He could have just shrugged and put you on the side that wasn’t a fan of his and kept it moving.

“Look,” Chris said shoving his phone to you with the text exchange between him and someone named Austin was visible.

“I know what it is to be distrustful of strangers or everyone really and proof means a lot to me. Since the burden of proof is on my side, here it is.”

You read through the exchange from a little over a week ago and sure enough, his friend Austin was scum. The irrefutable proof showed those sentiments were his and even showed Chris admonishing him for those sentiments and setting him straight. The banter that continued was Austin teasing him about his good boy behaviors. From the texts, you could tell they were close, and you could also tell that Austin was the asshole between them and Chris was possibly a good guy.

Groaning, you looked away and dropped your head back to the headrest again. You did not need this. Sighing, you closed your eyes and listened to the silence. Several minutes passed by where neither of you spoke and just when you were going to Harper’s voice came in over the ship’s intercoms.

“We have some dolphin action up here if anyone’s interested.”

“Dolphins!”

Your head snapped to Chris hearing the uncharacteristically excited squeal. Did he really just turn into a Powerpuff girl? Chris leapt to his feet and began walking toward the steps leaving you there to wonder just what kind of man he was.

A few moments later, you emerged from below and walked to the railing to see a dolphin jump out of the water in the distance.

“Oh my god!”

At that moment you felt your smallness in the world. There were so many other creatures that were bigger and yet humans always thought themselves so superior. It was baffling.

“It’s not always like this, they must be here to greet you folks,” Harper said as another jumped out and one swam up.

You dropped down to your knees and peered over the railing and marveled at the aquatic beauty.

“They’re so friendly.”

Just then, a dolphin popped up showing its long bottlenose and black eyes and in the same breath, a stream of water came at you drenching you. In your shock, you just sat there while Chris and Harper heartily got their laugh in at your expense. To add insult to injury the dolphin even sounded like it was laughing. Who could be mad though? It was too cute. You looked across the way and saw Chris snapping pictures of you with a wide smile on his face. Being alarmed, snapping at him, or even telling him to delete the pictures would have all been acceptable reactions but you didn’t react in any of those ways. Instead, you brought your attention back to the dolphins in the water. Let him take his pictures, you thought.

Twenty minutes later you were sitting at the side of the boat with your legs dangling over the edge enjoying the breeze, sun, and tranquility being on the ocean brought. There was something so serene about being in the middle of a giant body of water with creatures of plenty underneath its depths while there was nothing in sight for miles and miles. It was peaceful. The pictures you took of the horizon, the sky, and the water were breathtaking. You knew they’d make great printouts to add to your walls when you returned home. When you realized your battery was running low, you dug into your bag for one of your four fully charged portable chargers and slipped your phone into one of the many waterproof pouches you had your belongings secured inside.

Your sister liked to make fun of you for how well you prepared for things. When you went out for every day, your purse contained every possible thing you would and could need for the day. You didn’t like being unprepared for whatever you came across and that included something as minor as rain all the way to the major things like abductions. You’d been the butt of many jokes but you didn’t care.

Glancing to the other side of the yacht, you watched as Chris followed the instruction of Harper as he practiced a variety of sailor’s knots. It didn’t look like he was a novice though. You could tell he’d done it a few times before. Sooner than you could look away, Harper caught you then motioned you over. It would have been rude to ignore him, so you walked over to them and sat before them.

“Here, try your hand at sailor’s knots,” Chris suggested holding out a length of rope to you.

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he followed up as you took it.

“You look like you’ve done it before.”

“Once or twice,” he replied.

You studied the knots surrounding Chris for a few moments then took a stab at it. From the beginning you messed it up but didn’t quit, instead, you undid it and tried again. You didn’t quit easy. That was probably why you were in your current relationship predicament. A few minutes and several failed attempts later, you held up the finished product that looked identical to Chris’s.

“So you have one of those brains where you can see something and replicate it?”

You scoffed and shrugged. “Kind of. I just pick some things up quickly.”

Chris nodded and held out another length of rope and pointed to a different pattern. “Try this one.”

You knew it was a test. You grabbed the rope and studied the new pattern that was a lot more intricate than the first. Though it was more intricate it took you a shorter amount of time to start. When you held it up for them to see, less time had passed and you hadn’t made one mistake.

“Wow,” Harper exclaimed before he chuckled.

“What can I say, I’m pretty amazing,” you joked.

Both men laughed but didn’t debate the fact.

“We’re coming up on the cove that gives me the best fish. Of course, we’re catching and releasing, but it won’t dampen the experience,” Harper informed.

Within a few short minutes, Harper had pulled up to one of the most beautiful coves you’d ever seen. The water was aquamarine crystal blue. It was so crystal like you could see several feet into it. The giant rocks that created a maze had moss growing off the tops of them that were lush green and created a nice contrast of colors. If you could have picked up this view and brought it home with you, you would have. It was that breathtaking.

You weren’t the only one thinking it, Chris was a few feet away snapping every picture he could get, only he didn’t look like a tourist. He looked like a professional travel photographer. When he dropped to one of his knees to get a different angle you just leaned against the railing and watched. The sun beaming down on him gave his hair a reddish hue which looked good on him. It even accentuated the freckles peppered along his arms. You remembered what was under that shirt of his at that second. You remembered the muscles, the hair, and the tats. It was an unexpected sight but one that you wouldn’t mind seeing again. Instantly you kissed your teeth and slapped your forehead.

“Cut it out.”

“Did you say something?”

Chris was looking at you with a quizzical expression with his camera still posed up.

“Nope, nothing.”

He didn’t look like he believed you, but slowly he went back to snapping his pictures while you tried to create even more distance between you.

“Get a grip, Ajali. It hasn’t been that long. You’re not affection starved either. Get—a—grip.”

You took a few slow breathes and focused on the scene before you. You now understood why many people said this island was a top destination for vacations.

“And we’re ready. You both said you’ve fished before, right?”

You walked toward Harper’s voice then saw he had fishing rods, buckets, gloves, and all the other supplies lying at his feet.

“I’ve done some fishing,” Chris offered before both sets of eyes landed on you.

“Never.”

“It’s not hard, I promise,” Harper assured bending for the rods. He held one out to Chris and the other to you.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll explain everything and its function. If either of you have any questions let me know.”

Harper walked a few feet away leading the two of you to a shaded portion of the yacht. Once there, he explained everything in detail. He showed the parts of the rod, showed how to put things together, explained their function, and then went on to the different kinds of bait that were available. When he began demonstrating how to hold the rod and posture you paid close attention and imitated what he did. You knew though this was something that would take some getting used to.

After twenty minutes, the three of you were in your spots ready to cast your rods. You watched Harper cast his first and it looked so fluid. You could tell he’d done this thousand of times. Then you watched Chris and though his movements weren’t as fluid, it looked like he was far from a beginner. You sighed and tried your best. The rod was heavy in your hands and affected your ability to control it and cast it perfectly. Glancing at Harper, he shrugged.

“Good enough. You got it where it needs to go.”

A soft chuckle escaped both you and Chris.

“What kind of catch do you get out here?”

Harper proceeded to explain the different kinds of fish he’d caught to Chris while you partially zoned them out. It didn’t take long for you to understand why people liked fishing. It was calming. You could leisurely do it while letting your mind drift and worries float away. Thirty minutes later it was your line that tugged first. You yelped then squeaked as you panicked.

“What do I do?”

“Reel it in,” Harper said.

The resistance on the line was giving you a good arm workout. The struggle went back and forth. You doubted this was a baby.

“This thing is strong.”

“You got it, put your back into it like Ice Cube,” Chris teased making you narrow your eyes at him. That only made him laugh loudly.

A few more moments of struggle persisted until you’d yanked the rod backward tucking it out of the water, over your head, and flopping the fish right on the deck.

“Aaaah, oh my god! I caught a fish!”

You jumped up and down excited by your success. Forgetting any prior slights you jumped closer to Chris and bumped shoulders with him.

“I did it!”

“You did.”

“Good job. This here is a Barracuda,” Harper announced.

“Ooooh Barracuda,” you and Chris said in unison like the song. The two of you giggled together before returning your attention to Harper.

“It’s not an adult, but it’s no baby either. You want a picture?”

“Yes!”

You scurried to your bag and pulled out your phone then handed it to Chris before you dropped down to your knees and bent to the fish still flopping on the deck and smiled as you’d just won the lotto. Chris laughed and took the picture a few moments later. After the first few shots, you changed poses and let him take a few more. You watched as Chris’s face went from wide smiles to solemn confusion. Just as you were going to ask if your battery died, Harper spoke.

“Do you want to do the honors of releasing it?”

“You mean touch it?”

Harper nodded and you ardently shook your head. “No thank you. I hear Barracudas like to bite.”

Harper laughed at you as he effortlessly grabbed the fish by its tail then chucked it back into the ocean.

“It was just an adolescent.”

Chris held your phone out then walked back to his rod without a word. Slight confusion washed over you as you glanced at your screen to see one of the pictures he’d just taken, but your battery was fully charged.

For the next few hours Chris barely spoke to you, but when you glanced over to him, his eyes were always on you before he looked away once yours met his. It was a complete turnaround from before. It shouldn’t have bothered or affect you at all considering the reality of things, but it did bother you a little bit. Once the three of you had had your fill of catch and release the sun was beginning to disappear. Harper caught a huge Mahi Mahi, scaled and fillet it right in front of you, and Chris showing off his impressive knife skills. He then took the fish to prepare what he promised would be the best open ocean fish you’d ever had. You were excited to see the finished product.

Once Harper had disappeared down below you walked to the cooler, took out two beers, and walked over to Chris. He was sitting toward the back of the yacht watching the rocks in silence. You sat beside him, held out the beer, and waited for him to accept it. When he took it, he wasted no time twisting off the top and taking a mouthful. You sat there in silence looking over the view.

“Who knew a celebrity could fish.”

“I’m not a celebrity all day every day. I have hobbies and free time.”

“I take it fishing is a hobby?”

“When I can get to it. Sometimes I can’t go off the grid to do it.”

You nodded and tried to picture him at a lake with a rod and bucket of bait catching fish. A soft smile spread across your face before you gulped your beer.

“What’s one of your hobbies?”

Taking a deep breath you slowly released it. “Painting.”

“You’re artistic?”

“Depends what you call artistic. I can slap some paint on a canvas and call it a day.”

Chris looked at you for a few moments. “Somehow I find it hard to believe it’s as lowkey as you’re describing. I bet you’re a modern-day Frida Kahlo.”

You smiled and shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Silence spread between you again and the two of you sipped from your bottles. It was a semi-comfortable silence.

“Are you departing tomorrow or staying on?”

You wanted to ask why he wanted to know but decided against it. “Staying on.”

Chris nodded. “Me too.”

Neither of you spoke again, instead, you watched the sky as the sun slowly began its descent behind the water. When Harper returned, the air filled with such a delicious scent that your belly grumbled loudly.

“And dinner is served. Harper placed the platter down on the table and you and Chris walked over to it. Your jaw dropped in amazement.

“What kind of kitchen do you have down there that can produce that?”

“I’ve had tons of practice.”

The Mahi Mahi that was alive less than two hours ago was now cooked to perfection and decorated with papaya, and a green salad.

“Wow, this looks mouthwatering,” Chris complimented.

“It’s nothing fancy, just some fish with a papaya and seaweed salad.”

“Seaweed salad? Oh wow. You utilize everything huh.”

“Absolutely. I can tell you more about using everything you can to not only survive but make good food,” Harper said motioning you both to sit down.

“No one is serving you here, help yourselves there’s plenty.”

The three of you dug in taking portions of fish and salad. When you took a bite of the Mahi Mahi your eyes rolled to the back of your head. “Oh my god. This is so good.”

“All it needed was some salt, pepper, and lemon. Sometimes keeping it simple is the best way.”

Chris moaned and nodded in agreement with you. “Delicious.”

As the three of you ate, Harper told you all about his travels and time living on his own on the ocean and how he’d learned to survive on little to nothing. It was so interesting to hear his story. From it, you gathered he was determined, creative, meticulous, and persevering. He didn’t let anything stop him and because of that mindset, he said he’d seen a lot of wonderful things and had a beautiful life. Listening to him speak about his loves and losses and how it was just him in the end you couldn’t help but think about your relationships.

When he began listing off the life lessons he’d learned you made note of each and every one of them. You always thought the stories of the older generations were interesting. While most of their experiences were relatable, a lot of it wasn’t because of the difference in eras. In Harper’s era being a bachelor past twenty-two was seen as taboo, yet that was the life he lived. When he spoke of when he did get married, it was to the one woman he’d loved since he was twenty years old. The woman he’d been stupid about and missed out on two times. From the way he spoke about her, you knew she was his soul mate.

Glancing to Chris who was sitting diagonally from you, part of you wondered how relatable Harper’s experiences were to him. You thought back to the very few tabloid and gossip stories you’d read about him but nothing jumped out to you. The tabloids didn’t focus on one woman that he was possibly seeing, they didn’t highlight any crazy behaviors with any of them or even highlight breakups. That was part of how you’d pieced him together. The lack of information left for such a wide breadth of possibilities to put together.

“Take it from me young ones, when you’re walking down a dimly lit street of soft lights, and you happen to find that anomaly among the sea that shines a different light and makes everything else pale in comparison you do whatever it takes to hold on to that. You fight for it and don’t let anything or anyone make you miss out on it. None of us are here for a long time. One day I’ll join my Angie and we’ll be together again. I welcome that day, until then I’ll keep drifting.”

The three of you sat there in silence, each of you lost in your thoughts and worries. Was Javii that anomaly or was he part of the sea and you’d been mistaken this whole time? When Harper returned to the helm to captain you back toward land you were secluded from the rest of them and still lost in your thoughts. It had been days since you left and you’d figured out nothing. If anything, you’d added more to your plate to think about. This was what you hadn’t wanted to do and that was the reason you chose this option rather than staying in the city.

You began to wonder again about the person who would be that anomaly that Harper spoke of. Rather than thinking of your experiences with Javii, your irresponsible mind thought of your run-ins with Chris. When you’d seen him in passing before boarding the ship you’d noticed him in the sea of people and amidst every chaotic thing happening around you. Your brain singled him out. It did it again when you saw him in passing topside when you’d met Genevieve and in the lounge club. It was something you hadn’t focused on before but now it was all you could think of.

“Get a freaking grip, Ajali!”

You smacked your head and dropped it down hunching over to hug your shins. Suddenly, you felt raindrops and those drops quickly turned into a waterfall.

“What the--,” you began holding your hands out confused how a downpour like this could just suddenly start.

Unexpectedly, the ship lurched hard to the left sending items on the deck toppling over including your beer bottle and the empty ones around it. Thinking quickly, you grabbed the railing to not tumble. Your grip was precarious thanks to the downpour and you knew you wouldn’t be able to hold on for long. Just as you were losing your grip, that was when the ship lurched again only this time to the right. With no time to grab for the railing, you tumbled over but before you hit the deck arms wrapped around you stabilizing you.

“I got you.”

Glancing up, you found Chris with rainwater pouring down his face and beard. He was holding on tightly to one of the metal poles while holding you tightly in his other arm. When the rocking went from deadly to manageable, Chris slowly let you go.

“Something must be wrong. Let’s go.”

Both of you took off on the search to find Harper. Every few seconds the rocking of the ship made items fall and roll. Chris was the one to pull you in every which direction to help you avoid the bigger items. When the ship bucked back you both slid back.

“Aaah, fuck!”

A sharp slice caught you off guard making you fall to the deck. Before Chris could react the boat rocked again sending you rolling back a few feet. When you slammed into one of the walls you shouted out in pain. Seconds later Chris was bent before you.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes quickly scanned your body and found your bleeding foot.

“Oh god.

Chris quickly pulled off his tropical printed shirt, ripped it, and began wrapping your foot.

“I’m sorry I have to do this tight to hopefully slow the bleeding,” Chris informed before he yanked the material, knotting it tightly around your injury. You tried to stifle your groan but it didn’t work. Your shout echoed across the open water and carried it competing with the downpour from the sky.

“I’m sorry. Ready to keep going? We’re almost there.”

You nodded and let Chris help you up. With his arm around your waist and yours draped over his shoulder the two of you hurried to the small enclosure where Harper was steering the boat. Every so often thanks to the falling and rolling items you and Chris looked like circus performers, jumping, dodging, and sliding out of harm's way. The way Chris managed to go into protector and alpha mode had you seeing a new side to him. Women did love a man who could take charge.

When you finally made it you found Harper passed out on the floor.

“Oh my god!”

Chris placed you along one of the windows so you could lean against it before he dropped down to his knees to check for a pulse. The longer it took him to turn to you, the more anxious you became.

“He has a pulse, but it’s thready. Looks like he may have hit his head,” Chris informed before he ripped the while men’s tank he wore at the hem and pressed it to Harper’s forehead.

On impact, Harper groaned then bolted up.

“Hey, take it easy,” Chris shouted trying to compete with the loudness of the ocean and the rain.

“No. Storm. We’re in a storm. We call these pop-ups. They happen all the time,” Harper explained as Chris helped him to his feet.

“If you knew it was coming--,” you began.

“I didn’t. No one can predict these and they’re increasingly more dangerous.”

The yacht whipped as if it were a leash sending all three of you knocking into whatever was closest. Immediately the pain that whisked through you had you screaming. That was the first time you thought you were going to die. All you could feel was pain, all you could hear was the sound of your heart beating. You slowly opened your eyes but couldn’t make anything out through the haziness. You couldn’t pinpoint where the pain in your body was coming from, it felt like it was everywhere.

“Ajali!”

Snapping your eyes open you saw Chris’s drenched and concerned face before you. “Open your eyes. Stay with me!”

It was a forceful command. One that you slowly obeyed. He helped you to a sitting position then turned back to Harper who was trying to stand to look over the built-in equipment of the ship.

“We’re way off course here. Somehow this storm has put us way off route. It makes no sense.”

“What does that mean?!”

“It means we’re drifting and not towards the islands. We’re drifting away.”

“What!”

Harper tried to turn the key for the engine but it stalled then sputtered. He tried it again and again but the result was the same.

“This is bad,” Harper added.

“What do we do?”

The ship rocked again but this tilt was so drastically different. It actually went so far on its side that it felt like you were going to capsize.

“We’re gonna tip over!”

Chris ran from the small room fighting against gravity’s pull to yank him over. Your first thought was he was leaving you.

“Hang on tight!”

Your scream was so loud you doubt you’d ever gone that high before. Terror gripped your heart and your entire life flashed before your eyes. You were certain you were done for. There was no way to make it out of this. You began mumbling but you didn’t know if what you said made any sense. A few seconds later, the ship dropped back into the water allowing you to remain top side up. You felt hands on your body and you opened your eyes to Chris shoving your arms in a bright orange life vest.

“I could only find one right now so it’s yours.”

“What—what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Hold on tight.”

He spun around looking at Harper.

“I have to get below.”

Harper hurried out without another word and Chris turned back to you.

“I’m going to help him. Stay here.”

He made a move to leave and you grabbed his hand pulling him back to you.

“Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not. I’m going below with Harper. I’m sure he’ll need my help. I think it’s safer for you up here.”

You still held tight to his hand fear controlling your movements. Chris’s expression softened before he took a step close to you to hold you at the side of your neck to the base of your skull.

“I swear to you I won’t leave you, no matter what. We’re in this together. I will be back and we’ll laugh about this one day. For that day to come though we have to get through this and I have to help him down below. You’ll be safe. Hold on tight, stay low.”

You nodded and took a few breathes trying to psych yourself up.

“You got this,” Chris said before he pulled away and walked from you.

You closed your eyes and said a silent prayer hoping for him to come back and that his words weren’t bullshit.

The seconds seemed to slowly tick by and the minutes went on for lifetimes. Every jolt of the ship leveled you to a whimpering mess. You did just as Chris has instructed—kept low and held on for dear life. You didn’t care how numb your hand became from gripping the cold metal for so long you kept holding on. You didn’t care how cold you got from not only the ocean water but the rain and the strong wind gusts, you remained in your corner shivering refusing to come out. It didn’t matter how much the pain you felt intensified the colder you got you ignored it and kept whispering your silent prayers. You didn’t want to die. Not like this.

You heard something like a loud crack then the groaning of metal then the ship once again tilted. You screeched and tried to hold yourself to the railing but the further the boat tilted the harder it was to hold on.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

You screamed again and braced yourself to end up in the water under the boat, but instead of it tipping it once again dropped back onto the water’s surface.

“Oh my god!”

“Ajali, can you hear me?”

You whipped your head around trying to find where the voice was coming from without letting go of the railing. You were too scared.

“Ajali. Can you hear me!”

On the dashboard, you saw a red light flashing and guessed it was the radio. The only problem was for you to get to it, you’d have to let go and walk over to it. If the yacht tilted again you’d slid your ass out the room and off the boat. It was a risk.

“Ajali, pick up. We’re down here trying to fix the engine but we need you to turn her on for us. Can you do that?”

“Fuck!”

You slowly stood, fighting against your aching joints, bones, and muscles, and stood upright with most of your weight on your uninjured foot. You assessed the distance from where you were to the dashboard and knew slow and steady was the best way but you doubted you had that time. You took a deep breath and took three hops on your good foot toward the dashboard. When there was just one hop left to take the vessel rocked sending you off balance and smack dab into the glass with your face.

At this point, there was no part of your body that wasn’t in pain. A metallic irony taste filled your mouth and you knew you were bleeding. You had no idea from where though, your face was completely numb.

“Ajali!?”

Using the back of one hand, you wiped across your mouth and took another deep breath, and hopped to the dashboard throwing yourself across it and holding it for dear life. You took a few moments to calm yourself then grabbed the walkie.

“I’m here.”

You heard Chris exhale as if he was relieved. “Thank god, I thought something happened.”

“I’m fine,” you lied while trying to wipe away the blood that dripped across the dashboard.

“Try to turn the engine on.”

You twisted the designated key all that happened was a long exaggerated sputter then hiss.

“This time keep it turned don’t release it,” Chris suggested.

Doing as you were told, you waited and begged the engine to cooperate. When you heard a yell over the walkie you knew it wasn’t good.

“Damn it! There’s water in the engine. The only way to even begin to work on it is for it to dry out. That’s gonna be impossible during a storm. It’ll just keep flooding. We’re not moving. Damn it!”

There was a full range of banging over the walkie that only made you panic more.

“Can everyone not fall apart right now? Please. I’m terrified enough as it is,” you pleaded.

“Listen to my voice, it’s okay. We’re coming back up. We just have to weather the storm,” Chris said. His voice sounded like he was panicking but was also trying to showcase calm. You heard both.

Another loud crack echoed but it wasn’t on your end, it was over the walkie.

“What was that?”

The sound rang out again and everything went dead silent over the walkie before a loud crash of something breaking echoed out. At that moment the ship lurched again only this time the groan of metal was so loud it made you shake from fear. Garbled speech went in and out over the walkie alarming you.

“He—hello?”

The only response you got was the walkie dying.

“Hello? Hello?” You pressed buttons and turned switches not knowing what any of them did but hoping one of them brought communication back. Nothing helped though.

“Chris! Hello? Chris! Answer me goddamn it!”

You threw the corded walkie and dropped your head down and wailed. There was no hope at all you thought.

“I’m gonna die.”

You cried, finally letting out the angst and terror you were feeling. There was nothing positive about your current situation. You were in the middle of the ocean, practically alone while a storm was raging around you. people went missing like this, people died like this. You were suddenly so tired. A wave of water brushed against your feet but you didn’t think anything of it. You almost couldn’t lift your head.

“Ajali!”

As you lifted your head you saw Chris racing toward you.

“We have to get off this ship.”

“What!”

“The glass broke. We’re taking in water and sinking—fast!”

Hearing those words you found the energy to rise. “What do we do? Where’s Harper?”

“He’s lowering the life raft. Let’s go.”

Chris wrapped his arm around your waist and helped you along. When you made it down the steps to the deck you saw that it was completely filled with water.

“Oh my god.”

“It’s all right, I have you.”

He must have gotten tired of your hobbling because he scooped you up and hurried along treading through the now calf-level water.

“You’re freezing cold,” Chris mumbled.

“What are we gonna do?”

Chris reached Harper who looked as if he’d been through hell. From one glance you could tell he was hurt.

“Climb down first,” Harper said to you as Chris put you down.

You flinched as the saltwater wreaked devastation on your injured foot.

“I’m scared.”

“I know. it’s expected, you’re human. I need you to work through that fear though and climb down into the raft,” Chris reasoned.

You nodded and tried to get over not only the terror but also will your muscles to move through them being near frozen. You tried to move your legs in some coordination to climb over the railing but it was taking a bit of time on your own. Chris stepped closer and helped you to take the first step down the ladder. When your injured foot joined your other one it slipped and sent you down a few of them only stopping when you were able to get a grip on the metal.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

You slowly went down the remaining steps until you got to the last one and saw you’d need to jump off the railing to land in the raft. You took a few breathes, hoped that you made it in the raft and not in the ocean, and jumped. Landing on your back you couldn’t relax. It hit you that you were now in a life raft about to drift to god knows where. From above you heard the two men arguing back and forth over who should go next. When you saw Chris was the one climbing down the ladder you knew Harper had won.

It didn’t take him nearly as long as it took you. A few seconds later he’d jumped in next to you. The strong scent of gas immediately hit you.

“You smell like gas.”

Chris smelled himself then his eyes widened and pointed back to the ship. The two of you looked up just in time to see Harper bringing back up the ladder.

“What’re you doing? Come down!”

“No can do brother. This here is my ship and a captain always goes down with his ship.”

Your eyes widened in horror. He couldn’t be serious.

“That’s not funny Harper. The gas is leaking, there is no saving it. It isn’t worth your life. Come on, there’s time for you to save yourself too,” Chris rebutted.

“I’m long past saving,” Harper said lifting his shirt to show the large shard of glass that was sticking through his abdomen. It looked like it had gone right through him. You knew that if it were removed the chances of him living were zilch.

“Oh my god,” you mewled before clamping your hand over your mouth to stifle the wail that followed.

“Harper--,” Chris began but never finished.

“I always knew I’d die on this ship and that’s all right. I’m at peace with it. If I get in that raft with you I’d be doing you a disservice. Sharks would be on your tail in no time.”

Harper flung a pack over the railing into the raft.

“I’ve already pre-packed all the emergency packs in the raft. They’re in the side compartments as well as underneath the zipped platform of the bottom. These are things you’ll need wherever you wash up.”

Another bag followed the first and landed on the raft. “This one is some rations. Remember to conserve the water. You can survive without food longer than water.”

You cried louder while using your hand to muffle as much of the sound as you could.

“Come on man,” Chris pleaded.

Four more bags followed including your backpack. By then you’d fully lost it and had ventured into a nervous breakdown.

“Inside the raft, there is a transponder. I am going to set off the homing beacon on my ship it’ll give search and rescue some idea of where things went wrong. They’ll be able to follow the signal and rescue you no matter where you are.”

Harper bent forward and groaned. He must have been in so much pain you thought to yourself. On its own, your hand gripped the ripped hem of Chris’s tank and held it tightly. Chris glanced back at you and you saw the same anguish you felt.

“I’m sorry about this folks, I really am.” He paused and shook his head before he continued. “You have each other though.”

An explosion shook the vessel and lit up the sky behind Harper.

“That’s my cue. Get outta here. I’ll do my part. Remember live your way, it makes death a peaceful conclusion.”

With that Harper hobbled away holding the railing.

“Go!”

He disappeared from view leaving the two of you sitting in the raft, in the pouring rain heartbroken and terrified. Another explosion erupted and Chris sprang into motion yanking the cord that controlled the motor startup. He yanked it once, then twice until it sparked alive on the third try. You both looked to the ship unsure what to do. The decision had been made for you, there was nothing either of you could do but go.

Slowly the raft began to drift away from the sinking ship and neither of you could peel your eyes away. Two more explosions boomed and then Harper’s voice echoed out.

“I’m coming, Angie!”

“Oh my god,” you whispered dropping your head to the surface of the raft. Your cry was loud and showcased the tragic sadness before you.

You watched on before another and final grand explosion ripped the ship apart sending parts every which way.

“Fuck!”

Chris leapt for you throwing his body over yours using himself as a shield to protect you. The sound of flying metal around you only made you scream more and more. Still, Chris didn’t come off of you, he kept his body over yours while maneuvering the rod steering of the raft. After the sound of flying metal subsided and the warmth of fire died down Chris rolled off of you. There was nothing to be seen except the fire from the explosion that was quickly being extinguished as the rest of the ship sank to the depths of the ocean.

“Oh my god, Harper.”

“God,” Chris groaned out, dropping his head down. “Rest in peace.”

There it was. Death. It was staring you right in the face and you feared it hadn’t had its fill quite yet. Your sobs returned and soon they were the only sounds traveling across the water, along with the motor. Neither of you spoke for a few minutes as you both tried to digest everything that had just happened and how everything had gone so wrong.

“What’re we going to do?”

It was a question asked just above a whisper. A question that held so much uncertainty, a question that also brought so much fear with it. What were you going to do?

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

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theusurpersdog · 3 years

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A Bird in a Cage

Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is all about boxing her in. Not only is she a hostage in King’s Landing, she’s also expected to pretend she’s not; she has to attend Court with a smile on her face, playing the role of Joffrey’s betrothed every day. Showing any honest emotion is punished by verbal and physical beatings. Her entire life becomes a performance she must put on to keep the monsters at bay. Everything about her world is meant to be stifling; from the physical restrictions to the emotional ones, it all makes her retreat deeper and deeper within herself.

But the real magic of this book is the moments where she finds a way to push back or escape her bounds . . .

Captive

In more ways than one, Sansa is a captive in King’s Landing.

The first kind of abuse she’s subjected to is physical. Beatings are a part of her everyday life. Because Robb was crowned king, or because she was happy Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall, or because Joffrey decided to be especially cruel one day. Sometimes for no reason at all.

She has to take care to dress carefully to hide the bruises:

The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well.

This should go without saying, but domestic abuse is not rational; nothing Sansa does could stop Joffrey from abusing her – no clever words or tricks she could do to keep him happy. Half the time he has her beaten, it’s because of something Robb did.

Because she could be beaten at any moment, Sansa always keeps one eye on Joffrey, terrified that his mood could turn:

So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was relieved.

. . .

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

Not only is she afraid of being hit, she’s genuinely afraid he could kill her:

When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat.

Sansa knows her life balances on an incredibly delicate string. Jaime being Robb’s prisoner gives the Lannisters a reason to keep her alive, but Joffrey had reasons to keep Ned alive, too. If anything were to set him off, he would kill Sansa without hesitation. That’s why Sansa feels safer with Cersei around to watch her son, because she’s the only thing that remains to keep Joffrey in check. And Sansa knows that if Robb were to do anything to Jaime, her life would be over:

Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

The beating she endures after Robb wins the battle at Oxcross is so bad that she can barely walk afterward; and as I already mention above, she has to be careful to wear dresses to hide her bruises.

And not only does she have to endure the abuse, she also has to carry on the farce for the rest of the court. Everyone knows she’s a prisoner, and everyone knows that Joffrey is having the Kingsguard beat her, but she’s not allowed to show it; all of her pain has to be kept hidden, pushed deep down inside herself.

Which leads me to the other kind of abuse Sansa experiences in King’s Landing. Everything about her time there is meant to emotionally destroy her. Joffrey intentionally tries to taunt her with threats to murder her family:

“It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him.

. . .

“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance toward Sansa.

. . .

“I’ll deal with your brother after I’m done with my traitor uncle. I’ll gut him with Hearteater, you’ll see.”

He loves to play mind games with her, like when he promised to show Ned mercy and then cut off his head and said that was mercy. The constant way that he twists reality around messes with her head and leaves her understandably paranoid:

What if it was some cruel jape of Joffrey’s, like the day he had taken her up to the battlements to show her Father’s head? Or perhaps it was some subtle snare to prove she was not loyal. If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she’d come?

The constant cruelty she suffers, and Joffrey and Cersei’s profound betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones, make it hard for her to trust anyone, even when they show kindness:

He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

How is she supposed to trust anyone, when everything around her is false? When everything is a carefully constructed jape at her expense? Especially because she’s surrounded by enemies; anyone making their home in Joffrey’s court is sworn to kill Sansa’s family.

And Cersei intentionally makes her isolation worse, rotating her bedmaids:

Sansa did not know her. The queen had her servants changed every fortnight, to make certain none of them befriended her.

Sansa truly has no one to talk to, not even friendly servants to keep her company. Her loneliness is so profound that she enjoys being watched over by Arys Oakheart because he’s the only person who will actually talk to her.

She realizes that no one in King’s Landing cares if she lives or dies:

She [Cersei] spared Sansa not so much as a glance. She’s forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won’t even think about it.

And before the Battle of the Blackwater started, Tyrion told her this:

“I ought to have sent you off with Tommen now that I think on it.”

Unlike Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion doesn’t wish Sansa any harm; he orders Joffrey’s men to stop hitting her, tries to comfort her afterward, and doesn’t want her to be married to Joffrey. But she is not one of his priorities. It didn’t even occur to him to try and get her safely out of the city.

This is dehumanizing. Sansa has no friends or even anyone to talk to, and the people around her treat her life as an afterthought.

Sansa also suffers from the emotional fallout of Joffrey’s abuse. She blames herself when he has men hit her:

She must learn to hide her feelings better, so as not to anger Joffrey.

The fear of being hit by Joffrey is nearly all-consuming for Sansa. It affects everything down to the smallest details of her life, like how she dresses and does her hair:

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color.

Instead of getting to live as her own person, doing things to make herself happy, Sansa has to live for Joffrey’s satisfaction. Even when she’s being physically beaten, she thinks of him instead of herself:

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Everything about her life is a performance for other people. She wears the gowns and jewels Joffrey likes, dressing to hide the bruises his men leave all over, and says the words they tell her to say:

“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Sansa repeats that phrase over and over throughout the book, always at once. Almost like a reflex. An actor on stage repeating their lines, rehearsed and performed a thousand times.

The worst part of the act is that everyone knows it’s exactly that: an act. Sansa is required, every day, to declare that her family are traitors who deserve to die, and for no reason at all. The way Joffrey abuses her is an open secret:

“He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation.”

There is no way anyone could ever believe Sansa actually loves the boy who killed her father and intentionally humiliates her in front of his court. No matter how well Sansa tells the lie, it will always be see-through; especially because everyone knows that she’s a prisoner, being held until Jaime is freed. Sansa has to repeat the lie of believing her family to be traitors to try and please the Lannisters – if she said anything different she would be beaten or killed – but there’s no way they will ever be happy, because even when Sansa says the lies as convincingly as humanly possible, they know they’re lies because there’s no way they could be anything else. Sansa cannot win.

That’s never clearer than during her conversation with Cersei inside Maegar’s Holdfast, while the Battle of the Blackwater rages on:

“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.

“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”

If Sansa told Cersei the truth in this moment, she would be severely punished. And Cersei knows that, because she would be the one doing the punishing. Yet she verbally berates Sansa anyway.

The same dynamic plays out between Sansa and the Hound. At the end of A Game of Thrones, he gives her this bit of advice:

“Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

And as one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, he knows first hand of the abuse Sansa suffers if she says anything that could even be construed as out of line. Yet when Sansa tries to follow the advice he gave her, he throws it back in her face:

“ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you”

Everyone in King’s Landing is always threatening to kill Sansa if she tells them the truth, and then calling her stupid when she repeats back the lies they want to hear. They’re forcefully dehumanizing her, demanding she remove all of her own thoughts and emotions and replace them with hollow lines they’ve given her, and then getting mad when her words are empty.

This plays on one of Sansa’s greatest insecurities about herself, which is her intelligence. Because of her low self-esteem, she already thinks of herself as being less-than. That’s very clear whenever she does an act of kindness – she steadfastly refuses to give herself credit for anything:

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court?

. . .

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

She never thinks to herself You are doing this because you are a good person. She always punishes herself internally, calling herself stupid and childish for believing in good things. Joffrey and Cersei have destroyed her so much that she can only see herself through their eyes, cruel and mocking.

The fear that she’s stupid is one of her greatest anxieties:

“My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

And she doesn’t like to be watched by Ser Preston Greenfield because he treated her like a lackwit child.

Everyone around her is comfortable calling her stupid and emotionally abusing her, and it’s easy for Sansa to start internalizing those messages. Joffrey and Cersei’s betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones forever changed Sansa; the fear that she could ever be so wrong again, and the fear that she was stupid to believe in them, haunts her. Throughout her time in King’s Landing, her self-worth plummets, and she really starts to believe all the things that Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone is always telling her about herself.

Because she has to endure so much abuse and cruelty every day, it starts to become normal to Sansa. Compared to the way Joffrey treats her, anything would be an improvement; she has a soft spot for Arys Oakheart because he hesitated to hit her once:

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued.

At least he had argued is one of the saddest lines in a series of books that has a lot of sad lines. Sansa expects so little of the people around her, and is subjected to so much cruelty, that the mere act of hesitating before hitting a defenseless child is enough to stand out in her memory as an act of kindness.

And Sansa thinks this when Tyrion asks her if she’s flowered yet:

Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.

This is a perfect moment to show the small ways in which Joffrey is breaking her down emotionally. Tyrion’s question is embarrassing and impolite, but Sansa doesn’t even care because it is so much less embarrassing than the humiliations Joffrey makes her suffer. Joffrey has set the bar for cruelty so high that Sansa is willing to ignore others mistreating her because it isn’t as bad as Joffrey.

The secret friendship she has with Dontos makes this even worse:

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

Dontos is not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any less toxic a message for Sansa to hear: I’m cruel and hit you for your own protection. That’s on display when Joffrey is beating Sansa for Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “Morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.

Sansa is happy that Dontos is the one hitting her, because at least it’s better than Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Dontos volunteering to hit her is an act of kindness for Sansa; which further reinforces the idea that someone hitting her is okay.

All of this works to lower Sansa’s standards and warp her perception of what is and isn’t okay; and in the case of Dontos, it is outright grooming on the part of Littlefinger. He intentionally paid an older man to win Sansa’s trust and get her used to the dynamic of secrecy and pushing boundaries, all so he can swoop in during A Storm of Swords. Sansa’s stuck in an endless cycle of her abuse conditioning her to accept more abuse.

All of the abuse and isolation Sansa suffers also leaves her incredibly depressed throughout A Clash of Kings. When she gets the note telling her to go to the Godswood, she thinks she will kill herself before she’s caught:

If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself.

After the bread riot, Sansa has panic attacks; so much so that she feels suffocated in small rooms:

Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there was no air to breathe.

She likes to go up to the roof of the tower so she can see the entire city laid before her; it’s the only place where she doesn’t feel so claustrophobic and trapped.

That passage is also so fantastically written to show just how depressed Sansa is. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She's too depressed to go riding around the courtyard; she doesn’t see the point in going around in circles. We know from A Game of Thrones that Sansa has plenty of hobbies: playing the high harp, needlepoint, reading, and sharing gossip with her best friend. In A Clash of Kings, she’s too isolated to have anyone to talk to, but we never see her doing any of her other hobbies either. Nothing brings Sansa happiness in this book.

Especially because she’s constantly surrounded by reminders of her trauma. The way Sansa copes with her grief is by pushing it out of her mind and pretending like it doesn’t exist:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears.

Sansa actively tries to forget about the people who mean the most to her because it hurts too much to think of them.

But she can’t forget about Ned when she’s surrounded by reminders of his death. Joffrey and Cersei intentionally throw it in her face, and she has to walk through the same halls his men died in:

Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.

The reminder that hurts the most is the presence of Ilyn Payne, a recurring figure in all of Sansa’s nightmares. Just his presence makes Sansa’s skin crawl:

She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father's greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa's breath caught in her throat.

. . .

She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's close

When Sansa’s afraid she’s going to die, it’s always his blade she fears:

I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

. . .

Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

. . .

If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she'd come?

. . .

If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

Watching Ilyn Payne kill her father is the worst thing that ever happened to Sansa, and she lives in constant fear that the same thing could happen to her.

The only thing that keeps her going is the thought of her family. Sansa is insecure in herself enough to start believing the abuse that Joffrey and Cersei inflict on her; but she loves her family too much to ever believe the lies about them. Even though she’s forced to declare them traitors every single day, her internal monologue is always fighting against it:

Rob will kill you all, she thought, exulting

. . .

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.

She even finds a way to make Joffrey’s words work in her favor:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

One of the only moments where Sansa is even remotely happy in this book comes when she’s talking to Tommen, because he reminds her of Bran:

Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.

Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.

That’s a short passage, but it so beautifully captures a small piece of what Sansa is truly like, outside of the abuse and the fearing for her life and the never being able to express her emotions. She loves her family so much and wants nothing more than to be with Bran again. And while Joffrey mocks Tommen for his knightly dreams, Sansa is so nice to him, building up his confidence before he competes. She’s old enough to have grown passed the childishness of Tommen facing the quintain, but because she knows how important it is to Tommen, she gladly plays along with him. We never got to see any scenes in A Game of Thrones of Sansa interacting with Bran and getting to act like a big sister, but this scene does such a good job of showing us that Sansa was a great sister to him.

Sansa also feels a much stronger connection to the Godswood, the ancestral home of her father’s gods:

The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood, even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

And even though Lady’s long dead, Sansa still has a strong connection to her wolf. When she believes she’s going to die during the Blackwater, Lady is the first thing she thinks of:

“Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

The more abuse Sansa suffers and the more pressure is put on her to denounce her family as traitors and give up on ever going home, the more Sansa falls back on her family. That’s the only form of comfort she has in King’s Landing; the memory of Winterfell, and the belief that Robb is coming to save her.

The Lannisters have Sansa held captive physically and emotionally in King’s Landing; she has to suffer through beatings and repeat their words to stay alive. But as long as Sansa has her family - has Winterfell - to hold onto, there is a part of her that the Lannisters can never have. Even if it’s only within the walls of her own mind, Sansa has fought herself a small piece of freedom.

Courtesy is a Lady’s Armor

Trapped within the political machinations of King’s Landing, Sansa starts to learn how to play the game in earnest.

Even before she consciously starts to do it, though, Sansa is already in many ways an adept political actor. There’s a reason that all highborn children are taught from a young age how to conduct themselves; Westeros is a society built on the cornerstone of tradition, and knowing how to perform courtly behavior is important. Because Sansa took all of Septa Mordane’s training seriously, she already knows how to walk the dangerous tightrope of courtly speak:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”

This is the same skill we saw in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, when she was proud of herself for telling the Hound that no one could withstand Gregor during the tourney – she managed to say something courteous without telling a lie. Just as she did then, Sansa manages to say an apology to Tyrion that’s true.

It also shows just how good Sansa is at keeping a level head, because just moments before she was thinking this:

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.

Faced with the men responsible for killing her father, she manages to think on her feet and fulfill the role of a Lady.

She also learns how to use that same skill to benefit herself. Whereas at first she was just trying to perform the functions of a Lady, she starts to use her courtesy to talk the people around her into helping her in such a way that they don’t even realize it’s happening:

“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”

Part of why Sansa’s so naturally gifted at this kind of political double speak is because she understands people so well; she’s an empathetic and emotional character, and is extremely aware of the emotions of everyone around her. To affectively influence others, you need to understand what they want and be able to give it to them. Because Sansa is so aware of the people around her, she intuitively knows what they want; and all she wants to do is give it to them, because she doesn’t want to be hurt again.

The whole conversation she has with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand does an excellent job showing how intelligent she is:

“I . . .” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?”

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

Again, she shows an unparalleled ability to lie without actually lying. And she’s clever enough to tell Tyrion what he wants to hear without saying anything that’s actually false, that way it can’t come back to bite her later. She learned her lesson in A Game of Thrones not to trust someone just because they’re kind, and is careful not to show her cards to Tyrion. But in case he’s being honest in trying to help her, Sansa does not reaffirm her love for Joffrey. That’s why her answer of I only want to be loyal is so smart; whether Tyrion is playing her false or no, Sansa has given him the answer he wants to hear. She’s kept all of her doors open without creating additional risk for herself.

Having to survive Joffrey every day also teaches Sansa how to get what she wants without actually having to say it. When she saves Dontos’ life, she plays to Joffrey’s ego:

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

All Sansa wants is to save Dontos’ life, and in the moment she comes up with a spectacular lie. Of course Joffrey would think it humiliating to make Dontos into a fool, so Sansa convinces him that would be an even greater punishment than death. She manipulates Joffrey into doing what she wants him to, and he doesn’t even know it’s happened.

Learning how to slyly insult Joffrey is one of the few ways Sansa can actually express herself as a prisoner, and she gets incredibly good at it. She starts by passive-aggressively getting one over on him:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

But as she gets better at politics she goes even further, actively tempting Joffrey into getting himself killed:

“They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest,” she said recklessly. “Though he’s older than Your Grace, to be sure. A man grown.”

Joffrey’s biggest insecurity is that he can’t rule in his own right; Cersei won’t let him do certain things, and Tyrion is in charge of him as the Hand of the King because he hasn’t come of age yet. While Joffrey’s anger is normally aimed destructively at Sansa, here she figures out a way to make it work for her; using his own emotions against him to do something reckless.

As well as learning the art of political double-speak, Sansa starts to understand the broader political machinations at work. Because she was a diligent student of Catelyn and Septa Mordane, she has almost every sigil in Westeros memorized; at Joffrey’s name-day tourney, she recognizes every competitor by their House. This may seem unimportant at first glance, but it’s actually very important; twice in Arya’s chapters in A Clash of Kings she wishes she knew Houses and Sigils as well as Sansa, because than she would know who she was dealing with.

Since Sansa knows who everyone is, she has head start in understanding where everyone’s loyalties lie. On top of that, she’s also incredibly observant; she’s constantly taking in everything around her, stopping to pay attention to every little detail and interaction between people. Even though Cersei and Joffrey are trying to keep it hidden, Sansa notices that Joffrey’s tourney is held inside the Keep because he would be mobbed if they went out into the city. And she knows the Redwyne twins are hostages just as much as she is:

The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests, even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.

That’s not something anyone would have told Sansa. For one, no one is even allowed to talk to her per Cersei’s orders. For two, Cersei doesn’t let anyone acknowledge that she has hostages – in the same way Sansa has to pretend she is a guest of Joffrey’s court, the Redwynes have to pretend they’re willing guests. That means that Sansa, with no help from anyone, has of her own accord put all the pieces together and realized the Redwynes are political pawns just like her. Very impressive for a twelve-year-old.

Sansa’s attention to detail is clear when she meets Shae, and immediately notices something is not right with her:

Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to show her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes.

And when she’s entering Maegar’s Holdfast at the start of the Blackwater, and notices the guards:

The two guards at the door wore the lin-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair – a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his knees – but he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Westerosi Houses and her attention to detail combine to give her a really good head for political machinations. She sees how the Lannisters use empty titles to flatter their lesser servants while saving the best prizes for their family:

Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister.

She manages to keep pace with Littlefinger and Tywin’s games:

She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

I cannot emphasize enough that Sansa, following the tiny thread of Littlefinger looks happy to be Lord of Harrenhal, manages to predict the Red Wedding a whole book before it happens. That’s pretty incredible. Right now, Sansa has no power to start pulling meaningful strings of her own, but it’s clear that she fundamentally understands the complexity of geopolitics and would be well-prepared to make decisions of her own when the time comes.

Another way Sansa continues to learn about the realities of ruling is through people around her trying to teach her lessons. Because Sansa’s a hostage and isn’t allowed to say anything she feels, she basically becomes a blank slate for people to project whatever they want onto. Cersei, Dontos, and the Hound all try to “teach” her something as they project all of their own fears, insecurities, and trauma onto her.

Dontos tells her to play the fool:

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?”

Of course, Sansa already knows this. All the way back in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, Sansa thinks to herself that Moon Boy is smarter than he looks and is only pretending to be a fool so he can go wherever he likes; and Dontos confirms her suspicions when he reveals Moon Boy is a spy for Lord Varys.

It’s a consistent pattern that everyone around Sansa is constantly underestimating her; partly because of their own biases, and partly because Sansa is an almost entirely internal character, rarely letting people hear her honest thoughts. People assume she’s as hollow as the words they force her to say, but in reality she’s an introvert and a hostage.

The Hound also feels the need to impart some “lessons” onto Sansa:

Sandor Clegane snorted. “Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you.”

Again, he’s assuming Sansa’s much dumber than she actually is. Sansa already knows that everyone in King’s Landing is a liar, and has sworn to herself never to trust them again.

The most valuable lessons Sansa gets are from Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”

In this moment, even though she’s not doing a particularly good job actually doing it, Cersei articulates what’s really important about politics: optics. Her true motives for protecting the Ladies don’t matter as long as the Ladies believe that Cersei is doing it for the right reasons. That’s what monarchies are built upon. They’re a fragile house of cards constructed out of people’s belief.

That’s a lesson Sansa learns again when Joffrey sets her aside and takes Margaery as his bride. Sansa knows it’s going to happen, and is coached by Cersei how to react:

I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her, no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”

But in front of the court, Joffrey carries on the charade, pretending Garlan’s offer of his sister’s hand is brand new information. Sansa watches from the sidelines and sees how people react; chanting and cheering to the theatre of it all. She gets to learn in real time how important it is to be performing your duties for the people. Other characters – most notably Jon Snow and Daenerys – can never quite figure that part of ruling out, and it has grave consequences.

I don’t mean performing in the negative sense. Of course, it can be used like that, like when the Tyrell’s intentionally starve King’s Landing so they can swoop in and make a big show of providing food. But it can also be used for good; it is an absolutely necessary aspect of ruling to let your people know what you’re doing for them. Jon in particular gets in trouble at the Wall because he doesn’t explain why he does things; he just does them and hopes people will trust him. Part of the courtly aspect of ruling is doing the work of showing your people how you’re helping them. That way you build trust with them, and they know you care for them. That’s what Sansa’s learning how to do.

Sansa’s also very good at the literal courtly aspect of politics; the time actually spent in court, sitting for hours and hours as the tedious day-to-day of ruling takes place. After the Battle of the Blackwater is over, Sansa has to sit in court for an entire day as soldiers are given their reward. She manages to stay focused the whole time, giving incredibly detailed accounts of each prize that’s awarded and each act of valor that caused it. She handles herself better than the grown men in the hall:

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave.

Actual adults can’t even tolerate it, but Sansa manages just fine. This talent of hers is taken for granted by readers, but really stands out when you compare it to other characters. Sansa has the benefit of being raised to be a Lady, unlike a character like Daenerys who never had to sit through the training. Dany can’t make it through one day holding court in Meereen, and calls a lid early because she’s so bored – then stops holding court all together. Actually being a Queen is horribly bureaucratic, and that’s a skill that takes some practice to be able to perform.

Sansa’s ability to hold her own as a leader also really shines during the Battle of the Blackwater, when all hope seems lost and Cersei abandons the women in Maegar’s Holdfast:

“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”

“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”

“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”

Sansa has no reason to do this. Cersei has given Ser Ilyn orders to kill her if the castle falls, and all the women in the holdfast are older than she is. She’s the last person who should be capable of standing up to take charge, considering her age and her impending death by execution.

She knows she’s faced with a choice: try and save her own life, or stay and comfort the women in the holdfast. And she decides to stay.

True Knights

This book sees Sansa’s worldview start to deepen. She’s only a child when the series starts, and like most kids has a very simple understanding of the world; there’s good and bad people, and good and bad things that happen. Songs were the way Sansa gave that worldview structure. They taught her that the good things happened to the good people, and the bad things happened to the bad people. Westeros is fair, and only the good people could be put in charge to do good things. Kings, queens, and knights were all avatars of the inherent goodness of the world; people put in place specifically to protect others.

This worldview became unsustainable for Sansa after Ned’s death. Every single rule the songs taught her was violated by her father’s execution. In her last chapter of A Game of Thrones, we see Sansa turn to nihilism as a result; her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and the knights sworn to protect her are the ones beating her. She doesn’t believe in anything anymore, so much so that she just wants to die.

In A Clash of Kings, Sansa starts to grapple with the overwhelming cognitive dissonance. Ned’s death and Joffrey’s cruelty taught her how evil people can be; but she also knows how good they can be, because she grew up in Winterfell. For all of their shortcomings, Ned and Catelyn were loving parents who tried their best to do good, and raised their kids the same.

Sansa still believes in goodness, but sees that everyone around her fails to live up to it:

Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.

Notice how she thinks They are no true knights. Sansa is surrounded by unimaginable cruelty, but she holds on to an undying sense of optimism. She knows that real knights don’t fight for the right, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to believe in those ideals. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, when her belief in good was attached to specific people like Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa’s new worldview isn’t dependent on people to live up to. She believes in doing the right thing no matter what, even if the people around her let her down.

Sansa’s conception of beauty is the same way; in the first book, she assumed that beautiful people must also be good. But in A Clash of Kings, she reverses that order; people become either beautiful or ugly to her based on how good or bad they are. We view Joffrey through many POVs, and it is clear that by any standard that he is objectively attractive; yet Sansa now finds him ugly:

His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

And she thinks this of the Hound:

The scars are not the worst part, not even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.

It’s not his physical appearance that scares her, it’s the anger in his eyes. That’s the part of him that’s ugly to her.

This evolution in Sansa’s understanding is never clearer than in her interactions with Dontos. The parts of his appearance that Sansa finds unattractive are his blotchy skin and broken veins, which are both symptoms of his constant drinking. It’s his drinking that bothers her:

“I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?”

. . .

This is madness, to trust myself to this drunkard

But Sansa manages to look beyond that as soon as Dontos invokes Florian the Fool. As much as Sansa understands that the songs aren’t true, the idea still appeal to her. When Dontos says he wants to make amends and become a true knight, in spirit if not name, Sansa treats him as if he actually were a knight:

“Rise, ser.”

. . .

Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. “My Florian,” she whispered. “The gods heard my prayer.”

Sansa’s growing understanding of the world around her also changes the way she thinks of class. To some extent in A Song of Ice and Fire, every single character is classist because they’re all rich people in an extremely hierarchical society. The entire structure of kings, lord paramounts, lords, knights, and peasants requires you to be classist; if you believe everyone in Westeros is equal, the entire structure of the society crumbles. While some of the POV characters like Jon and Davos make great strides in understanding how bankrupt the Westerosi class structure is, they’re still generally classist; it’s almost impossible not to be when you grow up in the culture they did. Davos grew up poor, but the indoctrination of classism has given him an almost religious fervor to follow Stannis as the “true” king.

Sansa especially had a very rigid understanding of class in A Game of Thrones; Arya making friends with the butcher’s boy was anathema to her. But the more that Sansa sees the people in power as the monsters they really are, the more sympathy she has for the people below her. In the sept praying before the Battle of the Blackwater, she holds hands with a washerwoman:

The old woman’s hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy’s small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to

The more Cersei and Joffrey try to isolate Sansa, the more they try to snuff out any feeling of goodness or loyalty she had, the more Sansa reaches out to connect with people. Everything bad that happens to her makes her feel more connected to the people of King’s Landing. She’s too young and privileged (class-wise) to have a fully functioning understanding of the true evils of hierarchy, but she fundamentally understands something most of the aristocracy do not: that the common people are people and should be treated with respect.

She knows the common people will suffer the most if Stannis breaches the city walls, and prays for theme:

She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike

Sansa gladly positions herself alongside the working people, not offended to be among them the way the Lannisters certainly are.

Sansa’s deepening worldview also gives her an incredibly complex relationship to the songs and stories she used to love. As I’ve already mentioned, she doesn’t disown them entirely; the high ideals of the songs are still very important to Sansa. The concept of a true knight, who would actually defend the defenseless, is the cornerstone of Sansa’s belief system, and she doesn’t need that person to actually be a knight – as long as they fulfill the moral obligation of being good. (Little does she know that very person is later tasked to find her.)

But now she knows that the stories lie. She understands their role as propaganda; when Arys Oakheart tries to say the peasants believe the comet heralds Joffrey’s reign, she doesn’t believe him:

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure.

And she can’t even finish a sentence defending knights without realizing it isn’t true:

“Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.”

“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

The words ring hollow in her ears because Sansa does know what happens when a city is sacked; earlier in a previous chapter, she thinks this:

The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Cersei underestimates Sansa, assuming everything she knows is from a song, but here we see that Sansa knows that the songs don’t tell the whole story. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, she no longer holds them in complete reverence. The Sept used to represent everything beautiful about the songs to her:

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli.

It was the song’s come to life. But after Ned’s death, she hates it:

When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”

She literally wants to set fire to the things that used to represent the songs.

But songs and stories are the foundation of Sansa’s world; even though she doesn’t believe in them the way she used to, they still shape her perception. She doesn’t want to let them go:

There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

She still uses the template of songs and stories to interact with the world, but now with the understanding that the world is so much more complicated. Whereas before, the songs represented a sanitized version of war, Sansa begins to understand it in its entirety:

Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.

It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

Thinking about something through the lens of a song no longer represents a childish fantasy for Sansa. Her conception of them is no longer permanent; her view of the songs has changed to fit with her new reality, but it’s still a comforting way for her to make sense of the world around her.

She even incorporates her love of the songs into her political manipulations:

"You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much."

"I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please . . . not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear for you to have ill luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so . . ."

Her use of the songs nearly saves her life here. Joffrey doesn’t know enough to be sure that she’s lying, so once the Hound corroborates her story, he has to believe it’s true.

Sansa’s attachment to the stories is integral to her character, and GRRM does a tremendous job of making it important to the arc she starts in this book, which is her continued journey from pawn to player in the Game of Thrones. Sansa’s perspective as a political actor is entirely unique from anyone else for many reasons, and one of those is her connection to the ideal version of Westeros that lives in the songs. Even as Sansa realizes the songs are lies and that the world is so much darker than she thought, she never gives up on the hope that it could be good. Her unwavering optimism for the world, in the face of so much trauma, means that she will never stop trying to make the world better.

Flowering

Throughout her time in King’s Landing, Sansa’s experiences with sexuality are inextricably linked to violence. The way Joffrey physically abuses her comes with a nasty undercurrent of sexual violence. The total control he exerts over her means she has to let him do what he wants:

The king settled back in his seat and took Sansa's hand. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made herself sit very still.

The subtext of that scene is drawn to the forefront when Joffrey has Sansa beaten after Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

. . .

“Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.

This is one of Sansa’s first experiences with sexuality, and it is nonconsensual and done specifically to humiliate her.

The relationship between sex and violence is never clearer than at the start of the Blackwater:

"Bless my steel with a kiss." He extended the blade down to her. "Go on, kiss it."

He had never sounded more like a stupid little boy. Sansa touched her lips to the metal, thinking that she would kiss any number of swords sooner than Joffrey

Joffrey is asking Sansa to kiss his sword; the metaphor here is not exactly subtle. To Joffrey, sex and violence are one in the same; having power over someone, hurting someone, turns him on as much as physical attraction. And as his betrothed, Sansa is on the receiving end of his sexually charged violence.

Unlike Joffrey, Sansa’s not turned on by violence, seeing it and sexuality as two separates things. And she would rather suffer through the violence, thinking to herself she would rather kiss the sword than kiss Joffrey. Her experiences with being found attractive to someone have all been so traumatic that actual violence scares her less.

Arguably the most traumatic experience she has is during the bread riot:

Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron's head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.

In the nightmares she has of that day, she dreams of being murdered; a knife cutting through her stomach until she’s left in bloody ribbons. It’s not hard to see the violent sexual imagery in that description. Sansa knows what those men planned on doing to her, and the memory haunts her. It’s no coincidence that she wakes from those nightmares to her first period:

“No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

The way GRRM writes her reaction is so visceral. As tears streams down her cheeks, she tries to wash herself, cuts apart her sheets, burns them, and tries to drag her entire bed into the flames as well. And the whole time she does this, she keeps thinking They’ll know or What will I tell them? or I have to burn them. She’s so completely and utterly terrified that anyone could ever know, she’s hardly even thinking. It’s just sheer, overwhelming panic.

This line in particular stands out:

The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

Down to jewelry she wears and the way she styles her hair, Sansa’s body belongs to Joffrey. Her job in King’s Landing is to look pretty for him in the hopes that it will save her from his wrath. Her body exists solely to please him. She’s literally stripped of her own agency and control.

Flowering is the last straw for Sansa because it means she can be tied forever to Joffrey through marriage, and he’ll be free to rape her and force her to have his children. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to stop it. Her own body has betrayed her by merely existing.

Sansa’s period is again equated to physical violence during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“You look pale, Sansa,” Cersei observed. “Is your red flower still blooming?”

“Yes.”

“How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.”

Then a second time, Cersei compares sex to violence:

“You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it.”

Through Cersei’s eyes, we get the clearest summary of the point GRRM is trying to make. Existing as a woman in Westeros is inherently oppressive to the point of smothering the life out of her. Where the men are given swords, women are given marriage and childbirth; but the latter is no less violent than the former. In Cersei’s words:

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”

“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.

“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”

In many ways, Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is centered around this idea; the violence of femininity in Westeros. Being a child isn’t enough to spare Sansa the horrors. The whole reason she’s trapped in King’s Landing to begin with is because of her body; the Lannisters want to use her like property – a broodmare to sire them sons to inherit Winterfell.

It’s no surprise the climax of Sansa’s chapters in A Clash of Kings pushes this concept to its furthest bounds . . .

Ser Dontos and The Hound

Throughout Sansa’s chapters in King’s Landing, GRRM is deconstructing the trope of the Princess in the Tower. Sansa more than any other character is aware that her life takes place within a story, and she prays to the gods to send her a hero to save from the Red Keep. GRRM had already subverted the idea of a charming Prince with Joffrey in the first book, so A Clash of Kings subverts the trope of a knight coming to save her. That’s why her two protectors in King’s Landing are Dontos and Sandor Clegane – two men who aren’t quite knights.

For most of the book, the narrative treats Dontos and Sandor as foils. The story of why either one is not a knight puts them on two opposite ends of a spectrum. Dontos has his knighthood taken away from him because he’s too soft. He would rather drink and let people laugh at him than fight with a sword, which is why Joffrey makes him a fool. On the other hand, the Hound likes killing too much to be a knight:

“Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

This dichotomy between them is made clearer in the way Sansa has to escape their advances. Around Dontos, she’s dodging kisses:

"Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck." He swayed toward her.

Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep.

But it’s a steel kiss she has to dodge from the Hound:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

The idea of Dontos and Sandor as opposites is driven home further by their different approaches to Sansa’s love of stories; Dontos uses it to win Sansa’s trust:

“I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you . . . your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself." His voice dropped. "The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all . . ."

"Florian," Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her.

"Sweet lady, I would be your Florian," Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her.

The Hound uses it to berate and belittle her:

“There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

But underneath the superficial differences, Dontos and the Hound have the exact same relationship to Sansa. When Joffrey is having her beat after Robb’s victory at Oxcross, both make efforts to help her – Dontos volunteering to hit her with a melon instead of a sword, and the Hound telling Joffrey “enough” – but stop short of doing anything that would put themselves in danger. They both make advances on Sansa against her will – Dontos with kisses and the Hound with knives, but the overt sexual nature of both cannot be denied. They both position themselves to Sansa as a sort of mentor figure, telling her how to act and what to believe, with the implicit (and often explicit) message that she’s not smart enough to think for herself and it would really be in her best interest if she just trusted them instead. Both men position themselves as Sansa’s “protector”, but they never protect her from much of anything; in the few moments they’re actually given the opportunity, like during the Battle of the Blackwater, they both panic and leave her to fend for herself.

What really connects the two men is how they use Sansa. To them, she’s the paragon of youth and innocence; the way she believes in the stories reminds them both of what they used to be like before the world beat them down. Sandor was a boy who played with toy knights before Gregor burned his face, and Dontos was saved as a child by the knight of knights Barristan Selmy. While they’ve both grown jaded, Sansa brings out the parts of them that still believe in the stories. That’s clear from the way Dontos reacts to the Lannisters winning the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

And even though the Hound claims to hate the stories, it’s a song he wants from Sansa:

“Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids.”

Sansa as the princess in a tower appeals to the fantasy of both men to be her hero.

But this is a subversion of that trope, not a straight retelling. Particularly in regards to Sandor, GRRM really deconstructs the destructive nature of this male fantasy. Before Sandor asks Sansa to sing him a song, he comments on her body:

“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost . . .”

Sandor wanting to play the knight with Sansa is always tied to his sexual attraction to her; in every single instance, GRRM always ties them together. There is never one without the other. It should go without saying that this is not good; Sansa is barely twelve, and hasn’t even had her first period when Sandor’s sexual advances start. She is a child. In Maegar’s Holdfast, she’s shocked that men would view her sexually:

“Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.”

“Me?”

“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember?”

This passage also very clearly draws the connection between Sandor’s relationship to Sansa and violence. Cersei explains to Sansa the way battle makes men into monsters around women, and then the next chapter Sandor appears in Sansa’s bedroom with a knife. This is not meant to be a romantic scene, or else GRRM would not have framed it with threats of rape and violence.

This is further re-enforced by the song Sansa sings to Sandor. When he holds the knife to her neck, he demands she sing the song of Florian and Jonquil:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

But Sansa can’t remember the words, and instead sings the Mother’s Mercy hymn:

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

It is incredibly symbolic that the Hound demands Sansa sing him a song of romance, but she physically can’t; the only song she can remember the words to is one of forgiveness.

So much of Sansa’s narrative in A Clash of Kings is people demanding things that she can’t give them. Joffrey wants her loyalty, Cersei wants her words, Tyrion wants her trust, and Dontos and Sandor want her love. Everyone is pulling her in different directions, and her entire personality starts to crumble under the pressure; there’s no way she can give all of these people everything they want. Something has to give.

And when Sansa can no longer play her role, when the fear of dying is too visceral for her to wear her courtesy like an armor, the one thing Sansa can still give Sandor is her mercy. . .

Radical Empathy

The running thread that connects all of the themes in Sansa’s chapters is her being trapped. Physically through Joffrey’s abuse, emotionally through Joffrey, Cersei, Dontos, and Sandor, and even by herself mentally as she begins to internalize the abuse. Everything about the Red Keep is meant to turn Sansa cruel and self-interested, just like everybody else; even if they aren’t intentionally cruel like Joffrey, they’re okay with Sansa being hurt because that’s just how life is, like Cersei. Or Dontos and the Hound, who don’t intend to hurt Sansa but do because they’re too caught up in their own narrative to acknowledge her humanity. Even Arys Oakheart, who really doesn’t want to hurt her, but is too afraid to say no and defy the class structure of Westeros.

That makes Sansa’s defiance through empathy stand out in such radical contrast. The kindness Sansa shows everyone, even those who hurt her, is how GRRM brings the songs to life. Sansa doesn’t love those stories because she’s silly and naïve; she loves them because they justify her belief in the inherent goodness of being kind.

Empathy and kindness are Sansa’s defining character traits, and that’s why her arc in A Clash of Kings opens with her saving Dontos’ life:

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.

Even though just moments earlier she had noted Joffrey’s mood was turning dark:

The way Sansa stands up for Dontos is particularly notable because he had the chance to do the same for her in A Game of Thrones, but chose not to:

Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

- Sansa V

Dontos wouldn’t even risk treating Sansa with basic courtesy, yet she risked her live to save his.

And that’s not the only time Sansa stands up to Joffrey to save someone:

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.

- Tyrion IX

The only other character we ever see move to actually stand up to Joffrey is Tyrion, who is also the only person in court who doesn’t have to be afraid of Joffrey’s retaliation. Everyone else sits by day after day and watches as Joffrey abuses Sansa and says nothing; or worse, they actively participate. But whenever Sansa sees Joffrey hurting someone, she risks herself to make him stop.

Sansa also uses her kindness to give herself courage:

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

She’s too afraid to speak back at Joffrey when he’s abusing her, but as soon as she sees him mistreat Tommen, she finds the courage to stand up for others.

Kindness is almost an involuntary reflex for Sansa:

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

Lancel Lannister, who stood by and egged the crowd on as Sansa was stripped and beaten after the Battle at Oxcross. She has every reason not to help him; she knows if she stays in that room, with the battle all but lost, Ser Ilyn is going to kill her solely because of the Lannisters’ spite. She has no reason to stay and help Lancel. But she can’t stop herself.

The moment where Sansa’s kindness stands out the most, though, is when the Hound comes to her room during Blackwater:

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.

I think reading this passage out of context is what allows certain fans to paint this scene in a romantic light. The softness of Sansa reaching out to touch Sandor is an indelible moment. But it does the moment a disservice to read it that way. This scene is so well written because of what comes before it:

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” he heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

Afraid for her life, Sansa closes her eyes. But Sandor is too bitter, jaded, and wrapped up in his own self to realize that’s why she closes her eyes; he thinks it’s because she still can’t look at the burned ruin of his face. He came to her room with kindness the furthest thing from his mind; the flames dancing on the Blackwater Rush made him scared like a wild animal, and he’s come here to get something from Sansa – whether she wants to give it or no.

(And while certain people are interested in carrying a lot of water to redeem this character, GRRM has really left no ambiguity in Sandor’s intentions. The passage He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed, taken in tandem with his confession to Arya, I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf, make it very clear that Sandor intended to rape Sansa. That is not up for debate.)

Sansa singing the Mother’s Mercy hymn is the last thing Sandor expected. The idea that in this moment, as Sandor becomes all of the worst things he’s ever believed about himself, about to do one of the most monstrous acts a person can do – that in that moment, Sansa could still show him mercy, is enough to stop him. He can no longer pretend that all the songs are lies and that everyone is only pretending to be good, because in this moment Sansa is still somehow capable of showing him kindness.

Sansa’s ability to have empathy for seemingly irredeemable characters is not limited to Sandor (though certain shippers would like to pretend that’s some unique characteristic of their relationship, it most certainly is not). The dynamic between Sansa and Cersei is so rich because of Sansa’s inability to hate her, even though Cersei is responsible for pretty much every bad thing in Sansa’s life.

The Sansa and Cersei dynamic is one of the narrative’s most dynamic and complex, as Cersei represents a dark mirror of Sansa. Both were in love with the idea of becoming Queen as children, but arrived in King’s Landing to find their Prince is not who they thought he would be – Cersei both literally and figuratively, as she realizes she’s not to marry Rhaegar Targaryen but instead Robert Baratheon. They’re both subjected to emotional and physical abuse by the King for things that aren’t their fault – Robert hates Cersei because she isn’t Lyanna, and Joffrey hates Sansa because of his fight with Arya on the Trident.

But Cersei’s Lannister upbringing and life have made her cruel in all the ways Sansa is kind. She can see the parallels between herself and Sansa, but instead of reacting with empathy, she uses it to justify her cruelty:

“You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did.”

Being afraid of the men in her life has taught Cersei that’s the correct way to wield power:

“Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

But Sansa reacts the opposite way:

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

This line has become the definitive statement of Sansa’s character because it so wholly embodies her ethos. Cruelty is not in her nature, and her instinct is always to show kindness. It also ties a direct connection to her own personal experiences shaping how she wants to be as Queen:

“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”

Sansa knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she never wants anyone else to ever feel like that. Where the cruelty Cersei suffered taught her it was normal and good to rule that way, Sansa learns what it feels like to be at someone else’s mercy. If she ever has control over someone, which she will in books to come, she’s learned to always be kind because she knows what it feels like when someone isn’t.

All of her chapters in A Clash of Kings are full of moments that show how much Sansa values kindness. While I’ve already highlighted the life or death examples, she also shines in the small moments, like when she encourages Tommen before he faces the quintain at Joffrey’s name day tourney. And she comforts him when Myrcella leaves for Dorne:

Prince Tommen sobbed. "You mew like a suckling babe," his brother hissed at him. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon," Sansa Stark said, "and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

- Tyrion IX

She tries to comfort Lollys Stokeworth across the bridge to Maegar’s Holdfast:

She greeted them courteously. “May I be of help?”

Lady Tanda flushed with shame. “No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well.”

“I don’t want to.” Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. “Please, please, I don’t want to.”

Sansa spoke to her gently. “We’ll all be thrice protected inside, and there’s to be food and drink and song as well.”

Her prayer in the Sept before the battle starts shows just how much she cares for everyone:

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

There’s only one person in the whole of Westeros Sansa won’t extend her empathy to:

But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

This line feels especially important. A lesson that’s drilled into Sansa time and time again by Cersei and Sandor is that her kindness makes her weak. It was used against her in A Game of Thrones, where her trust in Cersei and Joffrey left her completely vulnerable to Ned’s death. But this passage shows that it is not weakness that makes Sansa kind - it’s strength. For a character as kind as she is, and subjected to so much abuse, it would be easy to see her narrative as someone repeatedly letting herself be run over. By including this line, showing that Sansa’s empathy is a choice she makes – and making it clear that she chooses not to have it for Joffrey – it shows that Sansa still has control over herself, and will set boundaries.

Instead of using her experiences in a negative way like Cersei, Sansa learns to carefully apply the lessons of her life; she won’t let abuse stop her from being kind, but she knows when to stop herself from trusting someone again.

Because Sansa’s kindness and optimism are the most important aspects of her character, her arc in A Clash of Kings ends there. Joffrey setting her aside in favor of Margaery is an emotional rollercoaster for Sansa:

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”

He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”

Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, the narrative is constantly testing Sansa’s commitment to her ideals. Everything she knows is constantly turned on its head, going from a dream to a nightmare. The momentary joy she feels knowing she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey is only allowed for a second, until it collides with Dontos’ harsh reality.

But instead of ending there, the narrative takes a page out of Sansa’s book and leaves on a vision of hope for the future:

It was a hair net of fine spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”

“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”

“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”

#Sansa Stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #just over 15000 words #which is a new personal record #sansa meta

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babyloposts · 3 years

Text

RoseBud

My Hero Academia Gang AU

Pairing(s): Sero Hanta x fem!reader

Warnings: language, drug use, explicit content, sexual themes, gang imagery, violence

Summary: a simple crush on a guy quickly turns south as you become wrapped up in an unsafe life of lies, drugs, and violence. What happens when you become a key player in a war between to rival gangs and have to deal with a complicated love life all at the same time.

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0.5

You stayed occupied on your phone until Hatsume returned to finish up the details of your already sore rose. In the time it took for her to do whatever business she had with those boys, your numbing cream had began to wear off.

The tension in the room was thick. The previously care-free energy Hatsume possessed was replaced with a melancholic and faraway stare in her eyes.

“Alright babe I’m all done. Remember to clean the skin with a gentle anti-bacterial soap and use alcohol-free moisturizer alright.” There was a feigned happiness in Hatsume’s voice, but her eyes said it all. Whatever Bakugou had done to her, whatever he and the red head had taken from her must have dampened her mood more than the threat from earlier.

You nodded to Hatsume and she took her leave as you were re-dressing. Luckily the top you wore was a light fabric and didn’t rub against your tattoo too much, but you could tell, this was going to hurt in the morning.

Walking back into the main lobby you only found Sero. No Bakugou, Hatsume, or mysterious Red Head to be found. You wanted to be happy to see Sero, but the look on his face and the mark on his face were more than enough to dampen your mood.

“Sero, oh my God!” He cringed as your finger lightly danced over his bruised cheekbone. Your hand flew to him without even thinking. Quickly you whipped it back and silently scolded yourself for your overbearing nature. “I’m sorry I-”

“Don’t apologize. It’ll only make me feel worse about getting punched in the face.” He chuckled, but your expression never faltered. The worry was there and it wasn’t going anywhere. Your brain was rattling with questions of ‘why?’ and ‘what happened?’, but as soon as you even fixed your mouth to speak Sero was cutting you off with the sharp movement of rising to his feet.

“Let me drive you home. It’s late.” Without checking for a change in your face or any confirmation he turned to leave the shop, trusting that you had fallen instep behind him.

The car ride to your apartment didn’t answer any lingering questions either. The only sounds that graced your ears was the buzzing of the engine and the light sounds of J. Cole songs emanating from the stereo. Sero periodically asked for vague directions to your side of town, but surprisingly he found your small complex with ease.

“Thank you.” You sighed as he shifted the car into park. The car ride may have been soothing, but the fear for your new friend’s well-being never once left your gut.

“Don’t thank me. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. And I pride myself on being a pretty nice guy.” The smile graced easily over his face as if he didn’t have a giant bruise forming under his eye. Your expression remained unmoving, your friend full of wonder as to what he was hiding from you. Yea, you had just officially met Sero tonight and he really isn’t obligated to tell you anything personal, but he was acting like none of that crazy shit just happened.

Sero chuckled, breaking through your bewildered inner monologue to move around and open your car door for you. “Alright, this is the part where you go home. Not that I’m trying to get rid of you.” He winked.

“R-right.” You get out of the car and start to your apartment. This didn’t feel right, the energy was too weird. You knew in the back of your mind that Denki was right. He had said Sero was a good guy and you’d be in good hands with him and he was right. Sero was probably trying to protect you from whatever shady business he was apart of, but you couldn’t leave this “date” where it was. You made it about half way to the door to enter the lobby of the building before you spun on your heels and placed your hands firmly on your hips. Sero was watching you as he leisurely leant on the hood of his black muscle car. Totally unbothered as you had come to expect.

“You’re not leaving here without me checking you out.” You said with all the gusto you could muster.

“Go ahead. I’m standing right here.” He smirked and drank you in with his eyes.

“Stop being an idiot and come upstairs with me. I can’t go to sleep tonight knowing that I just let you leave here with a black eye and I didn’t even offer you an ice-pack.”

“If you wanted me to come up to your apartment with you, you didn’t have to make up an excuse.” He punctuated his sentence with the chirp of his car doors locking and jogged up next to you.

“What happened to you being a gentleman?” You snorted.

“I can’t ever turn down an offer like that from you. I’ll take my chances.” He grinned slyly. You rolled your eyes trying to act like his charm wasn’t getting to you.

Sero followed you into the elevator and into your apartment. It was quaint and homey and smelled of bergamot incense. Luckily you had cleaned up a few days ago and your apartment was presentable to guests.

“You can sit on the couch I’ll get you some ice and a damp rag.” Without checking to see if he even listened to your instructions you busied yourself hopping from room to room of your apartment to gather the supplies to help his worsening bruise. Once you were back in the living room you instinctively pressed the makeshift ice-pack to Sero’s eye causing him to wince.

“That’s what you get for getting yourself beat up because of me.” You huffed.

“What do you mean? I didn’t-”

“I heard what he said Sero. That blond guy was yelling at Hatsume saying that you left the club before you were supposed to and he had to finish the job for you. You told me that you were done for the night. I wouldn’t have cared if we stayed longer.”

“I didn’t get beat up for you.” Softly, your hand was removed from in front of his eye. With Sero’s vision no longer obscured he could see the look of guilt clear as fat on your face. “I chose to leave. I was gonna do what needed to get done regardless, but my boss has little faith in me I guess. He sent his guard dog after me instead of trusting that I know how to get shit done.” Sero grumbled at the end. That seemed to have put him off. It was the one time his chill façade had faded that night.

“So... taking me to Hatsume was an excuse?”

Quickly the charm was back and he was reassuring you that you were priority number one. “No. Well kind of. I still wanted you to have a good time, but I would have had to see Hatsume tonight anyway. So, two birds and all that.” He shrugged.

With the ice pack now back on his face you started again, you found it was easier to speak your mind this way. No seductive eyes to sway the conversation. “Okay. But still. You should have checked in with whoever to avoid all this.” You gestured to his face.

“This happens more often than you think.”

“Sero. Be serious please.” You sighed. “You didn’t need to get hurt indirectly because of me. I’m not gonna ask what you or Bakugou needed from Hatsume, because obviously it wasn’t tattoo related, but can you at least promise me that you won’t leave working just to hang with me?”

“So there’s gonna be a next time.” His eyebrows wiggled, taunting you.

You stammered. You didn’t mean to sound presumptuous, but you were hoping he would want to go out with you again. “I mean yeah, I thought tonight was fun, all things considering.”

“Yeah? Me too.” His hand began to snake to your thigh that was now exposed to him as your skirt hiked up from your sitting position. The hand was comforting reminding you of the comfort you got from him earlier that night in the car.

“I-“ Your throat all of a sudden felt so dry. Clearing uncomfortably, you began again. “I don’t know if this is really gentlemanly.” You chuckled. Sero’s gaze at you did not falter for a second. His eyes were hazy and his eyelids dropped. The look in his eyes drew you in and you dropped the ice-pack from his face.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t keep my eyes off you. You’re beautiful.” You smiled as the compliment. Again the compliment on your beauty was unfamiliar, but greatly appreciated.

“Thank you... but I-” Your protests were quickly silenced by the force of his lips pressing against yours.

Like ice against a flame you melted into the kiss automatically. Your lips mended together perfectly. His felt rough, slightly chapped, but the way he moved in rhythm with you caused you to swoon. You were both drunk on each other’s touch. His hands roamed you lower body and rested on your waist, while you explored his hair and massaged his scalp with your finger tips.

A firm squeeze to your upper thigh elicited a gasp from your lips breaking the kiss and allowing Sero just enough time to slip your blouse over your head. What a pleasant surprise it was to find you without a bra on to obstruct his view. “Nice tat.” He smirked.

To avoid the embarrassment bubbling in your chest you shut him up this time by climbing into his lap and resuming the kiss where you had left off. In this position he had free reign of your body. His hands explored every inch of your legs, ass, and back.

You were a frustrated moaning and groaning into his mouth which only made him want to touch you more. Those intimate sounds making him harden beneath you.

Sero was undeniably sexy. You had fantasized about being with him before you really knew him, but everything went beyond your expectations. The way his rough hands felt against your body, the way his tongue and lips felt tangling with yours and his scent. It was a strong mix of cologne, weed, and something almost sickeningly sweet. You could have sworn it was...

Cherry Blossoms.

As if I’ve cold water had been poured on you, you ended your make out session with your crush prematurely.

“What happened?” Sero finally showed some other emotion. A mix of curiosity and worry.

You panicked how could you explain this. “Sero... you- you don’t want me.”

“The fuck are you on? Of course I want you.” His eyes flicked down taking in the sight of you bare chested and sitting on his straining erection.

“No you don’t. I’m sorry but, it’s my quirk that’s making you like me.”

“Huh?”

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Masterlist

Taglist: @black-bhabie-2000

#babylowrites #bnha x black!reader #bnha #mha #mha x female reader #bnha bakugou #black writers #mha bakugo x reader #bnha sero #sero hanta x reader #sero x female reader #sero x black!reader #Kmainari Denki #ashido mina #mha todoroki #mha kirishima

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nagia-pronounced-neijia · 3 years

Text

w(h)ip wednesday

It's a surprisingly quaint little farm, the kind of thing some traveller from the far-away west might paint into his little journal and tell all the Belgians and Austrians and French about. Green hills rise up in a gentle roll, with occasional stones that must have tumbled down from God-knows-where, looking pushed up through the grass and the barley like crooked teeth. Sheep meander among the gray rocks, bleating occasionally to each other and munching on the plants.

As they step past the low wooden fence, Trevor spots a goat chewing cud in a pen. It stares disinterestedly at them, eyes gleaming with that peculiar mix of cunning and stupidity native to goats. If it was ever a person, their mind seems long gone, he thinks, replaced by a goat's determination to be the biggest pain in the arse it possibly can.

They keep going and find a yard full of chickens. Here chickens, there chickens, everywhere fucking chickens. Mostly roosters, judging by the wattles, which he finds odd, and when Sypha steps too close to a hen, one of the stupid cockerels jumps at her. His wings flutter, feathers flying further than he can, and he seems determined to murder her with talon, beak, or both. He makes the most insane noises as he does it, like metal screaming.

It's instinct to try and put himself between her and something trying to hurt her. Even something as small and stupid and surprisingly vicious as a pissed-off chicken. He raises his arms to block the pecks and scratches, glad of the fur-and-leather vambraces, thick enough that he feels nothing.

"Calm the hell down," Trevor says, and puts a boot to the bird, which doesn't improve his disposition, exactly, but does manage to make him reconsider attacking. "I'll do it again," Trevor warns him, and immediately feels like an idiot.

But the rooster subsides, sulky, glaring at them both with beady eyes.

And the cabin door swings open. The woman who steps outside isn't quite pretty, but she's striking. He thinks her nose might have been broken, once, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders in a riot of deep red that catches in the sun.

But it's her hands he's most interested in, and, just like every family book always said, they tell the real story to him immediately.

Her face may look youngish -- certainly only of middle years -- but her hands, too pale, have wrinkles and liver spots, a sure sign of a witch. The deep, nearly black bruising that extends from the nail to the second knuckle of her littlest fingers, however, is the mark of a witch who has embraced questionable magic, if not outright reveled in the foulest and blackest of workings.

Beside him, Sypha moves to wave one arm. "You must be Sârșe," she says, and he can hear that she's smiling.

The woman inclines her head. "I am. And who might you be?"

"I"m Sypha, and this is Trevor." She jabs at him with an elbow. He doesn't jab back, but mostly because he's trying to figure Sârșe out.

"Hello," he says, about a second after Sypha's pointy elbow makes contact a second time.

Sârșe watches them both. Absolutely no emotion colors her face. Even her eyes look flat and lifeless, no more interested in them as people than the goat had been. "What have you come to find?"

He sighs. "Oh, we found it already."

"Trevor," Sypha hisses.

But Trevor ignores her. "Look, we know you're a witch. Well, Sypha suspects. But I know. And I don't care about the whole," here, he makes a sort of quotation mark with the fingers of both hands, "'demons into chickens' thing. Not sure anybody should be eating those, but it's not my business."

The very furthest corner of Sârșe's mouth curls up for about a second before smoothing back down. Her gaze remains flat. "And what is your business?"

"I'm not saying I expect you to turn them all back, mind, because I know that's not how it works. But how many of your sheep used to be people?"

He's a little relieved when, rather than hotly deny it, Sârșe licks her lips. "All of them," she says, calmly, like she doesn't care at all.

Well, that explains at least one of her fingers. Hell, he's a little surprised it hasn't spread further.

Sypha's the one to step forward and ask, "Do you have any plans to stop?"

Sârșe stares between them for what feels like several minutes. It's probably not even a whole minute of its own, but it sinks its teeth into him and drags. Her eyes look like empty wells, endless and awful.

"No," she says, still very calm.

"Told you," he mutters to Sypha. "When they're this far gone, they don't really listen to reason."

That draws Sârșe's attention. She snaps her head to look at him. Something even darker stirs in her dark eyes, moving and shifting, and they bite into him. He doesn't look away, but he wants to, because eyes like those see, and the brain behind them judges, and men are always found wanting in a gaze like that.

Found wanting and then turned into farm animals. And then potentially sold at fucking market day, to be slaughtered and eaten. Christ.

"Do you think yourself such a hero, Trevor Belmont?"`

He lets out a short bark of a laugh. "I helped kill fucking Dracula, sure. But what I was really doing was helping a man kill his own father. What kind of hero is that?"

She repeats the question back at him, emphasizing it. "What kind of hero is that, Trevor Belmont?"

"No kind at all," he replies.

And, for the first time, she smiles. It's terrible and pitying. "Will you kill fucking Sârșe? And if you do, what will you really have done?"

Sypha fields this one. "We'll have stopped animals that used to be people being sold and eaten by those who once knew them. You have to admit that's grotesque."

"I admit no such thing. They know who I am. They know the consequence of crossing me. They know what I bring to market day. They choose to buy from me regardless. Their business is no business of mine."

God, witch logic. It's all perfectly factual, but frustratingly circular in a way he can't put words to. A sort of pure, unfeeling truth that leaves no room for honesty or humanity. Infuriating.

"Yeah, done with you, now," Trevor says, and draws the Vampire Killer. Consecration is little good against witches except in their hands, but the Morningstar would be worse than useless.

Where's a rowan branch when you need one? Not that there would be a single rowan tree on this property; they would have all died the first time she took a piss here. Hell, if he were half the Belmont that Sypha thinks he is, he'd have a fucking pouch of salt on him, and he doesn't. Their salt is in the wagon with their goddamned cooking supplies.

Sypha conjures a ring of fire, driving away all the chickens and other animals from the farm, and Sârșe's eyes widen for a moment. She looks between them again, gaze darting from Sypha to Trevor, trying to determine if the Belmont or the fellow magician is the bigger threat.

She apparently decides on him, because she flings an arm out and tries to drag him toward her.

Trevor, more used to this sort of thing by now than he likes, drops forward. He lets himself fall, and feels the grip of the spell break as his weight pulls him away from it. His hands hit the ground first, and he pulls himself into a roll, coming up on one knee.

He lashes out with the whip, half-turning to improve its force as he lets his arm flow then jerks his wrist. The line sings out, tip whistling, and the metal end bites into her hand.

Her finger flies away, landing with a sort of wet, useless noise in the dirt.

Sârșe doesn't even scream. She just looks between her now maimed hand and the finger on the ground.

"That was very stupid," she says, somehow wholly unbothered by the fact that he just tore off part of her hand, a part she probably uses pretty often. She raises the same hand, even as it bleeds, and makes a curling gesture with her remaining fingers.

Once again something grips him, trying to pull him closer.

When she raises her other hand, Sypha slides sideways, colliding with one of the wooden fences. It cracks with the force she hits it at, splintering.

He's not thinking when he sends the whip out again. It's anger that drives him to it, and this time, he gets her in one of those tainted, blackened littlest fingers, and Sârșe screams. At first it's just a gurgling sound of pain, thin and high, like any woman might make when a man reached out and hurt her because he could.

But then it turns to something else. Something thick and strange sounding, that scratches at his ears and the air around him.

"I name you worm, that crawls in the dust," Sârșe says. "I name you dog, that licks his master's hand. I name you cock, that lords himself over nothing. I name you buck-goat, that ruts and farts, and I name you pig, that wallows in shit."

Absolutely no imagination on the woman. He supposes whatever demon she serves, or made a deal with, or whatever, has probably long eaten it. "People have really got to find worse things to call me."

Sârșe laughs. "What a strange worry," she says casually. "But needless. You'll call yourself all those things, in the end, and worse." And she raises both hands, and this time, she really does manage to pull him in, mostly because he lets her.

Once he's close, she smears her blood on his cheek and smiles that terrible, pitying, dark-eyed smile, and the empty wells of her eyes stare at him, judgmental, even as he sinks one of his knives into her throat.

He pays no attention to the witch's body after that. Instead, he runs for Sypha. She'd fallen among the splinters, and he doesn't even think about kneeling, about passing his hands over her to feel for blood, for anything sticking out or misplaced.

"Are you alright? That was some hit." And fuck him, his job is to be the one taking the hits. He still hasn't forgiven himself for the scars on her upper arm from their fight with Dracula.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she grumbles. "Help me up."

He does, splaying one hand under her back and supporting her under the elbow with his other hand. He hefts her up, taking most of her weight, and she stumbles a little as she rises. She leans heavily against him, and he lets her, wrapping one arm loosely around her shoulders. "You're sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she snaps, predictably irritated, and waves a hand at him. "Leave it be."

"Alright, alright, if you say so. And, well, she's dead. If we're lucky, some of these people might start turning back. Do we want to be here for that?" They probably should. He thinks his uncle would have. His father certainly would have.

#netflix castlevania #castlevania fic #wip wednesday #whip wednesday #trephacard #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #witchbottle

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brasskier · 3 years

Text

@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary: Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death.

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind.

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks.

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge.

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand.

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.”

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…”

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.”

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively.

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it.

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations.

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.”

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself.

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves.

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes.

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment.

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood.

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—”

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it.

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders.

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck.

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious.

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.”

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth.

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale.

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words.

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him.

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfic #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #tw suicide #jaskier whump #bad things happen bingo #brasskier does bthb

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sserpente · 4 years

Text

Ablaze

A/N: I just couldn’t help myself. 🔥

Words: 3010 Warnings: excessive excitement over two seconds of new Loki footage

“Where is he?”

“In the interrogation room, chained up.”

“Good.” Taking a deep breath, you finished your coffee and stood, gathering your documents in the process. This could now be the most important moment in your career—there was no time for failure.

Two days ago, when the TVA received reports of an unknown entity wreaking havoc within the multiverse lineages of the universe, their complaints had fallen on deaf ears. There had not been an incident for years—not until the sudden turmoil of an unrecorded timeline disaffiliating from 2012.

You were still unsure of the origins but it was clear that someone had meddled with the alternate timelines the Avengers had had to create to destroy Thanos. But the stones had all been returned to their receptive points in time, Steve Rogers had made sure of that.

They must have made a mistake somehow—and that mistake was, as of right now, waiting for you in the interrogation room.

It was still unclear how many timelines and universes Loki had travelled to and thrown into turmoil—what knowledge he had acquired and which was not his to possess. He was a dangerous force that needed to be taken care of.

Loki arrogantly lifted his chin when the metal door swished open and allowed you to enter. He was sat at the table in the middle of the dimly lit and otherwise empty room, wrists bound together with a pair of handcuffs equalling the technological progress of realms like, in this main timeline destroyed, Asgard—in your world, time was a relative thing, after all. Whatever tricks he could concoct, even he would be powerless against the shiny metal wrapped around his wrists.

His hair was shorter than you remembered it, his usual, intimidating Asgardian attire like you had seen it in various footage of the alien invasion of New York City, replaced with the prison clothes he had been given, leaving his arms bare.

“And what now?” He mused when he spotted you. “Are you here to question me, my dear? To bewitch me? No amount of sweet-talking will get me to comply with your pathetic schemes—whatever they might be.”

You eyed him mutely as you walked towards him, giving him time for his first words directed at your person to sink in. When you sat down, putting your documents on the empty table calmly, you cleared your throat seemingly unaffected.

“No schemes. What we would like to know is how you could escape our main timeline and create an alternate universe messing with the matrix of time and space, Loki.” You began straight away, relinquishing formalities and unnecessary introductions. The God of Mischief looked down, the hint of a mischievous smirk playing on the corners of his thin lips. He hummed before he spoke.

“It appears to be in human nature to thrive for knowledge and elucidation.” His expression hardened, smooth voice growing sharp. His blue eyes locked with yours. “Even if it is neither your affairs nor place to intervene.”

You had studied psychology in Edinburgh, back in the day. As far as Loki was concerned, you were an impenetrable, strong and fearless woman. Any weakness you revealed to him could be your downfall—and his triumph.

“Whatever the Avengers might or might not have done in order to restore the universe to its right order, they must have missed something, or someone.” You said matter-of-factly, forcing yourself to remain unfazed by the dangerous Trickster in front of you. “Given that at the time of their interference with both the mind and time stone back in 2012, it has come to our attention that another Infinity stone had been removed, opening up an alternate timeline the Avengers were—for some reason—unable to patch up and close.”

Loki raised his eyebrows innocently, responding nothing, however, his scrutinising blue eyes still held you captive in a highly concerning way… almost as if you were the one being questioned.

“The space stone. The Tesseract?” You probed, a hint of impatience in your voice. You had to keep your composure. Loki hummed once more.

“It must be truly devastating to know the Tesseract within your reach, unable to grasp it.” He remarked scornfully.

“We have no interest in the Tesseract.”

“No?”

“No. What we want is to undo the damage you have done—beginning with returning the Tesseract to its receptive timeline. As far as we are concerned, you should not even exist.”

The space stone was indeed a real problem. As long as your colleagues aimed to locate its whereabouts, Loki would keep the upper hand. You had a feeling they would be wasting both their energy and resources. He had it. You knew he had it. You just needed to prevent him from using it again.

“And yet here I am.” He mocked with a breathy voice, yet again lifting his chin; this time leaning back in his chair.

“And yet here you are,” you repeated. “You endanger the multiverse. Your existence threatens the very fragile fabric of our reality. We cannot let you wander about, regardless of your intentions… which is why we have to keep you prisoner until further notice.”

Loki’s face fell instantly, the sudden anger sparkling in his stunning blue eyes sending the startling sting of an adrenaline rush through your body. Stop. You were not Harleen Quinzel and he was not the Joker. Keep calm.

“I am done being imprisoned. I will not let a group of meagre mortals lock me away because they fear what I am capable of.”

“By the looks of it, you already have.” You retorted.

“You do not wish to incur my wrath.”

“I am willing to take that risk.”

He growled darkly, a menacing smile spreading on his lips as he paused. “I’m gonna burn this place to the ground.”

You scoffed. “If I took every prisoner’s threats at their word, I would not be sitting here right now.”

With a start, Loki shot forward, his fists colliding with the table surface and sending an ear-piercing bang through the empty room, making you flinch and back off.

“You should do well not to underestimate me, you mewling quim.” He spat through gritted teeth. “I am a God. You are all fools if you think you can keep me in custody. Consider this my final warning. Release me or you will face the consequences.”

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid.” You replied, fighting hard to hide the growing shaking in your voice. “I’m not a friend, Loki. But I am no police either. You have not been arrested for any of your crimes here on Earth but solely for attempting to… and succeeding in altering the past and the future. We can’t let that happen again.”

His growl was downright animalistic this time, paired with a menacing harrumph—he refrained from having the last word when you stood, collecting your documents to leave the interrogation room for good. As soon as the door fell shut behind you, you breathed out, tension and fear melting away from you with a start. One of your colleagues was already waiting for you outside.

“How did it go?”

“Terrible, as expected.” You stated, straightening your skirt with trembling fingers. The officer hummed in response.

“I say we give him to the authorities. SHIELD has yet to—“

“SHIELD?” You interrupted. “And what will you tell him, officer? As far as we are concerned, Loki was, as of 2012, taken back to Asgard to face the consequences of his actions. He is not their responsibility anymore. This Loki—wherever he came from—is our issue to deal with.”

A full week had gone by since your first encounter with the God of Mischief and you were still no closer to bringing the Tesseract in your possession. Loki was quiet—conspicuously so. Reports from the officers standing guard day in and out spoke of nothing but immobility on his part, for most of the time, he would simply sit on his bed and stare into nothingness, other times he would walk around in his cell like a tiger ready to pounce on his prey… always as if he was planning something.

You had no doubt that he was—which meant that you would have to return to the interrogation room before it was too late, have him brought there one more time and manipulate him into telling you everything you wished to know.

You had studied him, read countless reports on him in a desperate attempt to riddle him out. Loki was a master of magic. SHIELD agents had watched him catch an arrow mid-air, they had witnessed bullets bouncing off of him like rubber balls. Mind control as well as telekinesis and even transformation counted to his powers, he cast frighteningly real illusions, possessed the ability of teleportation and invisibility—not even to mention his supernatural strength, speed, and healing capabilities.

SHIELD might have been, with the Avengers’ help, a match for him but if he ever found a way to free himself from these shackles, you would certainly be no match for him. What was it he had said? It must be truly devastating to know the Tesseract within your reach, unable to grasp it.

A spell must have been concealing the Tesseract from you. Just how would you convince him to cave in? How much time did you have left? Who, after all, could guarantee the guards weren’t just seeing illusions every day?

Perhaps you should try a new strategy and meet him with honesty—even ask for his help, if necessary. If you told Loki what was at stake if you did not protect the very fabric of this complex net of universes tying into one another and life as both he and you knew it could be torn apart, would he relent?

Loki could become a valuable asset in your organisation, use his abilities, for once, for heroism instead of mischief. But would he truly be up for this proposal after your initial conversation?

You had too many questions you did not know the answer to. This ought to change. Tomorrow. For now, you would shut the world out and relax in your own for walls—it was the only way to stay sane working for TVA.

Already wearing your pyjamas, consisting of nothing more than a pair of way too revealing knickers and a black tank top tonight, you made yourself comfortable on the carpeted floor of the bedroom in your flat, grabbing the huge pillow as well as a mug of hot chocolate already waiting for you.

You reached for the remote control to switch on your TV, lazily zapping through the various channels in search for a good film to watch before going to bed when suddenly, a news channel caught your attention.

A brunette reporter, standing in front of a green screen showing footage of a collection of grey concrete buildings on fire, hurried to rattle off the words written on the monitor behind the camera. These… these were the TVA headquarters.

“The fire department assumes the fire was caused by a leaking gas pipe or oil tank, they preclude the possibility of a wilful action towards occupants of the building complex. Until now, the firefighters recovered twenty-two dead bodies, with a final number of deaths not yet confirmed. More than thirty-four people are still missing.”

“No… oh my God, please, no…” Squeezing your eyes shut, you took a few deep and controlled breaths to fend off a panic attack. This wasn’t real. Your headquarters were not on fire. You were dreaming, having a nightmare messing with your mind.

While the greater public had no idea this building was the base of TVA, that this place had become your second home… all of the research, all of the unique technical equipment, all of the documents harbouring records of the complex composition of the multiverse, all of the prisoners you kept from tearing apart your understanding of time… gone, turned to ash.

“Beautiful, is it not? Everything is ablaze.” You screeched, flinching away from the dark figure appearing right next to your cowering form at the foot of your bed and knocking over your mug in the process.

The pale light of the TV threw eerie shadows on his flawless face, supporting his mischievous and downright threatening gaze. You stumbled back on your hands and knees when Loki took a step forward, briefly eyeing the dark stain spreading on the carpet.

“Hmm, what was that, cocoa? I rather enjoy this Midgardian beverage.”

“You… how did you…” You stuttered, unable to form a functioning sentence. Fear replaced the blood pumping through your veins, your heart pounding at light speed. He was here. How had he even found you?

“Free myself?” He finished nonchalantly. “I warned you not to underestimate me, pet. And what would happen if you caged me like a curiosity.” He added with a dangerous growl.

“W-what… what do you want from me?”

Would he kill you? Take revenge on you for making him a prisoner? To think that only minutes ago, you had considered offering him your alliance… You could not deny the effect he had on your body, your mind, your entire being. It had all started in the interrogation room, when he had seemed to look directly into your soul with those stunning blue eyes of his… his attractiveness and sex appeal only made this worse. You did not want to fear him and yet, you were terrified. Could you possibly explain to him you had meant to return to him tomorrow, proposing him an alternative to a dull cell?

“First and foremost, I will need a place to stay.” Your eyes widened when he produced the handcuffs he had been shackled with seemingly out of thin air and fingered them thoughtfully. Your heart skipped a beat when his scrutinising gaze met yours, a mischievous smirk growing on his lips. “And you, my pet, have, during our little talk, proven to be quite the reliable source of information. I shall use that to my advantage.”

Unable to combat his unnatural speed, you gasped when he stroke and grabbed your wrists firmly, cuffing them together fast and effortlessly. The cold metal on your naked skin made you shiver.

“This is to ensure you don’t rush into mischiefs.” He explained mockingly. “It would be unwise to consider me a role model in your current position.”

“Loki…” You started, willing your voice to sound strong and determined. “You don’t have to do this. Please…”

The God of Mischief chuckled darkly. “Do I not? Now, I have important matters to attend to, my dear, and I can’t have you foiling my plans.” You gasped once more when he cupped your chin, albeit surprisingly tenderly, and forcing you to look him in the eye again. “It appears you are my prisoner now. If I were you, I would not hope for your pathetic little friends to come to your rescue. They are, as of right now, occupied with not burning alive.”

He released you then, moving away from you slowly and reaching for one of the pillows on your bed to shake it out to his liking. Only now did you notice how tired and worn-out he looked, like escaping and wreaking havoc in TVA’s headquarters had demanded all of his strength.

He must have known you were not in the building. How long, you wondered, had he been watching you? While you studied him… had he been studying you, too? What would become of you now? Harley Quinn? Panic rose in your body, making your stomach churn. If Loki truly planned to implant himself in your flat, using it as a hideout, you were all but lost.

Your life as a TVA agent was but a secret one. You had no friends outside of this organisation and barely still kept in touch with your family, if anything to protect them from potential threats. No one would ever find you. Your life was in Loki’s hands.

“Please… please, just don’t hurt me.” You pleaded, your voice barely a whisper. Loki paused, his blue eyes locking with yours once more. He almost seemed… taken aback by your silent confession.

“I have no intention of hurting you.” He said. Oddly, they felt like the most honest words he had spoken to you yet.

He threw the covers back, quite obviously feeling at home already.

You had forgotten you were still cowering on the floor, your arms immobilised by the magic handcuffs. Eyeing the bed longingly, Loki smirked when he noticed your inner struggle, if anything to point out how much he enjoyed having you shudder for fear and reverence before him.

“You are more than welcome to share the bed with me, pet. I will not relinquish the presence of warm female body next to mine as I rest and recover.”

Mutely, you shook your head. But what other choice did you have? To sleep on the hard floor with nothing but a pillow? Trembling, you rose to your feet as gracefully as you could muster with your hands cuffed together, slowly approaching the other side of the bed.

It took you a moment to nestle down, feeling Loki’s eyes on you with every move you made. You did not dare look at him again, fearing your heart would not be able to take it.

With a wave of his hand, Loki switched off the TV, drowning the bedroom in utter darkness, then, you felt the mattress sinking in directly next to you. Breathing heavily, you turned your back to him, curling up like a fetus.

“Good night, (Y/N).” Your heart jumped when he spoke your name with his smooth voice—you could practically hear his scornful smirk behind you. “Sweet dreams.”

There was something about his presence… something alluring. You bit your lower lip, forcing your eyes shut. I have no intention of hurting you. You believed him. Perhaps this was what scared you the most.

A/N: I am strongly tempted to write a Part II. I will need some time though.

EDIT: Well, here’s Part II then. xD

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

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thethrillof · 3 years

Note

Hollow Knight time travel AU except characters go into the future instead of the past?

oh no.

(this bounced between headcanon and funky plot summary, as these things tend 2 do for me......)

let’s handwave this as an extremely mcfucked up experiment with soul and void with the pale royals trying to look into the most likely (and, they hoped, best) future way too hard.

everyone pretends not to panic while noticing everyone is panicking from the instant they notice what’s around them. they start from the white palace being gone to the void being uncomfortably barely-contained to, ofc, the entire dead hallownest thing. they try so badly to reason with the shambling infected guards and rich bugs they find once they get to the city, even though they know it probably won’t work...and then the white lady and the pale king absolutely blast those infected into ashes. for safety! and, to everyone else who were dragged along for the ride, exceptional trauma and grief that both are not letting themselves process.

lurien and monomon and the great knights, including hollow are probably there...

...but it’s too early for herrah, who has agreed and has placed her terms but hasn’t finished the deal completely.

this is a blow to hornet--who definitely noticed the terrifying white light that flashed through half the damn kingdom--and she is...not quite as helpful as she could be beyond tersely explaining the situation once she investigates. just there and gone again, watching as she did the little ghost from her webs above to see what happens. in particular, if the pale king fails and flees again.

“the situation” is solely the infection, the pure vessel’s failure, and everybody’s deaths. she does not explain much about herself and absolutely nothing about the fact that other vessels exist and there’s a strong one running around right now.

the pale king takes the hollow knight not being hollow badly, of course. because it’s terrible, the plan failed, and...he knew, on some level, but had been so deep in desperate denial and arrogance that he didn’t allow himself to think it through. tries to interrogate them but it goes nowhere b/c they’ve been acting hollow for so long they don’t know how to just stop--

--and they’re also horribly wrecked by the knowledge they failed and getting to see the ruins of the kingdom they were meant to protect before seeing the kingdom as it was living. they never left the white palace before, and would not gain the full knowledge of it until they were sealed within the Egg with the World Sense as a final gift. so for a long time they’re barely listening to more than the most direct orders, like “look at us” and things like that.

lurien wants to lock himself in his tower; monomon wants to go to the archives; neither of them do this because it is terribly dangerous to split up. this ratchets the tension up further. there is a lot of bickering that, again, everyone pretends is not bickering and is just discussion, because they are all too dignified and have more important things to be paying attention to for something so petty.

this doesn’t last, of course. they are reasonable enough not to storm off into the helltrap the caverns are, but everyone just gets fucking angry and starts flinging accusations at each other. and hollow. not the pale king because he’s the pale king and creator, and not the white lady because she is the queen and powerful, but quite frankly they’re both accusing themselves internally and every word flung at hollow is the same to the pale king as at himself.

dryya is defending the white lady as doubting the whole plan without quite saying so directly. ze’mer is incredibly loud and goes so far into her own language that nobody really knows what she’s saying. hegemol wants to go patrol the city and keeps nearly going off on his own anyway. ogrim and isma try to settle them down and fail.

(above, hornet is suddenly far less shocked in hindsight about everything going to shit for the kingdom. her childhood memories were maybe too steeped in nostalgia when she allowed herself to consider them.)

they do end up in the Watcher’s Tower just to get a better look in the city after all the arguing burns out for a bit (and calls infected their way). lurien suddenly doesn’t want to stay there anyway, since it’s wrecked and there are bodies of his loyal servants and also possibly his own self, dreaming. nobody learns anything of value and everyone just gets more upset! just what they all need amirite

the pale king decides the thing to do is to go to the temple of the black egg for a direct investigation. sort of in denial but mostly just floundering. the white palace is gone and so is his workshop. he knows only he could have done that. everything he ever built is gone, in fact. it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense, he’s latching onto something.

the theme of “everyone knows something is wrong but won’t directly call it out” continues! nobody else really has better to do. monomon is the most optimistic and tries to think of this as a chance to study the infection further, which she says aloud. she sees this as a chance to study the hollow knight as well, which she does not.

it’s not that hard to get through hallownest, all things considered. this seems like a good thing until the realization sets in: it’s only easy-ish (for these gods and knights) because most of the worst of it has passed. most of the potential threats died a long time ago.

quirrel! quirrel quirrel quirrel. he shows up at some point and it’s definitely freaky because he knows monomon but doesn’t, and this is somewhat stressful. on the flipside his lack of memory and having her mask unsettles everyone but her greatly.

he doesn’t come with them. instead, he wrangles a promise from monomon and the rest to meet him at the archives (once they talk a bit and he remembers where they are) later to talk things through properly. he’ll see the kingdom as it is before discussing memories of how it once was.

the little knight gets a heads-up from hornet when she sees them nearly crossing the path of the pale court’s remains. she warns them away, specifically, but it’s their choice, and they choose to go look at them. they’re not at the level of knowledge yet to fully understand the significance, only that there’s a bunch of non-infected and hornet not challenging them to battle, but speaking to them? warning them? must be a huge deal.

can’t say all hell breaks loose once they show up. really, everyone freezes. more guilt for the royals! various degrees of dawning horror for the rest.

hollow finally reacts, if only to step closer. they remember the little knight. oh, they remember.

the little knight does not remember them, but it doesn’t matter. familiar enough. and some answers, potentially, if they stick together now. so that’s what they do--once everyone starts moving again, the knight is there too, though they go off to wander fairly often.

the egg reveals nothing. watching the vessel reveals what they should have known already--impurity, or rather, that they are people.

they end up in dirtmouth, where people still live, and try to plan further there.

the knight basically abducts hollow to explore the kingdom with them anyway, after that takes a while. waiting is not giving them answers and hollow will listen to them as long as they aren’t given contradicting orders, and the pale king is suddenly unable to do that!

hollow gets to learn to be a person, in their own little ways. it’s not easy, but being away from the rest and with a vessel that expresses themselves in minor-but-genuine gestures helps immensely.

hornet shows up also for Sibling Bonding even if is not intentional on her part.

the future white lady is visited, eventually, and that goes rough. she’s glad to see the pale king and the rest, sure, but she can do little to help. it’s disturbing for everyone else to see how she’s bound herself, and dryya is extremely messed up by the fact she is dead and the white lady was unaware.

monomon and quirrel run the archives, sort of. quirrel tends to disappear for a while. monomon insists she’s fine with it. she’s not, but she’s certainly not going to discourage or stop him.

for the travelers, there’s no way home. the white palace’s tools are too important. all they can do is...rip their way into the Black Egg and end the Radiance. the pale king takes this upon himself, once this is apparent.

and once he bonds (barely) with the little knight, anyway, and they let him know about the dream nail. this takes a while, but not that long. the hollow knight of now still exists, and suffers, and they can be united in hating that if nothing else.

they take her down together.

the void drags them down together.

the pale king’s light and the knight’s power over void is enough to drag them back. the little knight, the king, the hollow knight of now and the not-pure vessel of then, and...

...there’s no running away. nothing else left to do. the kingdom is still dead, if not still rotting.

calling them a family is definitely incorrect! but all of them end up with a bond, and mostly choose to stay in dirtmouth, retrieving helpful things that still exist in hallownest and planning improvements to make it a better, bigger place to live. a good town, if nowhere near a kingdom. that’s for the best.

#vivifrage

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awesomerextyphoon · 3 years

Text

A Warrior’s Heart

Prologue

Main Paring: Stucky x Black!OFC (Ifekerenma ‘Ife’)

Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, War Crimes, Corruption, Smut, Mentions of Anxiety, Depression, and possible Panic Attacks

Rating: 18+/Explicit

Word Count: 1,461

Summary: Ife didn’t mean to have her employers be the subject of a hostile takeover by Stark Industries. She just held up the city of Novi Grad long enough for the Avengers to defeat Ultron. So naturally, Tony finds and blackmails her into joining the team. No good deed goes unpunished, huh?

A/N: This is my first long form (12+ chapters) story. I’m including characters and/or aspects from Disney’s Atlantis: the Lost Empire, Lilo & Stitch, Big Hero 6, Gargoyles, Inuyasha, and Toriko. Furthermore, I will be including elements of Netflix MCU and Agent Carter as well. Special thanks goes to @jtargaryen18 for the title. Reposting on any site without my permission is strictly forbidden. Reblogs are welcomed! 😊

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Just keep the lie going.

That’s the line many of us have to repeat every day, and by us, I mean Non-Humans. Throughout history, humans have created myths and legends about us; some are true, others complete nonsense, but most are somewhere in between.

Let’s rewind a bit, okay?

Life on Earth lines up with most of what the textbooks say until about 5M BCE. Beings that would later be called gods and goddesses start to form with Mother Earth (the Amazing Gaea) as the focal point with other beings such as dragons, elves, and giants start to show two million years later.

The Celestials (sanctimonious assholes) came to Earth to see what’s happening after hearing about various fantastical anomalies (or that they were just bored). Gaea encouraged some (about 30K) of the human ancestors (Homo Erectus) to ‘the Space Gods’ direction. It took a few months, but they were able to create the species that later be known as Eternals. They also did some other shit but Gaea kicked them out when they wore out their welcome.

Around 200KBCE, the Kree (galactic genocidal nationalistic maniacs) happened upon a group of Eternals living on Uranus and traveled to Earth to ascertain whether other beings had similar potential. They experimented on a good number of early humans (about 150K survived) thus creating the first Inhumans (Inhomo Supremis). Several members of the Kree expedition tried to turn the Inhumans into weapons of the Kree Empire but were kicked off the planet by remaining Eternals and Non-Human factions.

Ten thousand years later (190KBCE), other early humans congregated around ‘magical hotspots’ which led to the births of the Homo Magi, Homo Superius, and Homo Animalis sub-species.

Soon after (okay, 15,000yrs later. Leave me alone.), the Mother Crystal (a semi-sentient comet, or Matag Yob) descended onto the island continent of Atlantis, imbuing the human inhabitants with longevity, knowledge, prosperity, and protection. At its height (around 55KBCE), Atlantis became the technological/cultural center on Earth (besides the Eternals).

It didn’t last long, though.

Five thousand years later (50KBCE), the first (and hopefully only) Pantheon War broke out. What exactly happened is lost to history (none of the people involved will fess up.), but what we do know is that shit went down.

Hard.

All that is known (admitted) is that almost all of the pantheons got into a Pantheon War (probably over some dumbass reason), a failed invasion by the Kree (really?), and the whole continent of Atlantis ‘sank’ into the sea in the span of three years (though some escaped).

Neat.

Fast-forward about 38K years (yeah, we’re making some jumps here) to the beginnings of the three most technologically advanced human nations of Earth: Wakanda, Sypavê, and Fetuilelagi; each with their own extraterrestrial metals/minerals.

Earth was pretty quiet until the ‘Christianity Dilemma’. So around 90CE, several ‘deities’ from the Greco-Roman, Norse, Germanic, and Celtic pantheons called for a Council of the Godheads’ to discuss ‘the ‘threat’ with Archangel Michael. It worked out well enough (no one wanted another Pantheon War).

Most of the world was in a pretty good state with a few ‘hiccups’ until the Bubonic Plague aka ‘The Black Death’ hit in 1346/7. It ravaged Eurasia and North Africa killing at least ½ the population and was seen as the start of non-belief in Europe. Worse, it was the beginning of Non-Human persecution and discrimination. You see, while the Black Death took out humans left and right, the worse a Non-Human got was a two-day flu. Many started to return to their respective realms once the Plague subsided and their once friendly neighbors started to accuse and persecute them.

The feeling of unease did not end but rather subsided. A tip from a Non-Human in Queen Isabella’s court alerted several groups in the Pre-Columbian Americas. Genocidal rapist, sex-trafficker, and all-around monster, Christopher Columbus does make it to the ‘New World’ (people were already there, dumbass) and devastated the indigenous population for centuries to come. By the time Columbus was executed in 1498, it was too late.

As many as 40 – 70% of the indigenous population was wiped out due to ‘virgin soil epidemics’ such as smallpox and influenza. Pantheons from negatively impacted areas called for a Council of the Godheads and demanded the ‘deities’ of the colonizers take action.

It went about as well as you’d think.

Earth was about to be embroiled in another Pantheon War until a few ‘level-headed’ individuals struck a bargain. No one was to interfere with human affairs whether it be good or ill. It was later amended to not have any ‘divine’ intervention (Sure). So by 1593, they had ‘bowed out’ of Earth affairs outside of their respective demi realms.

Outside of the matters of the ‘gods’, the rest of the world was dealing with its own problems. Tensions between humans and non-humans grew since the immediate aftermath of the Black Death. The Age of Enlightenment had started to pop up in intellectual circles across Europe around 1647. It focused on reason and free-thinking (Neat), but it also stoked up fear and anxiety towards Non-Humans (Boo!). Things came to a head in the 1670s. It got so bad that the Inter-Realm Parliament ordered all Non-Humans that weren’t exiled to return. They later founded the Bureau of Non-Human Affairs, BNA, in 1692 to deal with such matters in the future.

Two white-passing Non-Humans, Marcus Ashton and Jakob Schwartz founded Ashton & Schwartz Inc in 1809 along with a private partner. The company made waves in biomedical, chemical, agricultural, and climate science (they had to explain it to the populace) as well as pollution cleanup/prevention. One of their biggest inventions was a truly biodegradable plastic-like substance called biokivó̱tio or biokivo for short. The company made an even bigger impact with Non-Humans by solving issues pertaining to agriculture, large scale portal creation, and maintenance.

When the founders’ private partner decided to shut down the company in 1928, Ashton & Schwartz were a household name (especially since all major fossil fuel investments ended in 1900).

Barely ten years later and the threat of World War II rocked the planet to its core, especially the dropping of the Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The war Council went behind current President Henry Wallace’s back and had them done on the same day, August 7, 1945.

Well, that got everyone’s attention.

The Inter-Realm Parliament issued an edict that every one of ‘age’ (biologically 18+) would have to spend at least five consecutive years amongst the humans. It didn’t take long for BNA to lay the groundwork.

Wakanda, Sypavê, and Fetuilelagi (who will now be known as The Unconquered Alliance or UA.) saw this as a ‘we need to end this’ type of situation. Within three weeks of the bomb dropping, they formulated a plan and got to work kicking the colonizers out of Africa, starting with Belgian-colonized Congo (80% of the uranium used in the bombs were mined from there). They also made a deal with British-colonized India.

Once they were successful in their test run, The U.A. moved forward with similar models until they were to liberate the continent in 1955. Meanwhile, Sypavian forces kicked out most of the Nazis that fled to South America and ended US/European influence in Central and South America.

The United States tried to play it neutral until The UA (mainly Fetuilelagi) freed Hawai’i from US occupation in 1951. The war was sold as “We must fight to preserve our freedom!” (Keep telling yourselves that).

Once both South/Central America and Africa were liberated, other colonized nations asked for their aid. UA agents/dignitaries offered to relocate Black people from the Caribbean, Europe, and the United States. As many as five million African-Americans took the offer, including former Howling Commando, Gabe Jones. By then the US was clamping down domestically through the FBI and local/state police.

Irked by the knowledge that the UA had satellites, the US jumpstarted the Space Race (they had more than a few satellites, but good for you).

As with most wars, both sides partook in some ‘questionable actions’ (i.e. Syria, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Cambodia, and Laos).

The war climaxed in 1977 when a UA (Sypavian) agent discovered plans for a super-weapon in the US. A Special Ops team led by N’Jobu realized that the weapon was a mega bomb that would’ve wiped out the African Continent.

After weighing their options, The UA came to an agreement with BNA: BNA would gather their most powerful Homo Magi and cast a spell to erase the memory and evidence of the war from every human outside of the UA in exchange for letting some Non-Humans live openly in UA borders.

They shook on it, unaware of the chaos that would follow.

Next>>

---------

Taglist:@opheliadawnwalker3 @sherrybaby14 @stargazingfangirl18 @hevans-angel @threeminutesoflife @cockslut-padalecki @golden-ariess @sapphirescrolls @holylulusworld

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spnorwhatever · 2 years

Text

He set his jaw. Squared his shoulders. "Offer me the Orpheus deal," he said.

Silence. The entity regarded him impassively. A beat. Two. "The what?" it finally threw out airily, carelessly.

His jaw clicked. Don't play dumb. "The Orpheus deal," he unclenched his jaw to repeat. You know what it is.

The entity remained impassive. It made him wait.

"And why," it drawled out, "should I."

Games, of course. Games he didn’t have the patience for but which he would have to play. He swallowed down his impatience, for now.

“Because,” he stated, this side of a growl. “The gods demand it.”

He got the impression that the entity was laughing at him. “The gods,” it echoed, full of malicious mirth. “And what care I of gods? Rash human,” it spat out, “I hold dominion in this realm, where even God himself may not encroach, for all that he plays at trespass. I still remain ultimate here, no matter his wretched plays at conquest. So I ask you. What are your human demands, to me. No matter at whose behest you may think you come with.”

A beat. “Offer it to me,” he grit out between clenched teeth, “because you must. There is precedent.”

The faceless maw of the being in front of him seemed to, impossibly, darken. “Precedent, you say,” it enunciated mockingly. “If you think your precious little precedent is enough to-”

“Cut that crap,” he interrupted. “We both know this goes beyond you and your pissing match with Chuck. I’ve done my homework. The precedent spoken into being is cosmic. It’s governed by the very laws of the universe, primordial forces older than God, older than Chuck-- maybe even older than you. I say to you again. Offer me. The Orpheus deal.”

The empty seemed to shutter around him. But he knew - they both knew - that he was right, that he had already won himself a chance.

“Fine,” the entity conceded, settling down around itself. ”Be that as it may. But what do you bring, then, human, what is your gesture? Orpheus came with his song, so beautiful that it moved Death itself. And what do you come with.” It gave the impression of looking down its nose at him. “Threats?”

He should have expected that, given the lore. He should have and yet-- “I found you, didn’t I?” he finally said, gruffly. “Came where no mortal ever should. Is that not gesture enough.”

The emptiness seemed to regard him for a second. An eternity later, he thought he might have made the wrong choice, that he might have lost the precious chance he-- but then-- “Oh, all right, all right I get it,” it huffed out. “A man of action, you must think yourself. A red-blooded virulent man,” it mocked. “You must think your actions speak louder than any word ever could, yes, so why bother with words at all? Well, fine. Consider yourself lucky, I find myself willing to be entertained, this once.” A pause. “Well, run along then. Go and make your fateful ascent.”

He stared at it. A beat. Two. That was all? That was all he was getting? “The rules,” he stuttered out. “You. You have to tell me the rules.”

Only to be met with laughter. “Oh, no no no. I may have to follow precedent,” the entity hissed. “But nothing says I have to follow dear old Hades’ exact model. Oh, no, if I’m going to have to do this, then I will do this as I please. And I say, run along now. Go and play Orpheus. I’d say don’t bother me again, but if I’ve learned anything from watching your silly little spats with Chuck, as you call him, it’s that you Winchesters go where you please, rules be damned, let alone any cosmic consequences. But just remember,” it crooned darkly. “Per your precious precedent here, if you fail, then you lose him forever. And then, well. Good luck finding another precedent to loop your way around.”

The empty around him seemed to fold in itself and then collapse outward, expanding past the invisible horizon, the feeling of a path unfolding before him.

“And now,” the words crashed and echoed around him into cacophony, melting away at the edges. “Run along.”

He stared into the resulting nothing for a beat. Two-- then seemed to rally himself. He set his jaw. Squared his shoulders. And started walking.

(inspired by this post)

#txt #supernatural #destiel #castiel #dean winchester #also inspired vaguely by Hadestown at the time I think lmao I think when I wrote this I had started exploring Hadestown out of curiosity #and was in that kind of mood

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doubleshotofsomething · 3 years

Text

Come Into My Life

Part one Part two ---

Song Prompt: “Entra en mi vida” by Sin Bandera

Warnings: swearing. That’s it.

Author’s Note: so technology is finally cooperating with me. the remaining two parts will be out by midnight. which is in like...two hours here.

Summary: If the Horse won’t drink the koolaid. Then the Koolaid will drink the horse

“You seem to think this is something you can hide from.”

Part Three: Quiero que seas dueña de mi corazón

So...

Apparently...

The mountain decided to move out and stalk Muhammed.

Because, on your living room couch, sat the golden haired, blue eyed, mammoth of your self-proclaimed safety precaution.

"I hope you don't mind," Thor grins, hands stretched on the back of the couch. "I let myself in."

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Because, what the fuck?

"I used that bedroom window that you keep leaving unlocked."

You were on the penthouse floor of your apartment building. It was once owned by some millionaire that had trust issues when it came to banks, so their home security rivaled that of any Stark Industries offices. But then again, Stark Industries did create that security system.

So, you left your bedroom window unlocked. Because, unlike a certain ice capsule that slept through decades of technological advancements, you knew what a parachute looked like. You know, incase you needed to use a window on the top floor as an escape.

"I'm gonna pretend like I didn't just walk into my place, just to find you lounging around on my favourite couch, like you own the place--" You begin as you kick off your shoes. "--and then, I'm going to completely ignore the fact that your glorified knife is chilling on my coffee table, as if it contributed money when I was buying it. And then--"

"You're going to ignore my presence and hope I go away?" He cuts in, grin widening.

You glare. "You're a bad hair day on a work day piled up with meetings."

The grin falls off instantly and the purest look of confusion replaces it on his face. "Huh?"

"Get out of my house, Thunder Lord. I have super hero things to do." You sigh, taking off your coat and neatly folding it against the back of the chair.

You head into the kitchen, having expected him to be gone already, only to find him leaning against your fridge. Arms crossed and completely unmoving, Thor flashes you a grin.

"So--"

"--I said leave."

"I heard you," he nods. "Considered it for a moment, truly. But then, I recalled every attempt on your life since this world found out about you. I have to tell you, I had half a mind to take you away from this realm. Somewhere safer--"

He must have fallen and bumped his head, you're sure of it.

"--but this is your home. This is where you want to be and I could never hurt you like that. So, here I am." His grin widens, as if this is something to be proud of. "Your personal ironman suit. Here to stay, until all threats against you have been executed."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You mean eliminated."

He stares back. "No, executed. With an axe. Against the neck. Then they're head placed next to the external flame, or a spike, or hung on the walls of the living room--" he glances in the direction of said room. "--it could really use some colour."

"Hang on--" you blink. "--I think you're doing that thing again where you're telling me how to live my life and I tuned out. So, I might not have heard you correctly."

Sighing, Thor moves away from the fridge to stand in front of you. He gently cups your face in both hands, watching as your eyes widen -- because what the fuck? -- and gives you a gentle smile.

He knows you're not ready to hear what he has to say. He knows he can't force it all on you like this. But he can't sleep at night, not knowing if you actually made it to bed in one piece. And he can't always be there, watching over you, all the time. He'd love to, but he has work to do.

So, he chooses to grab the bull that you are by the horns. He chooses flight, over fight.

"I can have SHIELD agents following you, shadowing you, monitoring you every second of every day--" his thumb gently brushes your cheek. "--you know I can do it. You know there is nothing you can do to stop it. Or, you can accept the fact that I am your current security detail until further notice."

You must have had too much caffeine, because your heart just did a weird tap dance.

"Does Sam know about this?" You take a few steps back and push his hands away.

Thor chooses to ignore the way his chest tightened with those actions. "He said you're going to murder me in my sleep."

"Oh, so he was kind enough to warn you."

You had been expecting it.

The thought of an Avenger suddenly escorting you every where, or tailing you, had been something that crossed your mind. You knew, at some point, that Sam would get tired of your choice in security protocols.

You knew that Fury would consider you too much of a risk, to let you remain unsupervised. You were also aware of the fact that this 'deal' was his way of keeping an eye on the management of the company. The man didn't trust anyone, not even you. Not that you could blame him, it's not like you trusted him either.

So you kept all the assassination attempts, and occasional hostile take-overs, hidden. Even with Sam and Hope personally overseeing all security updates done at your home, you still managed to keep the death threats, attempts, that pressure plate bomb that found its way beneath your mattress, and the kidnapping attempts hidden.

If there was one thing you were Avenger-level good at, it was hiding things.

Not even Thor knew about all of them. And you were well aware of how hard that would be, considering how stalkery he has been since he witnessed you accidently hold that axe.

You expected this. Really, you did. What you didn’t expect, was him.

Thor. Odinson. God of Thunder. Pain in your ass. Bane of your existence. The bad side of all your jokes and jabs. That Thor, was the one assigned as your security detail.

“No, no-- Sam, you’re not listening.” You were late for a meeting, because the only hairdryer in your apartment had been considered a safety risk and was tossed out your bedroom window, and then struck -- midair -- by a lightning bolt.

“Sam, you asshole, listen. This idiot had the audacity to move himself into my apartment, make me take the stairs, invade all my meetings, rearrange my furniture--” your anger was getting stronger and stronger with everything you listed. “--he sits on my favourite couch, Sam. My couch. You know how hard it was for me to get that couch. You know--”

“I’m sure he’s just looking out for you--”

“The stairs! Sam, he is making me take the stairs!”

“I offered to carry you--” Thor adds from beside you. Unlike your practically-a-sprint jogging pace, your glorified Jarvis is casually strolling beside you, as you rush up the staircase to your office.

You choose to ignore him. “Give Bucky the phone. I wanna talk to him--”

“Y/N--”

“I just wanna apologise to him. Is that so wrong? I just want him to know that I’m sorry I used his arm to crack open his tub of ice cream. I just wanna tell him that I miss him and I’m ready to be the woman he needs--”

“I am not swapping Thor with Bucky.”

“But we’re in love!”

Thor scoffs, opening the door for you.”You don’t even know what that word means.”

You don’t get to hear what Sam says. Because you’re hurling your phone at Thor before you even realise it and, just like your hairdryer, a lightning bolt slices it apart before it reaches its target.

He sighs. “We need to work on your aim.”

Tags: @nekoannie-chan, @thorfanficwriter

#annie's500kittieswritingchallenge #annie's1stwritingchallenge #thor #thor x reader #thor fluff #thor fanfic #thor x you #avengers x reader #reader insert #x reader #x you #mcu #marvel writing challenge #thor masterlist #part3 #sam wilson #ghost

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imaginedhaven · 3 years

Text

Rules of Engagement: Chapter Ten

Link to Masterpost

This is the point in my outline where the story really starts to pick up. We’ve almost definitely reached the halfway point in terms of points I want to hit, and we’ll see if that corresponds to being halfway through actually writing as well lol.

But without further ado...

~*~*~

Aelin let out a dramatic sigh as she studied Captain Westfall’s face. “I don’t suppose there’s any convincing you that I simply have one of those faces, is there?”

“I saw you with my own eyes, Your Highness. There is not.”

“Very well,” Aelin replied. She leaned forward, inviting Captain Westfall closer into the room. “I do hope that what I’m about you can stay between us. It could be messy, and I don’t wish to implicate Dorian in any of this.”

“That’s why I came,” he said. “My duty in all of this is to protect the crown prince, and I need to know he’s not under threat from your… antics.”

“He’s not,” she declared. “It’s all rather embarrassing, actually. I fear one of my own countrymen has relocated to Rifthold and is beginning to cause trouble for you. He is an assassin and a trainer of assassins, loyal to no crown but that which is stamped on the coin he makes, and I fear he has overstepped his bounds. You may not be familiar with the name Arobynn Hamel, if your duties are mostly limited to the palace.”

Captain Westfall’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not a name with which I am familiar, no,” he admitted.

“My intelligence suggests that he owns a substantial interest in the Vaults,” Aelin revealed. “By making an appearance there under an assumed name, I hoped to attract his attention so that I could deal with him quietly, before he becomes a problem for Adarlan.”

“Is there a reason that I should believe you?” he asked.

Aelin grinned. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to believe me without evidence,” she purred as she reached for one of her bags and pulled out a few papers. “Here you will find copies of directives in his own hand that my agents in Orynth intercepted, as well as correspondence concerning his interest in the Vaults.” Of course, the agent had been Aelin herself, but Captain Westfall didn’t need to know how personal this was for her.

The captain reached for the papers, but Aelin held them up with a teasing grin. “Before I give these to you, I would like your word that this remains as quiet as possible. If Arobynn learns that there is a larger investigation I fear we’ll lose his trail. I’ve already lost him once.”

Aelin hid a wince at that last revelation. That was too much, too personal, and of course the captain noticed the slip immediately. “What is a crown princess doing trailing an assassin herself? Surely you have others to handle that.”

“Precious few I can trust, after an incident two years ago,” she replied, and she breathed an internal sigh of relief when he seemed to accept this. “When Prince Dorian invited me down to Rifthold to affirm our courtship, it was a perfect opportunity to finish this sorry business as well.”

Captain Westfall sighed. “If this investigation of yours endangers Dorian at all, it will gain the full attention of the guard. Until then, this information will be for my eyes only. That’s the best I can promise.”

“I understand, Captain Westfall, and I appreciate your discretion,” she smiled as she handed the papers over to him. He glanced at a few of them before tucking them away—to be more thoroughly examined later, she was certain. “If you have any questions, I am happy to share with you what I know. After all, my hope is that we deal with him quickly and quietly, before word can get out about what he’s been doing here.”

“If what you say is true, then it would appear that our interests are aligned in this matter,” the captain replied. “I’ll return in a few hours to escort you all to the evening meal.”

Without a further word, Captain Westfall let himself out of her rooms as quickly and quietly as he had let himself in.

A few minutes later her door opened again, and this time it was Rowan. “Is the captain going to be a problem?” he asked.

“If I said yes, would you help me deal with him?” She wouldn’t ask him to, of course, but she had to admit she was curious as to his response.

“In a heartbeat,” he replied, and she felt a thrill of surprise at his lack of hesitation. “I do feel I must advise it could cause political complications, however.”

Aelin smiled. “Luckily for politics, I think he’s on our side. He may even help us, though that remains to be seen. His focus was on making certain Dorian isn’t any part of it, and I intend that as well.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly as his gaze caught on her hand. “Speaking of the prince,” he said, “I may not be overly familiar with human courting customs. However, don’t rings usually come after the marriage?”

Aelin blinked, and then looked down at the plain gold band that was still around her thumb. “Oh. Yes, at least in Terrasen. Dorian said that in Adarlan there’s usually a gift given at the beginning, but he didn’t specify it had to be a ring. He said he chose this because it belonged to my ancestors.”

Rowan seemed unimpressed by this, but didn’t voice any further concerns. Instead, he stood. “For now, we’ll have to assume your new guard friend won’t actively assist us. I’ll circle the palace before the evening meal, and attempt to learn the patterns of castle security. There should be a weak point we can use to sneak out as needed.”

“And if there is, I trust you to find it,” she smiled. “And what of your days? I apologize, but I didn’t consider what you would do once you actually got here.”

Rowan’s eyes grew bright and his lips curled into a grin. “Oh, princess,” he drawled, “did you truly believe you could escape your training simply because you’re in another country?”

Before she could say a word in response he had already left, and she could swear she heard the sound of laughter as the door closed behind him.

~*~*~

Rowan’s amusement faded as he returned to his own room and saw a piece of paper sitting on his desk. The guardsman who had visited Aelin had come to him first and given it to him, saying it had arrived shortly before they did. The letter was unsigned, but the pulling sensation in his chest and the tingling at the base of his neck told him exactly who it was from and what it contained.

A quick glance at the dark seal confirmed his suspicions, and he wondered for a moment exactly how long he could delay reading the letter before the oath he had sworn deemed him to be in defiance of his queen. In the end, though, he decided it wouldn’t be worth it to test the limits of the blood oath on something such as delaying reading a letter.

A quick flick of one of his smaller knives broke the seal, revealing a short and unsigned note.

I have read the signs in response to your reports. Doranelle does not approve of the potential match between Aelin Galathynius and Dorian Havilliard. Do what you can to subtly discourage the continuation of this courtship, and notify me immediately if they decide to proceed despite my disapproval.

Rowan sighed, letting the note fall to the surface of the desk as he considered his options. The tug of the blood oath meant that he couldn’t ignore it altogether, but the command for subtlety granted him some leeway in how he chose to proceed.

It made sense to Rowan that Maeve would disapprove of the potential match. Aelin had a powerful fire gift, though he had done his best to downplay the full extent of her powers in his reports and instead focused on her lack of control. While he was uncertain if Maeve knew the gifts of the Havilliard prince, he knew it was entirely possible that she had foreseen something in their future that would indicate the extent of his raw magic. It was equally likely that she was basing her decision off of the knowledge that magic ran in the Havilliard line as strongly as it did in the Galathynius line. Without directly asking, it was impossible to know, and Rowan had absolutely no intention of asking.

Truth be told, Rowan wasn’t certain he approved of the match either, though he had no valid reason to feel one way or another about it. Perhaps it was the carranam bond that was so freshly forged between them that was causing him to feel so unsettled, or perhaps it was simply that no matter what he did he could still taste the wildfire of her blood. Whatever the reason, he had felt ice flood his veins when he had seen that flash of gold on her finger.

Rowan sighed. Even if their courtship failed for whatever reason, he still needed to deal with whatever this uncertainty was, and quickly. He would not be permitted to stay in Terrasen or in Adarlan indefinitely, and once he had deemed her training complete it was incredibly likely that he would never see her again. Likewise, he would not be able to get around the oath indefinitely by prolonging her training needlessly. Maeve would only send another of her blood-sworn to get a secondary report, and he would be punished all the worse for his defiance.

Gods knew he was already courting enough danger as it was.

Despite the dangerous game he found himself playing, he couldn’t bring himself to regret his decisions. The fire that burned in Aelin so brightly commanded loyalty and admiration from those close to her, and despite his best efforts he had found himself no exception. She was a bright spark compared to the sea of darkness in which he’d found himself adrift, and without him noticing a part of him had latched onto that brightness and didn’t want to let it go. She would be a great queen one day, with or without a consort at her side, and her brilliance only served to highlight the darkness of the queen he currently served.

It really was quite a mess in which he’d found himself, and he found himself longing for the insight of his companions and fellow blood-sworn. Fenrys and Connall would have been unlikely to have much insight; Fenrys had made his disdain of their situation well-known and would be in favor of any form of rebellion, while Connall was more soft-spoken and a better listener than advisor. Vaughan was similar to Connall in that regard, and unlikely to say much of anything. Lorcan…

Rowan snorted out a quiet laugh. Lorcan would have nothing but disdain for him and his current situation. He loved their queen and had spent centuries devoted to her, and would have little tolerance for what Rowan was doing to work around his oath.

Truly, the only one who might have insight worth considering was Gavriel, and Rowan was determined not to bring him into this mess. Matters were complicated enough already.

He had known immediately, of course, that Aedion was Gavriel’s son. Their scents were too similar to leave any doubt, but even without that Aedion’s parentage was evident in his features and in the strength of his heart. The corner of Rowan’s lips twitched into a brief smile; truly, only someone with Gavriel’s immense patience and devotion would have been able to remain by Aelin’s side for as long as Aedion had without questioning her once. What was less clear, though, was whether Gavriel had hidden him away or whether he was completely unaware he even had a son. Either was equally likely; his companion had never once mentioned a child, and it would’ve been incredibly dangerous for him to father one knowingly given his oath.

Whatever the story was, the only safe plan was to carefully avoid saying anything to either father or son, and to leave it out of his reports entirely and pray to whatever god chose to listen that Maeve didn’t ask him anything about Aelin’s cousin. That also meant not asking Gavriel for advice even if he thought there was a possibility his letter wouldn’t be intercepted. No, he was truly on his own.

With a sigh, Rowan carefully lit a candle and burned the note. Then he shifted and flew out of his window to observe the palace walls. Better to focus on the short term, since there was nothing he could do today that would solve his larger problems.

~*~*~

Lysandra let herself into Aelin’s room an hour before the evening meal was to be served, laughing when she saw the stack of books her friend had on her desk in addition to the one she was currently reading. “I see the prince wasted no time in trying to impress you,” she teased.

Aelin smiled and set her book aside. “These were waiting for me already when Dorian led us here. How’s Evangeline settling in?”

Lysandra smiled back, warmth coursing through her. “She’s sleeping right now. Still overwhelmed, I think. Aedion’s watching her.”

Though he had had no real reason to do so, Aedion had fully embraced caring for the young girl just as quickly as he had declared his intentions toward Lysandra herself. Although it had unnerved her when they had first met, she had come to admire his ability to love so fiercely so quickly. It was simply a part of who he was, just as her own need for independence as well as the uncertainty that had demanded he prove his intentions were a part of her.

Aelin’s smile softened. “You know, growing up with him I never thought I’d see my cousin in any kind of parental role. Not through any fault of his own, but he was always so dedicated to the crown and to being a soldier.” Dedicated to Aelin herself, although her friend did the courtesy of not saying as much. “I have to admit it suits him.”

“It truly does,” Lysandra agreed.

“So does this mean you’ve decided to accept him?”

The shifter laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t get to know before he does. I promised him that ages ago. Besides, you’re far more interesting right now than we are.”

“Oh?”

“You and Rowan seem to be close now, after that trip,” she grinned.

Aelin glanced down at her hands where they rested in her lap. “Well, I suppose we couldn’t try to kill each other forever,” she replied. “That would be boring, and I loathe boredom.”

“There’s a great deal of ground between not trying to kill each other and sneaking out together.” Lysandra watched as Aelin’s eyes widened briefly before she regained her composure. Her friend’s tells were subtle, but Lysandra was a master of reading people’s expressions. Her life and livelihood had depended on that skill for so long, after all. Now that skill allowed her to know Aelin was hiding something. “I know you didn’t want to tell Aedion, but…”

Aelin took a breath, carefully not looking at her. “I had some unfinished business,” she said simply.

Lysandra frowned. That was a look she hadn’t seen on Aelin since… “Oh, gods, this is about Sam.”

Aelin went perfectly still where she was sitting, and Lysandra immediately knew she was right. “But that was all in Orynth,” the shifter protested. “What could be happening here that you think is related?”

She watched as Aelin bit her lip thoughtfully, obviously trying to decide how much to share. “Sam wasn’t from Orynth, as you know,” she began. “His former employer is here in Rifthold, as is the person I believe gave the order for his death.”

Lysandra sighed. “I know you won’t tell me what’s going on,” she admitted. “Ever since you brought me into the palace, we haven’t talked about it at all, and I understand why. But does Rowan know what you’re leading him into?”

It wasn’t a lie, even though she could admit it upset her that her friend felt she couldn’t talk to anyone about this. Gods knew she had a difficult time talking about her own life those last few months on Orynth’s streets, and Aelin had gone through so much more.

As Lysandra watched, Aelin finally met her gaze. “Rowan knows everything,” she said simply.

Lysandra could feel her face transform into a shocked expression as her body went numb. “Everything?” she asked, voice sounding faint and distant to her own ears.

Aelin nodded. “I was… out, gathering evidence, and he found me. I explained everything.”

If Lysandra had come into this room with questions about the bond between Aelin and Rowan, that statement alone confirmed most of her suspicions. The only reason Lysandra herself knew about Sam was that she had met the two of them at the same time. For Aelin to have told this Fae warrior about her deceased lover, there must have been more than either of them were willing to admit. “And he didn’t drag you back to the palace and drop you in front of Aedion?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Aelin shook her head, smiling. “He offered to assist me in my investigations, and in bringing justice to the one responsible.”

“That’s what changed,” the shifter realized. “Isn’t it? That’s what made the two of you stop fighting as much as you did.”

“It is. We… reached an understanding.” Aelin glanced away again, a certain sign that she was still keeping secrets, but it appeared that rather than hiding her own secrets she was keeping Rowan’s safe.

Lysandra decided to allow it, but she had to warn her friend nonetheless. “You’ll have to tell Aedion eventually, you know. He’s worried for you.”

“I don’t want to lose his respect or his trust,” Aelin replied. “If he… if anyone found out about Sam, about what we were planning…”

Lysandra cut her off. “He loves you, Aelin. He’s your family. If anyone would understand, I would think it’d be him.” Even as she said the words, though, she realized that was precisely why Aelin felt as though she couldn’t tell him. Telling Rowan, as upsetting as it must have been, would’ve had fewer possible consequences than revealing something so important to someone who had always been so close.

To her credit, Aelin just smiled and shook her head before changing the subject entirely. “If I’m not mistaken, we have an evening meal to prepare for,” she grinned.

And so the two friends both moved to the closet of Aelin’s room, Lysandra choosing to let it go for now. She couldn’t help but wonder, though, how long this tenuous peace could last if Aelin opted to maintain her silence.

~*~*~

The next few weeks passed with only minor incidents, for which Rowan was grateful. His mornings were spent training Aelin further in her magic, focusing primarily on control while performing smaller tasks as he and Aelin both agreed that it would be disadvantageous to display the fullest extents of her power. They had found a small courtyard on their first morning in the palace and quickly learned to secure it, ensuring that no one could go near them and risk injury. If that also meant the court was on edge about the princess spending so much time alone with a currently-unmated Fae male, well, that only furthered his queen’s command to disrupt the potential of her union with Prince Dorian.

In the afternoons he worked on his reports to his queen, carefully selecting his words so that he was concealing as much as possible while still adhering to his oath as Aelin did whatever it was she normally did with the Havilliard prince. He also rested as much as he could, since his mornings were devoted to training Aelin and his nights…

Every night he and Aelin snuck out of the palace gates and into the slums of Rifthold, each time selecting a different location. Sometimes she brawled with cutthroats, others she bought and sold information like she was born to do it. Once, they had returned to the Vaults and started a barfight that left the entire building trashed and the safe in the office cracked open. As far as he was aware, the owners had decided they would be unable to recover their losses and simply closed down.

She had done all of that to catch the eye of the most dangerous man in Rifthold, and soon they would know whether their efforts had been worthwhile.

Rowan groaned at the sound of someone pounding on his door, hand scrubbing at his face as he stood. Despite his best efforts, he had slept terribly that night, and the noise only served to set him further on edge. He finally opened the door and dodged the fist that had been about to pound on it once more, completely unsurprised to find Aedion there.

The younger male’s eyes were wild and his hair a tangled mess, clear signs of his evident distress. “Is she with you?” he demanded.

Rowan simply shook his head, watching as Aedion’s face fell.

The warrior began to pace. “She’s not in her rooms. No one in the guard can find her, though I did ask their captain to be discreet and it’s possible they haven’t had a chance to look everywhere—”

Rowan decided to give him what little mercy he could. “I know where she is,” he revealed.

“Then you can take me to her, right?”

“No. She asked that I give her twenty-four hours before I send anyone looking.”

“What?” Confusion emanated from Aedion as he froze in his tracks.

Rowan sighed. “Fair warning, you’re not going to like it if I tell you.”

“I don’t care,” he insisted. “Tell me everything.”

“I can’t. Most of it is Aelin’s secret to keep, and not mine to tell.”

“Then tell me what you can!” Aedion demanded, grabbing Rowan’s shirt before realizing what he had done and backing off as Rowan snarled.

With another sigh, Rowan began to speak. “You’ll want to fetch the guard captain before we begin. I’m only saying this once.”

~*~*~

Aelin awoke in a cold and dark room, with no windows and multiple locks on the door. When she moved to inspect them, she stopped short when her wrists didn’t move with the rest of her. She was chained or otherwise bound, then, she realized as she fought the urge to panic.

Her boots had been taken away and she was left in a thin shirt and trousers, every knife she’d had on her presumably gone as well. As a test, she reached inward for her magic, wincing when she only found embers instead of the wildfire that usually lived within her. Iron, then. She was bound in iron.

As she continued to take stock of her situation she was relieved to find she was mostly unharmed. Her head still ached from the initial blow when she had been taken, and her shoulders and wrists were screaming at her current position, but there was nothing beyond what she had expected.

Aelin allowed herself a small smirk as she carefully rotated her wrists as much as she was able. It seemed phase one of her plan had gone off without a hitch.

Footsteps sounded outside her door, audible even to her currently-human ears. She had only seconds to decide how she was going to present herself, then. She carefully shifted back in the chair on which she was seated, grinning to herself as the chains slackened slightly, and crossed her unbound legs.

The door opened and Aelin closed her eyes briefly to allow herself a moment to adjust to the sudden light of a torch without flinching. When she opened them she saw a man closing the door behind himself. Either the locks were on the other side of the door or he wasn’t foolish enough to bar the way should he require assistance, for he ignored them completely.

The man wore expensive, though unadorned, clothing that was loose enough to allow him to move unrestricted. The material of his dark grey shirt was fine enough that it draped along muscled arms, all the way down to elegant hands. He had clearly carefully planned his outfit just as she would have, for the color perfectly offset the long auburn hair he had tied back. When he turned, silver eyes gleamed above high cheekbones in the light of the torch he carried.

“Celaena Sardothien,” he murmured, voice a low purr that barely held any trace of his former country of Terrasen. “What a pleasure to finally meet you at long last. Or perhaps I should call you Aelin, Your Highness?”

It was a calculated move, intended to unsettle her, but she had already expected that he would guess who she was once he looked closely enough. Instead, she flashed him an inviting smile and relaxed further into her chair. “Hello, Arobynn,” she drawled.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows

#rowaelin #haven writes #rules of engagement

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aboysbestfriendishismum · 3 years

Text

Chapter 58 - The deal, the name and the prince (Part One)

In the previous chapter: Angie meets Jerry outside the diner after work. He tells her he wrote some new songs he's not sure about and he convinces her to go and listen to the demo in his car. There are three tracks: one is for Andy Wood, one is for his dad and the 3rd one... we'll never know, 'cause Jerry stops the tape before the singing starts, apparently because the song's got something to do with her. Jerry opens up and vents with his ex girlfriend. Angie tells him that no matter what happened between them, she'll always be his friend and will be there for him when he needs her. Jerry takes her home and almost tries to kiss her but nothing happens. Angie's not so sure about the promise she made to Jerry and about her determination to always act as the good girl who does the right thing. Angie calls Eddie and they have a playful fight about her mysterious second name and the petname Eddie chooses for her. The situation escalates when Angie innocently tells Eddie she met Jerry. The singer gets mad at her on the phone. Meg tells her roommate her friend Jane from New York had called looking for her. Angie tenses up, leaves the apartment with an excuse and calls Jane from a payphone. Next morning Eddie apologizes to Angie and admits his jealousy issues and they make up. Eddie can feel she's hiding something but doesn't want to push.

***WARNING: THE BEGINNING MAY SOUND STRANGE AND YOU’LL WONDER IF YOU’RE READING THE RIGHT FIC. BUT IT’LL MAKE SENSE IN THE END, TRUST ME***

***

Kingdom of Talmaren, year X of the New Era

Prince Alexander ran the back of his hand across his mouth to clean off the blood that had just splattered on it. Luckily it wasn't his. The battle had left him exhausted and without strength but there was no time to rest: Basil was surely a warrior as good as merciless, and also a sadist and a pig. To see him reduced to a lifeless ragdoll, sprawled on the floor of his dark Lord's bedroom, would make most of the people of the West Lands breathe a sigh of relief. Anyway he was just the stupid lackey of that monster called Kaspar, who was still damn alive.

Kaspar, King of Talmaren, known as The Bloody, the man who, as soon as he ascended the throne, had started a war that had been dragging itself for almost ten years, and who had already destroyed five of the seven known kingdoms. Among them was Senaria, Alexander's homeland. Officially the war called for mere territorial expansion but it hid a totally different purpose. That purpose laid before the prince's frozen eyes and had the features, now almost unrecognizable, of the woman he loved, her arms chained to the iron bedpost of His Majesty's bed. Her legs had been let free, presumibly because, even if she had used them to defend herself, there wouldn't have been too much she could do. Coriliana's face was a shapeless mask of hair and dried blood, whereas her body showed a horrible veil of bruises. Except for a vulgar necklace of black stones he had never seen before, the young woman was completely naked. Alexander's eyes were focusing on her ample bosom, where he'd often found comfort after the battle, his mind clear of every thought, until he caught a glimpse of an imperceptible movement of the necklace. Up and down.

She was still alive.

There was no time either to celebrate or to take a breath and lick one's wounds, Alexander rushed to the bed and just went at the chains like a crazy person to break them. He kept calling her to try and wake her up from her painful slumber, mental shelter from the abuse of any kind Kaspar and his clique must have subjected her to in the latest weeks. Setting her free wasn't easy. He was striving with his sword trying to deliver effective blows but of course he had to be careful not to hurt his Coril. His... She wasn't his, she couldn't be, she was special, a future queen, actually a future goddess. She was on another level and that couldn't have been possible, not anymore. But his heart would have belonged to her and to her only, for ever.

Finally the chain that blocked her left wrist broke under Alexander's blade and her arm fell abruptly on the bed, also for the weight of the cuff and the piece of chain that remained attached.

Alexander went fot the other chain. On his knees on the bed, holding the sword with both hands, he hit the metal with rage until he broke that too, almost at the same moment the legitimate heir to the throne of Senaria felt something brushing against his hip and a tentative and weak squeeze. He stared at her for a moment, maybe Coril's eyes were still closed (who could tell from that mess) but her hand was looking for him. In that moment Alexander felt some relief, together with a deep shame: he hadn't seen Kos' future Queen for months, he couldn't remember how long it was since he had last held her in his arms, since he had tickled her body with his fingertips and his tongue, since he had pushed himself inside her. Now the woman he loved was there, lying naked right under him, and as he looked at her, although she was unconscious and ravaged for Kaspar's torture, he was ingloriously aroused.

He came to his senses almost immediately, tried to move Coril delicately until she was almost sat down, then he wrapped her in his woolen cloak. They had to be quick but he couldn't take her out of the castle like that, that would be humiliating for her. Furthermore the biting cold of Talmaren's winter could have worsened her already precarious conditions.

In a second he picked her upon his shoulders like a bundle and ran towards the door of the chamber of horrors. She seemed smaller to him, he had carried her many times and never as a dead weight and he had never felt her so light, so fragile. He walked fast, but warily, the large corridor. He slowed down when he thought he spotted a moving person's shadow, most likely a man, projected by a torch at the end of the passage, where the corridor turned to the right. He took his hand off his sword only when he recognized Gabriel, his younger brother. He sped up again and nodded at him. Gabriel froze and reciprocated, slightly lifting his head, then he noticed he had found her and gave him the signal the coast was clear. The whole situation was so spine-chilling that it was impossible to just believe that but Alexander could swear he saw a smile appear on his brother's face.

The small army led by Alexander had camped on the banks of the river Neeto. To avoid the patrolling, they had thought about crossing the forest to reach the castle. Along the way they had suddenly found themselves in a small clearing, showing up out of nowhere in the middle of the thick wood, and the Prince had decided to make it their base. The fortress was almost at an hour walk distance and Alexander thought that, for saving Coriliana, a silent attack in the middle of the night, with a bunch of knights getting in without attracting attention, would have been more effective than a siege. For the purpose he had chosen twenty men to follow him, Gabriel included, leaving the rest of the infantry at the clearing.

He was now cursing himself for that choice as he walked his way backwards through the path climbing down on the Zham Mountain, the base of Kaspar's residence, trying not to lose balance and fall in the void. He breathed a sigh of relief when the downhill finally ended and the wood appeared, until he figured out paying attention not to trip over exposed roots and to avoid being slapped by overhanging branches, and also being careful Coril wouldn't get hurt either, was equally difficult.

He thought back at the way his brother had looked at him when he told him he would have taken care of Coril. Gabriel would have covered for their escape, together with the other knights, and then looked for Kaspar's spouse. If everything had went according to their plans, a few threats would have been enough to make her say to them where her husband was. Gabriel had understood the orders and had taken his leave with a bow, but not before giving a poisonous look to the Prince. Alexander had to forget that woman, he knew it well, and he would have done it, there was no need for the others to remind him repeatedly. He would have taken one step back one day, he knew he was out of place in Coriliana's heart, but he had to take care of her first, make her feel better, prepare her to the future that awaited her. A future on command, which didn't include Senaria's Prince on her side, if not as an ally in the war against the Bloody Kaspar and his people.

The profecy was clear.

He heard the sound of water, the river Neeto was close. He recognized the signal his brother had traced on a tree trunk on their way to the fortress and turned left. He followed another direction and found himself on the waterfront. Suddenly he felt Coriliana moving and holding on to him as much as she could. He was considering stopping. He would have made her sit down for a while, then he'd have quickly run to the river to collect some water in his flask. Then he'd have rushed back to her and had her drink some, through small sips, and he'd have used the rest to wash the blood from her face and hair. Without wetting her too much obviously or she would have caught a fever in such a cold weather. He'd have reassured her, the camp was close. He'd have told her that it was over and that she'd be better, that those creepers wouldn't touch her anymore, that he'd kill Kaspar with his hands. Or he'd have just stayed with her, in silence, looking her in the eye as she drank. He slowed down as he thought of her plump, wet lips, when these softly brushed against his left cheek in a dry kiss and whispered:

“Gabriel”

Alexander felt his knees give way. Suddenly the burden on his shoulder seemed too heavy, it was crushing him, but he quickened his pace nevertheless. He didn't mind the branches hitting him on his face.

Now poison had a completely different taste.

God, I'm sorry Coriliana but you're such a bitch. I shake my head and chuckle as I turn the roller knob and remove the paper from the typewriter. There's really nothing to laugh about anyway. I live in a shitty apartment in New York, I look out any of the two only windows and all I can see are bricks. I'm single, I'm alone, I don't even have a cat because the landlord doesn't allow any pets. I hear a weird noise, like a ring. The phone? I don't even have a phone, every time I need to call someone I have to leave the house and walk up to the phone booth right in front of the chair shop at the end of the road. And by the way, what's with a shop that only sells chairs? I don't expect it to offer complete furniture sets but it could at least have stools, armchairs, tables too. No, you can only buy chairs at Planet Chair. Like the one I'm sittin on right now, which comes right from that fuckin' shop. I buy chairs at Planet Chair and write bullshit for a living. What have I become? From an aspiring Hollywood screenwriter to cheap romance writer tha-

I wake up with a jolt, sweating and panting.

“What the fuck” I comment my shitty dream aloud. Thanks a lot Morpheus, what the hell have I done to you? I let myself fall back down on the bed and take a few breaths. The fantasy part was interesting after all, and Prince Alexander was definitely something, also because he looked a lot like Eddie. I'd have gladly skipped the part about my eventually disgraced future though. The phone keeps ringing and for a minute I'm afraid I'm still in my terrible nightmare, then I realize it's my actual phone ringing. I stretch my hand across the nightstand and manage to grab the phone on the second attempt, after it fell on the floor the first time.

“Hello”

“Is it Friday yet?” the Prince's, ehm, I mean Eddie's voice brings me back to another kind of dream.

“No, Eddie” I instinctively answer with a yawn, following the unwritten script of our recent favourite game.

“Hehehe what do you mean no? Today, it is!”

“What?” I feel I'm waking up completely, even though I don't want to. 'Cause I think that if I put some effort, I could close my eyes, fall back asleep, pick up the dream where I left off and quickly get to the point when that Coril bitch dies and Alex is alone and ready to be comforted by someone, who could be anyone. Like the farmer's daughter, who's like the exact replica of me but hot, skinny, blue-eyed and with straight teeth. Nobody had straight teeth in the Middle Age anyway though. There were no braces. There were no dentists either. It was a miracle if they got to their forties and still had like four teeth in their mouths. It was a miracle if they got to their forties.

“Are you still asleep? It's Friday, for real”

“Not really. What time is it?” I can understand why Eddie's impatient, especially after our little fight the other night, but I had no idea he'd go as far as calling in the middle of the night to celebrate the date.

“It's eight o'clock. Sorry if I woke you up, I thougt you were awake for a while now. Don't you have class this morning? I thought it was the last day before...”

“WHAT?! EIGHT O'CLOCK?” my braincells wake up all together as soon as they realise the alarm clock didn't work and I'm late. A quite unique occurence. I mean it's very unlikely for me to forget about setting the alarm and, even if it happens, it's impossible for me not to automatically wake up on time all the same. Panic is so immediate that I get up, grab random clothes and rush to the bathroom cursing under my breath. After five minutes at least I realize I forgot something. I run back to my bedroom and look for the phone. Can't find it. Then I go straight to the bathroom once again and right in the middle of the pile of clothes I retrieve the cordless phone “Are you still there?”

“Yes, you know I love listening to you on the phone”

“You haven't heard much I guess, except for a lot of curse words”

“Uhm not that many”

“And the sound of me brushing my teeth”

“And peeing”

“EDDIE!” the hair band I was using to put my hair up slips from my hands and is shot in space like a bullet, ending who knows where.

“Uh I heard that too, it's not my fault”

“GOD THAT'S SO EMBARRASSING!” I cover my face with my hand, as if Eddie could see me.

“That's real intimacy”

“Couldn't you just hang up?” I whine as I'm scanning the bathroom's floor looking for my hairband.

“Nuh, the live commentary of your madness was too entertaining, kitty”

“Well kitty here is not entertained at all” ok, if I start using this pet name too, I'm screwed.

“Come on, it's not that bad”

“Kitty is very embarrassed now”

“I can fart on the phone if you want, that makes us even and you don't need to be embarrassed anymore”

“Hahahaha fuck you, Eddie!” I insult him when I finally find the hairband, right on the radiator.

“Anyway, I'm seriously shocked: you forget things too, you know, like us mortals”

“See? Things can go beyond my control too”

“Wow, you're human”

“Anyway, I gotta go now, 'cause the human being here is extra-late and has to take a shower”

“Does it bother you if I follow that one live as well?”

“Why? Does the sound of water relax you too?” I pass the phone from one hand to the other as I take off my pyjama top and throw it into the pile of dirty clothes.

“Yeah, that's exactly what I'm interested in. Running water. It's not like I think about you naked in the shower or anything”

“Come on, I can't stay on the phone, I gotta go” I'm thinking of a long list of jokes about Eddie's horrible taste but I have no will or time to make him upset so early in the morning. Well, early... it's already past eight. Past. I take off my pants and kick them in the laundry basket.

“You know you could have brushed your teeth directly in the shower to spare some precious minutes? You're clearly a newbie at being late”

“And I hope I'll stay a newbie. I'll call you after lunch, ok?”

“Ok... Wind?” I stand up straight and the panties I was taking off remain rolled up around my knees.

“...”

“Angie?”

“Uh...” I look around, lost and uncomfortable, as if I found myself suddenly naked in front of Eddie. And after all, that's the way it is.

“WAIT, DID I GET IT RIGHT??”

“Almost”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ALMOST? AM I RIGHT OR NOT?”

“You are... half right” I finally remove all my clothes and take a towel.

“Half?”

“I'll tell you later, gotta go now” I get into the bath tub and place the towel on the stool right next to it.

“Later my ass, tell me now”

“It's half the name” I'm standing in the tub, late, phone in one hand and showerhead in the other, can't we just postpone this conversation?

“So you're WindSomething? Or SomethingWind?”

“Exactly”

“Exactly what? First or second one?”

“Later Ed, byeee”

“OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, ANGIE?!”

********************************************************************************************************************************

“Thank you, huh? Goodbye, sir!” I address my greetings right at the back of the guy who's just bought a carton of Pall Mall Extra Mild smokes and left without saying a word to me. I can understand someone may not be in the mood for talking, socializing or interacting like a human being from time to time. And I'm the flag bearer of the idea that you can't judge the others, especially strangers, because you have no idea what shit they're going through. But, even in my darkest moments, I never forgot to say good morning or thank you to the shop assistant, the waiter or the check-out girl. Cause these people are already working shitty jobs, exploited and underpaid, and shouldn't be deprived of their dignity as well. And by the way, I'm pretty sure being kind is free. This customer must have had a really terrible day though because he doesn't reply to me and almost doesn't notice the person who's getting into the mini market at the same time, barely avoiding a collision.

“Hey, watch where you're going!” as soon as I hear him cussing at the cigarette guy, I look up to his face and now it's me colliding with a pair of keen green eyes.

“You showed up early Stone, your girlfriend gets off in half an hour” Hannigan talks to him before me, as I'm occupied nibbling on a hangnail on my thumb.

“Uhm can't we make it a little sooner? We've got soundcheck at seven” Stone looks at the clock on the wall right behind me and adjusts the Chicago White Sox cap on his head, the one he wears every time he wants to piss Eddie off a little. That means at every show.

“Oh wow, Grace, I didn't know you were part of the band too, what do you play?”

“Grace is not part of the band. She plays... me, she gently strokes the strings of my heart, music that gets my soul vibrating.” Stone keeps talking with my boss like I wasn't here but I'm not upset, the thing actually amuses me. It's like I'm watching an episode of The Muppet's Show, that is more or less the way I feel every time Stone talks to someone about me “And if I can't vibrate, I can't perform”

“If Grace performs in labelling cereal and stocking the shelves up, I'll let you go vibrating wherever you want, ok?” the boss talks about me in third person too, as if I wasn't present, and at this point I finally have a reaction.

“Ok, thanks. I'll do it immediately” I check my thumb to make sure I didn't bite it all off together with the hangnail as I leave to go to the storage room.

Stone. What the hell are you doing here, Stone? Well, I know what you're doing here but what I'm asking is... how? I mean, you disappear for days, to let everything I told you sink in. And it's not like I wanna blame you for that, I understand you. But what about now? You show up just like that, like nothing happened, to take me to the show? Without asking me first? You didn't even ask me if I wanted to go, if I have something else to do. You basically didn't speak to me. Your heart... I'd rather make your teeth vibrate hitting you with the price gun instead!

“Do you need help?” I turn around when I hear his voice and I'm this close to making my previous fantasy come true.

“No, thanks” I set the correct price and start labelling the boxes.

“Don't you have another of those tools? Ok wait, I'll line them up for you, so you'll make them faster.” Stone starts piling up the boxes all in the same verse, so as to make it easier for me. Once he stacks three piles, he walks away and comes back in a minute with two empty cartons, where he puts the already priced cereal boxes.

“Why are you better than me at my job?” I'd want to tell him with a frown, an arrogant tone, a pissed off mood. But in the end, I tell him smiling because I missed him and I'm happy he's here. Because if he's here, it means everything's alright. Or not?

“I'm just better at organizing, that's it.” he shrugs and gives me the kiss I've been waiting for since I saw him on the door, while his hand crawls along my arm until he steals my pricing gun “Go refill the shelves, I'll go on here”

“Ok, boss”

“What happened now? Did Hannigan make you label the whole storage room? You should have been faster, I taught you the method” Stone comments on me being late as I get into his car.

“Sorry, I had to get myself ready somehow. If I had known before, I'd have left my apartment looking more presentable” I go on as I check my eyeliner work in the wing mirror.

“What does it mean if I had known before? I've been telling you about this show for weeks” Stone looks surprised and I can't understand if he's really stupid or just acts like one.

“I knew about the concert, I didn't know if you wanted me there...”

“The fuck are you talking about? We also agreed you'd come to the soundcheck too”

“Yeah, but we agreed on that before...”

“Before?” so you're just gonna play dumb and act as if nothing happened?

“Before our talk. You know, the talk...”

“So what? The talk didn't change anything”

“No?”

“Of course not, I don't think that the Ok Hotel has a policy of prohibiting entry to people with prosthetics” so the answer to my previous question to myself is that you are stupid. Because, even if you're doing it on purpose, you do that because this is what you are: a jerk.

“And between us?”

“We didn't set up any policy between us”

“Did the talk change anything between us?” the only way to interact with Stone in cases like this is ignoring what he's saying and following your logical train of thoughts, waiting for him to consider you worth talking to for real.

“No, why?” he snorts because this time he has to answer seriously.

“Well, I don't know, you ghosted out for days, I haven't heard anything from you”

“I was busy, you know that-”

“Don't fuck with me, Stone, you clearly said you needed time to make up your mind”

“Well if you knew, then there was nothing to worry about, right?” Stone smiles and thinks he can solve everything with a shrug and turning on the radio. But he's so wrong.

“So?” I ask him turning off the stereo and earning a surprised look from him.

“So what?”

“Did you make up your mind?”

“Yep”

“And?”

“And now... my mind's made up” has he become a man of few words all of a sudden??

“And couldn't you shed some light into my mind too, please?” I'll light him up too, after showering him with gasoline, if he doesn't stop acting like this.

“Do we have to do it right now? I got the show tonight and a lot on my mind ri-” I don't even let him finish talking and I've already unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the car door, since we're at a stop sign “Where do you think you're going now?”

“I'm going home, see you when your mind's free” I reply as I shut the door and walk towards the closest bus stop, while Stone drives beside me slow with the window open.

“Grace, get back in the car, come on”

“I'll get back if you're talking, if you're not I'll pass” I answer as the other upcoming cars honk at and overtake him, yelling swears at him.

“Ok, I'll talk, just get in”

“I don't know” he could be much more convinced and convincing than this, if only he wanted to.

“Ok, OK!” Stone stops and turns off the engine, puts on the hazard lights and gets out of the car. He then walks past me towards the bus stop and sits down on the bench “So? Didn't you want to talk? Come here, let's talk” he pats the room beside him gesturing for me to join and sit with him.

“You're the one who's got something to say, I already told you what I had to tell you. And I understand it's something hard to digest, believe me, I do. But I'm also expecting at least some kind of honesty from your side. I mean, ok, you're here so I guess you wanna keep this thing with me going but-”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You guess? Did you have any doubts about that?” I'm slowly getting to the bench when Stone tugs at my arm and makes me sit down not so gently.

“Well, you said you needed time to think”

“To think about what a dick I was. About how many times I hurt you without knowing, maybe on that same night, using the wrong words or looking at you the wrong way, over- or under-reacting. To think about how much you trust me, how much must this relationship matter to you if you decided to tell me, about how long you must have pondered the way to do it and the timing. To think about what I can do to make you understand that it matters to me just as much and that I trust you the same way. To think about treating you differently and treating you exactly the same at the same time, not changing anything at all and being the usual asshole. To think about what I can give to you in this relationship that is just as significant, how I can help you, or at least understand you, what my added value is in all this. To think about how I can be close to you in this situation, but without bothering you. About how I can find the right key. Oh and I think I found it, you know? That's what I thought about, well, part of that, I thought about a lot of things, but questioning being with you or not wasn't one of them, I never had doubts about it, not even for a second, you can be sure about that”

“Ah” ok he found his words.

“Ah? I said like a million words and you were the one who wanted to talk and ah is all you got?”

“And what is it?” now I'm the one without words. Well, I got four.

“What is what? Ah?”

“The key, you found”

“Oh that. Well, Gaby Pearce”

“Who?”

“My nemesis in third grade”

“Uh, little Stone had a crush!” I have no idea where he's going with this but thinking about baby Stone instantly puts a smile on my face.

“No no, the story's not about little boys pulling girls' pigtails on playgrounds because they're in love, we used to really hate each other. Actually Gaby tried to kill me”

“What?”

“She actively pushed me off the swing at recess”

“Hahaha maybe it was about little girls kicking boys in their asses because they're in love”

“Well, she must have loved me a lot since she gave me a severe head trauma and I spent almost one month in the hospital, plus two of rehabilitation treatments”

“WHAT?”

“Yeah, that sucked. When my mother arrived at Virginia Mason's Hospital she was devastated, she saw me awake and ran to hug me. I looked at her and called her Bread. She fainted”

“Bread?”

“I don't know if this thing has a name, I was too young then and didn't ask later, the concussion had damaged the part of the brain that is responsible for language and speech. I could understand everything and could perfectly talk, but the things I said made no sense. I couldn't remember the name of the things sometimes or I could and I thought about a word but then I opened my mouth and a totally different one would come out”

“Bread”

“Right. Two months with a speech therapist to get back to the way I was. Well, even better than before actually! And thank God because you can only imagine someone like me not being able to talk”

“I can, it's like taking the oxygene away from you basically”

“Hehe exactly. Anyway, it all went well, it was only a temporary thing and I had no consequences at all”

“That's what you think” I joke to release the tension and I'm happy I can see my smirk mirrored by Stone.

“Hey, you can't joke about things like that!” he shoves me playfully than pulls me closer to him on the bench.

“Who says that? I remind you that I only have one foot, I basically have a free pass for cruel socially unacceptable jokes”

“Oh is that so?”

“Yeah, and since you have a sad little story from your past too, you have the permission to make fun of me as well and take it easy. This is the key, right?”

“Oh my god, no! You're way off, I'm not that cynical, shame on you!” Stone pushes me away again and he's laughing but I'm feeling disoriented for real.

“What is it then?”

“It's that I know what it means to start again from zero, Gracie. I don't wanna brag but I'm pretty sure only few people understand what it means to have to go through the process of learning to do basic things again from scratch. Walking and moving for you, talking for me. 'Cause I was much younger than you and I forgot a lot of it but I didn't forget the struggle. And frustration. Very few people know what it means to push yourself out of your comfort zone to achieve goals. Do you know I had just started playing the guitar? I had to start it all over too because apparently the left part of my brain went one way and the right one went the opposite direction and I found out the hard way this is not good when you have to play a fucking instrument”

“It seems to me that you recovered great” I take his hands while he's mimicking some sort of air guitar and rub his long fingers one by one with my thumb.

“Yes but I had to work my ass off, not as much as you of course, but it wasn't easy. Well no, I'm talking shit right now, it was easy after all but only because I decided it had to be, I decided I could do anything and I made it. I just had to understand when I could push myself and when I had to lower the bar a couple of inches and I did. I understood, I learned. And by saying this I don't mean to justify myself for being a fucking control freak perfectionist, but still” Stone laces his fingers with mine and opens his arms, as to say Here I am, I am like this, this is what I'm offering you. And I couldn't ask for more.

“I'm not a perfect perfectionist though”

“And you're perfect like this. I won't pretend to grasp everything about you, also because you're batshit crazy, but I understand the scheme of thought that's behind this thing, this part of you. I can tell when I can push you and when I must lower the bar, and you can do the same with me. I know what it means to follow your guts even when the others tell you to do the opposite, maybe even for your good. And I think you can understand it too, I mean, I'm sure you can. And it's extremely important to me. Because nobody in my life has ever been able to tell the difference between when I'm stubborn only for the sake of it, because I like it or because I just wanna show that I'm right, and when I'm actually pushing myself to achieve a real goal”

“Between being stubborn and being determined”

“See? You understand! Since I took back my guitar as a child, I never stopped. Never. I didn't stop when Green River split. I didn't when Andy died. I didn't when my dad suggested me to go back to college. And now it's my job and it'll always be. And it's not about fame, Mark Arm can say whatever the fuck he wants, I wanna do it because, of all the things I can do, and let me tell you, they are many, music is the one I'm better at”

“Uhm... you're pretty good at presumption too” he's good at everything, especially with me.

“I like to call it confidence. Or simply awareness”

“Are you aware that after this conversation I won't ever leave you because I'll never find another man who can talk to me like this?”

“Do you think I raised the bar too high?”

“Try and lower it and I'll kill you”

“Ok, let's go now, I'm late to soundcheck and Jeff must be making a scene already” Stone smiles and stands up, inviting me to follow him.

“Does Jeff know? I mean, about your accident as a kid...”

“Nuh, nobody knows, except for my family. And that Gaby bitch. Do you know she never even apologized?”

“From then on, I would have started to call her Bitch instead of using her name, blaming the trauma for that”

“You... are... a fucking evil genius! Fuck. Why didn't I come up with that? And most of all, where the hell where you in 1975 if not in my life?” Stone stops a few steps from the car, turns around and hugs me tight.

“Kenosha, Wisconsin”

“Oh. Shit. That changes everything though. Err... I don't know if I can be with someone from Wisconsin, no offence but I don't think I can make it” he lets go of me abruptly and gets into the car fast.

“Sorry if I didn't tell you this dirty secret of mine before, I was worried you'd take it bad” I get in the car too and I can't help following him in this new stupid joke, as always.

“And you were worried for a reason. But we can still be friends if you want”

“Start the car, Stone” following him but without getting lost.

“We can go badger hunting sometimes, if you want to”

“I love you” following him everywhere.

“Even though I can't tell a badger from a raccoon?”

“I'll teach you”

“In that case, I love you too”

********************************************************************************************************************************

When I talk to Angie on the phone in the early afternoon I manage to convince her to go to the Ok Hotel with me and the guys so she could be there for the soundcheck too. But I can't make her tell me her fucking name.

“Ok, it must be Windsomething because you're Angelina W. Pacifico, so it starts with W” I tell her as soon as she comes out of the apartment building.

“Hello to you too, Eddie”

“Windflower? Or Windchill?” I kiss her and ask her pretending to shiver but not pretending much since the late afternoon air is quite frisky.

“No and no” she answers after rolling her eyes. I kiss her again and she looks around, kind of subtly so I don't notice. But she should know I notice everything.

“They're in the van waiting for us. And it's Friday anyway, right?” I smile and kiss her once more and she looks a little less tense this time.

“Yeah, you're right” she smiles one of her killer smiles and puts her hand against my cheek before kissing me back.

“Windstorm” I ask, looking up soon after, trying to understand the weather.

“No. And now shut up because if you tell this to the guys too, you're dead.” she straightens up the collar of my jacket and takes me by the hand “Where to?”

“Down there, after the bowling place, round the corner... Windsurf”

“Hahaha no! Shut up!” she shakes her head and crosses the street with me, keeping her eyes on the van. And although she doesn't say anything and tries to dissimulate, I know in her head she's calculating angle and perspective to try and figure out if they could have seen us kiss. By the way, I already did the maths in the meantime and they must have seen us for sure.

“Ok but you'll tell me later, won't you?”

“Yes. If you get to deserve it”

Once we get right outside the van we see Mike and Jeff sitting on the front, both turned towards Dave, who's sitting in the middle between them, apparently very focused on their conversation. So focused they don't give a fuck about us. They must be talking about us and didn't notice we're right here. I can only imagine their reaction as soon as I'll open the door and-

“Come on, Lynch is a genius” uhm, no, I guess they're talking about something else.

“Lynch is a genius but he's clearly fuckin' with all of us, can't you see it?” Mike retorts at Jeff's claim shaking his head.

“That scene seemed perfectly in keeping with the show. That guy is in direct contact with another world, his art is full of what-the-fuck-have-I-just-watched moments” Dave tries to mediate but it looks like he's not doing a good job.

“A knob? A fuckin' drawer knob??” McCready explodes, startling both Angie and I. We look at each other at the same time, she seems amused, I must look perplexed.

“Hahaha I like the fact that of all the nonsense stuff like the Giant, the Log Lady, the owls, the man in the smiling bag, the one-armed guy, the Man from another place... the knob's the thing that pisses you off the most!” Jeff chuckles adjusting the hat on his head.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I chime in the conversation and let our friends finally acknowledge our presence, since they weren't giving a fuck about us yet.

“Josie's death, in the latest episode” Angie replies instead of my band mates, who barely turn around to look at us.

“When Cooper arrived, she looked asleep” the drummer starts to explain.

“But she wasn't and had just killed a guy” Jeff adds.

“But the guy didn't die immediately, you know, he got out of bed and took a short walk before” Mike jokes, looking for my support, while the other two keep on adding details about the plot alternatively.

“And she confessed she had killed other people too”

“Then it looked like she was about to disappear”

“But she didn't”

“But it looked like”

“But she passed out”

“She fell back on the bed and she was dead”

“Then she and the sheriff disappeared, a spotlight from out of nowhere projected light on agent Cooper and that's when the what-the-fuck moment started”

“Bob came out from under the bed making all his Bob noises and moves and shit”

“And he looked very pleased with himself for his interpretation, let me tell ya”

“But he disappeared soon too and who showed up next?”

“The fuckin' Man from another fuckin' place” Mike gets into the back-and-forth banter.

“And what did he do? What he's better at”

“He started to randomly dance on the bed”

“He did his fuckin' dance” it's once again 'Cready showing his little admiration for the character.

“Then disappeared”

“And Josie and the sheriff reappeared”

“And Josie's spirit was mysteriously teleported into the knob of a drawer in the nighstand” and it can't be anyone but Mike to mention the infamous drawer knob again.

“And she tried to get free from that fuckin' knob but she couldn't and the drawer knob took the shape of her face” this time it's up to Angie to add further details.

“And I was like, what happened? Who did that? Was it Bob? Was it the dwarf? You know, what-the-fuck-have-I-just-watched??” Mike questions us all one by one but we can't answer.

“And we'll never have the answers” right, Jeff.

“And that's the thrill of it! I mean, if they start giving us answers, then there's no point watching it anymore. Just the fact they've already revealed who Laura's killer was, well, it was a big dumb mistake to me” my girlfriend points out as she opens the back door of the van and I help her.

“I must say the show kind of died down a little after that” Krusen admits as Jeff starts the engine and Mike follows Angie's critic.

“I think Lynch didn't mean to reveal it until the end but the channel forced him to. And now he's fuckin' with us for revenge”

“With a drawer knob?” I speak up as I feel kind of left out of the conversation and I prompt another little hysterical reaction of the guitarist.

“That fuckin' knob!!”

“Come on, name another tv show that can pride itself of killing one character by turning her into a knob?” Angie tries to calm him down with a pat on his back, as I close the door from inside.

“Yeah, that's the ultimate death” Jeff admits trying to stifle a laugh.

“They could as well hang a sign on that knob with The End written on it”

“Err it's getting late, I think we should go” I try to get the attention of the gang since I notice Jeff hasn't actually started driving yet. And he still doesn't. He turns around instead and addresses me.

“What do you think about it, Eddie?”

“Eddie hasn't watched Twin Peaks yet but don't worry, I recorded every single episode, we can start filling your gap whenever you want” Angie pats me on the knee and takes my hand and does it right in front of Jeff. And that doesn't go unnoticed to him. I clearly see him looking down on our joint hands, even if it's just for a fraction of a second, then looking back up, smiling and turning around.

“Anyway my favorite one is Log Lady, luckily she's still a mystery” Angie goes on as we finally move. The secret we're about to reveal today though... well, I guess it's not as mysterious after all.

#fanfiction #grungefic #grungefanfiction #grunge #eddie vedder #pearl jam #stone gossard #jeff ament #mike mccready #dave krusen #chapters

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ejzah · 4 years

Note

Can you do a Drabble where Kensi tends to Deeks minor injuries he sustained during a mission. It involves Deeks being shirtless and Kensi being up close in personal.

A/N: I think I’ve done something similar to this, but this is a slightly different angle. (And for some reason, that sounds a little dirty in my mind.) This takes place sometime during San Voir, Part 1 after the explosion.

***

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” Deeks hissed, flinching away from Kensi to the other end of the locker room bench he sat on.

“Deeks, I have to see the wound in order to bandage it,” she told him with forced patience, placing one of her fists on her hip. The upper part of his left sleeve was ripped where a piece of shrapnel hit him and a fairly large patch of blood stained the fabric.

Somehow in all the mayhem, Deeks hadn’t gotten checked out by the EMTs. Which meant it was now Kensi’s job to deal with his whiny butt. Every time she touched him, he acted like she’d stabbed him.

“I know, but can you do it less painfully? I swear Sam would be more gentle.” Rolling her eyes at his assessment of her nursing skills, she crossed her arms.

“Maybe I should let him. I’m sure he wouldn’t put up with this much whining and moaning.” He chuckled at her threat.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, right Kens? You’re my partner and partners support each other,” he said, adopting a pleading tone. To drive it home, he turned on his puppy dog eyes. “Plus, I almost got blown up today.”

She groaned. God, it was infuriating that she couldn’t resist him. Even worse, he knew it.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Take your shirt off.” One eyebrow rose and before he could make any lascivious comments, she added, “So I can look at your arm.”

“Sure.” He grinned innocently as she turned around, muttering to herself about annoying partners. She grabbed a bottle of antiseptic, cotton pads, some antibiotic cream, and a couple bandages.

Kensi turned to face him again and almost gasped. He was sitting, exactly as she’d instructed, stripped to the waist. He’d definitely been working out more again. Pushing that thought away, she kept her eyes lowered as she set everything up.

Deeks seemed oblivious to her inner conflict, craning his head to see his arm.

“Hold still,” she ordered gruffly. Deeks complied with a surprising amount of meekness, not making a sound when she dabbed his arm with antiseptic wash. The cut was a little deeper than she’d expected and it took a good amount of rubbing to clean away the debris mixed with dry blood.

Kensi was hyperaware of the heat radiating from Deeks, the smoothness of his skin, and the firm muscles beneath. The quietness of the room only added to the intimacy.

“So, am I going to live, Nurse Blye?” Deeks asked several minutes later.

“You better not be imagining me in a little white dress,” she warned him while she taped a bandage over his bicep, glaring up at him from under her eyelashes. He grinned at her, thoroughly unfazed by her unspoken threat.

“Farthest thing from my mind. But, just so you know, you would look super hot. We could get you a stethoscope and one of those little black bags.”

She shook her head, moving around to his back to finish securing the bandage.

“Deeks, you are-oh my god.” He twisted at her exclamation, flinching when she poked his lower back, just above the waist of his jeans. “You’re burnt.”

“I know!” he said. “Quit poking it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, winching at the strip of bright red skin. His shirt must have shifted when they dove out of the building. He shrugged.

“I don’t know. I thought it wasn’t that bad and you already seemed annoyed about my arm.” Kensi felt a twinge of guilt at the unspoken accusation. She was sure Deeks hadn’t meant it that way, but she hadn’t exactly been overly sympathetic.

Rummaging through the first aid kit again, she found a tube of burn cream. Deeks watched her closely as she crouched down and started smoothing a thick layer of the numbing medicine onto his lower back, which was slightly less tan than the rest of his torso.

She couldn’t see the edge of his boxers and idly wondered if he’d decided to go commando. A flush ran through her entire body and she spent a couple extra minutes needlessly fiddling with the burn.

“Kensi?” Deeks’ voice sounded lower, rougher than normal and Kensi wondered if he was as affected as she was.

“Yeah. All done.” She stood hastily, bumping Deeks’ shoulder in the process and they both jerked like something had burned them. Which was ridiculous. They touched constantly throughout the day and it was never a big deal.

With that in mind, she grasped Deeks’ shoulder and turned him towards her. He frowned at her in surprise, his eyes widening when she closed the space between them so there was only a few inches remaining, and brushed her fingers over his temple.

“You have some scrapes,” she explained. He could have taken care of them himself, but he didn’t stop her from grabbing the ointment again.

His lips parted slightly as she worked, his warm breath fanning over her face. Her own breaths were a little shallow, shaky even. Giving up on the pretense, Kensi brushed his bangs back from his forehead, drifting closer like he had some kind of gravitational pull on her.

“Kens,” he repeated, one of his hands dropping to her waist. His eyes dropped to her lips and she stopped breathing altogether.

“Kensi, Deeks, what’s taking so long in there?” Nell called, banging on the door. They sprang apart instantly, Deeks jumping off the bench and crossing the room.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” Deeks called back, somehow managing to sound somewhat normal, although he was studiously avoiding looking in her direction.

Feeling unbelievably idiotic, Kensi started gathering up the medical supplies. She could feel Deeks come up behind her after a minute, but she ignored him. She had been stupid to let herself get so carried away.

“Are we gonna-?”

“Make sure you don’t get the bandage wet,” she interrupted.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he sighed. When she didn’t answer, he sighed again, and a moment later she heard the door open and then close again.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long breath. She stayed a few more minutes to gather herself. When she walked back into the bullpen, Deeks glanced up, his expression clear of any distress.

She felt a hint of regret, but mostly relief as she sat down next to him.

***

A/N: I couldn’t tell if Deeks had any facial injuries, but I figured no one would mind if I added them in.

Thanks for the prompt!

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #sans voir #pre densi #light angst #whump #hurt comfort #ejzah fanfiction

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anthropwashere · 3 years

Text

Perpetual Motion Machine

Hey @o-i-have-too! I’m your (late) gifter for the @fmasecretsanta2020 event. You asked for Elric fun and I come bearing soul alchemy goofs. Real life got a bit weird and as such this isn’t the full fic I was hoping to write for you, but I think it’s a decent one-shot on it’s own. The premise is a bit of a CoS-pull but it’s not a crossover and you don’t need to have seen the movie. All you need to know is that Alphonse “let’s fuck around and find out” Elric is here to have a good epilogue and that is a threat. :)

Title comes from the Modest Mouse song of the same name.

===

They're not back in Resembool two days before The Accident happens. That's not what they call it at the time, of course, but the exasperated capitalization creeps into their voices more and more after the fact and retroactively gives The Accident a kind of resigned importance. Frankly Alphonse only made a big deal out of it at the time because it had startled him, is all. After that, well, it was just interesting. Edward and Winry had no reason at all to run around like chickens with their heads cut off when it happened. It was fine. He was fine, and remains fine after the fact for that matter.

It really had been an accident, is the thing.

The Accident happens just after lunch. Granny goes to let Den out and enjoy a smoke on the porch and Edward and Winry go get ready to head into town, bickering cheerfully on their way out of the kitchen. Alphonse declines to go with them, already tired from a busy morning and not wanting to slow them down. He smiles into his teacup—coffee is still too shockingly bitter for all that he can't get enough of the smell of it—while listening to their voices fade down the hall. It's when he sets his cup down that he happens to catch sight of a pan on the wall with a crack in the handle.

Well, that's odd, isn't it? It must have happened recently and neither Winry nor Granny have gotten around to fixing it, or it's not a pan they're interested in keeping much longer. Curious despite his tiredness, Alphonse eases to his feet and crutch to get a better look. It does look pretty old, once he's face-to-face with it. It wouldn't be hard to fix though, and it'd go even faster with alchemy. He's only done a few transmutations since the Promised Day and they've all somehow been both harder and easier than he's used to them being, courtesy a combination of Scar's nationwide transmutation circle and the whole inhabiting a human body again thing. It's a bit awkward with the crutch, but the circle is so simple that it's practically a background thought as he claps his hands and touches them to the pan—

—and without warning there's a bizarre sort of lurch, and he's face-to-face with himself.

"Uh," he says from two disparate vantage points, and once more for good measure, "Uh."

He blinks with one pair of eyes. The other pair don't exist, technically, and don't have eyelids to blink with. It makes his vision jitter in a way he doesn't think should be described as awful, but it's certainly not pleasant. He closes the pair of eyes capable of doing so and watches himself close his eyes with the other. Then he watches his face twist; first with confusion, then dismay, then earnest alarm. "Oh," he says, and has a front row seat to the weird show of watching his own skinny face in motion, "Oh, no. No, absolutely n—fine. This is—fine. I'm fine. I can fix this. I—oh, hell—"

The oh, hell isn't directed at the situation he's found himself in, disorienting as it may be, but at the voices coming back toward the kitchen. Edward's going to take one look at him and know something's wrong, and Alphonse won't even be able to mock him for overreacting because no really, how did he bungle a simple transmutation this badly—

"We're headin' out," Edward shouts, and on reflex Alphonse looks at the doorway and gets to experience the uniquely indescribable misstep of looking left with one pair of eyes while the other pair remains stubbornly fixed in place.

"Nngh."

Winry hears him, because of course that's his luck, and he sort of sees her poke her head into the kitchen. "Al? Y'okay?"

He really does try to brush it off, to get them out of the house so he can figure out whatever the fuck is happening on his own, but when he tries to wave them off the disconnect between simultaneously inhabiting a human body and not hits him like a blow to the head. He staggers hard. The next thing he's peripherally aware of is Winry and Edward helping him back to the dining table, alternating between babbling sweet nothings and panicked everythings in his ears, all while watching himself get strong-armed into a chair from across the room. They're both loudly asking him variations of what the fuck, so he swallows until he can trust his voice and tells them with as much urgency as he can muster, "Frying pan."

They boggle at him. "What?"

"I'm in the frying pan."

"What?"

He looks at the frying pan. The frying pan looks at him. It sucks. His body's eyes can't help but scrunch, which just makes Edward and Winry hover more worriedly over him. "I'm," he repeats with varying amounts of grimace until they shut up and listen, "I was trying to repair that frying pan with the broken handle, over there."

They both look, which means they both turn to look at him but—obviously—they don't realize that. "Okay?" Edward offers, wary.

"I told Granny to throw that old thing out," Winry mutters mostly to herself, which answers that question for all that it doesn't matter.

"It didn't work—" Yes it did, he can see from here that it did, "—I mean, it did, but it also—I somehow, accidentally, transmuted myself at the same time—"

Edward's "What?!" is closely followed by Winry's far more bemused, "How'd you accidentally manage that?"

Neither reaction is unexpected, but neither are they particularly helpful. What's more important is that it sounds like they don't believe him. He presses his lips together and thinks about saying something, and lo and behold it's the frying pan that says, "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Naturally, they both freak out. Alphonse resigns himself to sitting there while they all but run around in circles, but then Edward has to go and get grabby with the frying pan and at least some amount of Alphonse's soul along with it. He hastily drops his crutch to grab the table with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut as the kitchen goes cartwheeling. The bang and clatter of his crutch hitting the tile is unwanted confirmation that he really is hearing things from two perspectives as well. "Put that down," comes out more snarly than he means it to, but it gets the job done. Edward thumps the pan down like it's burned him, and Alphonse finds himself tripping between relief and dread that he can only feel the vibration through one half of himself.

Edward hovers, stressed to the point of literal hand wringing, while Winry gently rubs Alphonse's back. It's not really as comforting as he remembers it being, before. His skin still prickles too easily at unexpected stimulation. He shies away from her touch, pretends not to see her hurt expression, and forces words out past the lump in his throat. It grounds him a little, to focus on all the complicated bits of speaking with a human mouth. "I transmuted my soul—"

"What? How?" They demand in unison, which does nothing for the headache creeping behind his eyes. He glares at them despite it.

"I don't know, now do I? I wasn't trying to do that! But I'm attached to the frying pan, and I—don't," he breaks off to kind of snarl when Edward twitches like he's thinking about getting grabby again.

"But—" Winry falters, biting her lip. "How are you still talking with your body?"

"I'm still in here too." He forces his real eyes open, though the left one immediately shuts again despite his best efforts. Looking at himself looking up at the ceiling is disorienting as hell. He tries to focus solely on Edward's wide-eyed alarm; after a moment of wibbling, he manages to get both perspectives to line up. It's still horribly bizarre, but it's at least a little more tolerable. "I don't know how, but I'm in both right now."

"That shouldn't be possible," Edward protests. "Splitting your soul? The fuck were you even trying to do?"

"I told you! Fix the stupid pan, that's all!"

The pan in question rattles on the table with no prompting on Alphonse's part. They all flinch back, swearing. Winry's hand settles on his shoulder, light but grounding all the same. "Can you—undo this?"

"H-hold on a second," Edward yelps. "Don't go off transmuting your soul all willy-nilly! Let's think about this for a second, huh? You must've done something else besides try and fix a fuckin' frying pan, so—"

"Please stop yelling," Alphonse complains, clapping his hands. Edward ignores his polite request in favor of more yelling, but thankfully most of it's drowned out by the transmutation. There's that lurch again, and then he's wholly back in his body like nothing had happened. Well, aside from Edward and Winry coming over all handsy in a way that's bruising and overwhelming and entirely unnecessary. "Oh my god, stop, I'm fine—"

"What's with all the shouting?" Granny calls from the front door. "Ed? Winry? Do us all a favor and save the fight for the walk into town, would you?"

"Al's not okay!" Edward hollers back, and Alphonse could just strangle him sometimes, he really could.

"I just said I'm fine, would you listen to me? And what would she do if I wasn't, huh? She can't exactly slap a plaster on my soul—" Which is the entirely wrong thing to say, of course, because Edward immediately falls over himself trying to—what, discern if Alphonse's soul needs stitches via aggressively close eye contact and a lot of shoulder patting? Alphonse flicks him in the nose to get some breathing space just as Granny appears in the kitchen doorway. "I'm fine," he assures her before the other two can get a word in. "Ignore literally anything they say, it was just a bit of accidental alchemy—"

"Accidental," Edward echoes with half-hysterical disgust. "How do you accidentally transmute—"

"By accident," Alphonse interrupts serenely, flicking him again.

Granny gives them all a look over her glasses, like she's strongly tempted to bust out the Stray Dog a few hours early if they're going to keep this level of buffoonery up. The look travels around the kitchen, clearly looking for anything amiss, and lands squarely on the frying pan laid incongruously on the dining table. "Hmm," she says, unimpressed. "Let me know if you're up for helping me with the inventory later, Al."

"Of course," he says, though she's already done the smart thing and left well enough alone. She's his favorite.

"Al—" Winry starts, but nope, he's done being coddled for the day.

"I'm fine," he stresses. "Really." And that's enough to get Winry to back off some but Edward's still gearing up to pitch a fit. He forces calm into his voice and asks, "Could you get my crutch, Brother?"

"What? Oh, sure, here. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Completely." And he's not even fibbing, because he really does feel fine. "It was an accident, and no harm came from it—"

"Soul transmutation isn't something alchemists typically do by accident, least of all you." His tone is scathing, but Alphonse knows him too well not to take that as anything other than high praise. Edward's coming over all thoughtful in the face now, gears grinding. On the one hand Alphonse is right there with him because seriously, what, but on the other hand they really do need to go into town if they want Winry to carry through on her threat of baking an apple pie so good they'll both finally have a good cry.

He stands up brusquely, tamping down the vague irritation over the fact that he can't shepherd Edward around through sheer size alone anymore. His heart rate and breathing are both fine, and the only suggestion he can physically sense that something unusual happened is an uneasy prickle in his throat. He vaguely remembers this feeling from before, associating it with the same shock one gets at missing a step on a flight of stairs or almost dropping something fragile but catching it in the nick of time. Startling, but ultimately harmless.

"Al," Edward persists.

Alphonse reaches past him to pick up the frying pan. It's as heavy as it looks, which is to say his reedy stick of an arm does not appreciate hefting it around, but it's only for as long as it takes to cross the kitchen and hang it back up where it belongs. Then he turns and smiles widely at them both, because sheer force of personality comes in more than one flavor. "Have fun in town! I think I'm gonna go get started on that list now."

Winry cuffs Edward when he opens his mouth again. "Stop mother henning him. He's fine."

Edward, the undisputed king of mother hens everywhere, is clearly unconvinced. He glowers over his shoulder at the frying pan like it spat on Mom's grave as Winry shoves him out of the kitchen. Honestly. It's only once they're finally out of the house that Alphonse allows himself a thoughtful hum.

That was certainly... interesting.

There's a lot of spitballing about the accident—not yet definitive enough to warrant capitalization—over the next couple of days. Edward really can't get over how Alphonse managed soul transmutation without any enormous cost, and considering the only examples they know of are Philosopher's Stones, a couple of dead serial killers, and him, this is honestly a fair hangup to have. And Alphonse has the same hangup too, really! But his primary focus is less the fact that it happened consequence-free and more the fact that he split his soul consequence-free.

"But are you sure that's what happened?" Edward asks for the umpteenth time.

Alphonse finds himself fighting the urge to smirk. "I can always transmute my soul again—"

"No! I mean, jeez, give the damn thing a rest, huh? You've done enough body hopping, don't you think?"

"A frying pan is hardly a body—"

"There's a joke here," Winry chimes in, "You know, about frying pans and fires?"

They both sneer at her for that one, but the intended effect doesn't really pay off since she goes all soppy about how Alphonse can make stupid faces at her again.

Granny and Winry are doing their best to browbeat Edward under the knife again so they can do something about that ground beef masquerading as a functional right shoulder. Alphonse is helping apply the pressure at every opportunity as well; Edward can barely lift his arm over his head months after the fact and that's even after the surgery he got in Central. Edward, naturally, is under the impression that if he pretends hard enough he won't have to deal with it, and goes so far as to flee into town to "get a break from all this goddamn nagging."

"He can sleep in the yard for all I care," Winry grumbles, locking the front door and retreating to her workroom. Alphonse couldn't agree more. There's stubborn and then there's stupid.

Still, with Ed out of the house and Winry filling the house with the sound of shrieking metal, this would be as good a time as any to do some experimentation without anyone breathing down his neck. Well. Not without a spotter. He's curious, sure, but he's not an idiot. Look what messing around with souls cost them the first time around.

He hobbles back into the kitchen after Granny, who's in the middle of making a fresh pot of coffee. "Granny?"

"Mm?"

"I'd like your help with something if you don't mind."

"Of course. What is it?"

"Mm, something pretty stupid, more than likely."

That gets her to look at him, eyes twinkling over her glasses. "Oh, I get a warning this time, do I?"

He shrugs, smiling weakly. "I'd like to try to recreate the accident with the frying pan."

"The same 'accident' that's had your brother up in arms the last few days?" Her mouth thins when he nods, but she only tuts rather than says no outright. "You'll do it either way, naturally. Well, go on, then."

He waits until she's settled at the table with her coffee, then fetches the same pan and joins her. It's still a relief to sit for all that he's hardly been on his feet that much this morning; he takes a moment to relish the burn in his legs and back, rubbing his elbow where there's an indent from the crutch.

"Should we be doing this in the operating room instead?" Her tone is dry, but it's not really a joke.

"I'm not anticipating anything as extreme as that," he clarifies hastily, "especially not with how—easy, I suppose, this was the other day."

She hums and settles back in her chair, trusting his experience if not put entirely at ease. He eyes the pan. It's just a pan, no different than the rest hung up or stored in a cupboard. He still has no conscious knowledge, Gate-given or otherwise, as to how one would go about binding a soul to anything, yet he'd managed it entirely by accident.

Well. This experiment really is just to see if the results are reproducible. He thinks of that same repairing array and claps his hands. The moment he touches the handle there's that lurch again, and he has two pairs of eyes again, one still looking at the pan and the other looking at the ceiling, with Granny and himself barely in his peripheral vision. "Nngh."

"I assume that means it worked then?" Granny asks, wary.

"Mm-hm," he says, then frowns and thinks about saying, "Exactly the same as the first time," which comes out of the pan instead of him.

Granny twitches, half a curse slipping from her. She leans forward, peering at his face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he says, trying not to close his eyes. "It's only—disorienting, seeing from two perspectives at the same time."

"So you really are—attached, I suppose, to this?" She reaches for the pan, but hesitates.

"Partly, yes. I don't know if it's a fifty-fifty split, or if that's even something that can be readily quantified. It's okay, pick it up."

She does so, gingerly, and even still Alphonse has to close his real eyes against the jolt in perspective. "You can't feel that, can you?"

"No, no. It's like the armor; no physical sensations, just sight and hearing. Is there anything unusual-looking about the pan now?"

"Besides looking better than the day I bought it?" She inspects it carefully, and Alphonse does his best not to squint throughout the process. "Ah."

"Ah," he agrees, because dead center on the bottom of the pan is the same seal Edward drew to bind his soul to the armor. Or, nearly. "No circle," he murmurs. A transmutation array instead, and so inherently less stable. Without a circle to control the transmutation it likely won't last long.

He touches it out of curiosity, pulls away when he feels his vision—visions?—wobble. It’s easier to interrupt the flow of energy without a circle too. What would happen if the array was broken? Would the piece of him in the pan automatically rejoin the whole, or—something worse?

"Hm," he says, and claps his hands. Lurch, and he's all where he should be, blinking rapidly at the twist and diminishing of his sight.

"Al?" Granny asks, a note of warning in her voice.

"I'm fine, thank you. You can put it down now."

She does so, and takes a moment to drink her coffee before asking, "Well?"

"Well, I've verified that this is a reproducible event rather than a fluke. Fixing this pan wasn't the first time I've transmuted something since I got my body back—" He plucks at his shirt, which he'd altered to better fit his underweight frame, "—but it was the first time I've transmuted metal, which might be relevant?”

They both hum, frowning at the pan a while.

"This is going to be a problem, isn't it," Granny says.

"I don't know if I'd go so far as to say ‘problem—’"

She quells him with a look, then keeps quelling him until he manages a satisfactory degree of shrinking and contrite, then sighs. "If you lose an arm playing around with this, don't come crying to me."

Which, fair.

This requires further experimentation—something Ed agrees with in theory but is hard pressed to just up and leave Alphonse to it. He gets the fuss—"Yes, Ed, I said fuss—" but he'd prefer to determine the parameters of what transmutations may or may not trigger an extra helping of accidental possession of inanimate objects in a controlled setting. What if it happened in a fight or something?

"Who the hell are you gonna be fighting in your shape?" Edward asks, poking him in the ribs.

Alphonse swats him. "You if you keep that up. And I didn't mean now, obviously, but we've kind of made it a habit to get in over our heads at this point, haven't we? It's sensible to stress test this now."

"I know that," Edward snaps in that particular tone he uses when he knows he's run out of logical points to argue but doesn't feel like he's had a proper chance to shout his problems away.

"Then it's decided," Alphonse says, not exactly pleased per se, but there's not much to do in Resembool beyond adhere to his strict PT regimen, reread books from the collection they've shipped out here over the years for safekeeping, and help out around the house. They stay busy, sure, but life in the countryside can hardly be called mentally stimulating.

They start with compiling and then running through an exhaustive list of materials that could potentially set off the secondary transmutation, figure out fairly quickly that it's pretty much only metals that manage it, and only those that have a decent amount of iron in their makeup. Considering they're freeloading in an automail clinic, determining that specification is a lot easier than it might have been elsewhere even with Winry grousing every time he clapped his hands around her stuff.

Point of interest: he transmutes his soul to a half-configured hand made of a near-identical alloy composition as his armor when Winry's not looking and experiences almost no lurch at all. So that’s something to keep in mind.

Narrowing down what triggers the partial soul transfer is also a helpful exercise in getting over the disorientation of two pairs of eyes and ears—technically only the perception of a second pair of each but that’s just nitpicking—not to mention testing whether or not there's a limit to how many times in one sitting he can flip flop out of himself before hitting any kind of limit. The answer to that last one is a few, and maybe one more beyond that before the headache/nausea gets to be too much, but those both diminish the more he gets a handle on the perspective thing. So a few becomes several becomes a lot becomes Edward grabbing him by the wrists, giving him a faceful of Crazy Eyes #9 ("I had little patience to start with and you are actively digging me an early grave right now,") and saying, "Let's take a break, huh?"

It's around this time that the shipment from Central they'd been expecting finally turns up. Inside it, of course, is his armor.

It’s strange, to see him again—and Alphonse can’t help but consider the armor as an individual rather than an object, after they’d spent so long as the same person. It’s more than a little surreal to see how badly wrecked he’d gotten on the Promised Day from the outside. Winry’s halfway outraged on his behalf, running careful fingers over his ragged pieces, cradling his head as if it’d hurt him if she accidentally dropped it. She and Edward have been that careful with him from the start—or very nearly; once they’d gotten over the shock of the armor’s size and severity, well, it was Alphonse inside it. Of course they treated him like glass.

Den runs off with the helmet while they’re all talking. Not his head, not anymore, though he doubts he’ll ever be comfortable referring to any part of the armor as simple parts. That’s alright. Den will bring the helmet back eventually or one of them will happen across it sooner or later. Alphonse’s real, human head is set squarely where it should be and can’t be knocked off quite so easily these days, and they’ve got all the rest of the armor right here to turn over to Winry.

He’d known from the moment Master Sergeant Fuery asked him what he wanted to do with the armor, when he’d still be attached to what had surely been a hundred beeping machines and three hundred tubes in Central Hospital. For all that Edward had laughed at his nervousness, Alphonse is relieved to find Winry is 100% on board with it. (“Of course I’m on board! That’s good quality steel for all that you went and destroyed it more times than I want to think about!”) There’s no way he would have been okay stashing him in some dusty corner while he goes on with his—their—life. Better to be repurposed. Better to be reforged. Better to be scattered into so many automail parts, helping people move forward after grueling loss and rehabilitation while he does the same.

Which, well, is a nice sentiment in theory, but actually watching his former body get beaten and melted down is another thing entirely. It’s just too easy to imagine still being bound to him! Edward’s just as unsettled as he is and Winry won’t stop laughing at them. It’s gratifying, to find that for all they’ve been through some things haven’t changed.

Even so, he decides he won’t follow through on asking Winry if she’d mind letting him watch her put any of those new automail parts to use.

It’s practically the next day that Edward finally agrees to let Winry and Granny at his shoulder, and since he’ll be out of commission for a while he heckles Alphonse into tabling any and all soul alchemy experiments until he’s up and about again.

Alphonse sighs and rolls his eyes and calls him several different synonyms for mother hen, but agrees in the end. He wishes them all good luck, curls up with a pile of books near the radio, which he turns up a hair past comfortably loud, and then the three of them all vanish down the hall to prep for a surgery Granny anticipates will take several hours.

Then he laughs.

He cannot believe Edward believed him so easily.

He stays put for an agonizing half hour—just in case—then eases down the hall with the pretense of a bathroom break on the tip of his tongue—just in case. It is nothing short of delightful to be able to tiptoe properly again, crutch and all. He hovers by the operating room door long enough to hear beeping machinery before quickly moving on; it might not be an outfitting and Edward will be out cold for the whole duration, but Alphonse doesn’t want to spare any more brain power imagining what’s going on in there than he absolutely has to.

Edward’s leg is laid out on Winry’s worktable, waiting for her to tinker with it while Edward recuperates. Alphonse hums at the sight of it. If he were more in the habit of making faces he thinks he’d be making a pretty unhappy one right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, to be whole and on the mend while Ed’s still missing most of an entire limb and hard at work adding more scar tissue to his already upsetting collection. It doesn’t sit right with him either, what it cost Edward to bring Alphonse home, but both of those are two enormous conversations that neither of them are real set on hashing out yet. They probably won’t be for a while, especially with the unexpected development of this soul alchemy business.��

Which! Look at him getting waylaid by anxiety and guilt again. He’s here to pilfer supplies for secret experiments, not stand here and woolgather. He grabs three smallish pieces of metal that don’t look relegated to any particular project, shoves them into his pockets, and tiptoe-crutches at top speed for the back door.

There’s a small stone bench in the herb garden, age-worn and wonderfully warmed by the late morning sunlight. He leans his crutch against it, fishing out the scrap metal as he sits. He closes his eyes, pleased that he can and pleased by the temporary peace. He can’t hear anything that might go on in the operating room out here.

He takes a deep breath—reveling too, in the heady smell of growing things—and claps his hands. He weathers the lurch with hardly a wince and settles in for one experiment he’s not assaulted Edward’s fraying patience with yet: time.

He’d thought about grabbing Edward’s pocket watch—never thrown in Brigadier General Mustang’s face despite heated promises of a broken nose and gleeful paparazzi to memorialize the occasion—from his room, but he knows Edward’s never bothered keeping it wound. Anyway, too many long nights alone have given him an excellent sense of time and he’s not interested in tracking this down to the exact second, at least not for this first test.

“Mm, I should’ve grabbed a book,” he mutters to himself. Then, fighting a grin at his own silliness, replies to himself through the bit of metal in his hands, “Sounds like a good excuse to test distance while we’re at it.”

Edward’s not liked the idea of this test either, too afraid Alphonse will fall and hurt himself even when he’s there to watch like a hawk. Well if he falls now the worst that could happen is a tumble down a couple stairs, and he's gotten enough of his coordination back that he would be surprised if he earned more than an easily hidden bruise.

He sets the bit of metal with a bit of soul in it on the bench, but an unshielded view of all that clean blue sky makes his real eyes water. He leans it against the bench leg instead, blinking through green grass. It’s not much of an improvement, not really, but it’s something.

"Well, here goes nothing," he says in tandem with himself, and grabs his crutch.

Distance Test #1 goes… fine. He doesn't fall trying to walk around, though it's a near thing beginning to end and he does totter like a drunk the whole way. He grabs a book at random and then has no way to grope around with his eyes mostly squeezed shut which slows him down even further. He does have a bad scare once he's back in the yard when his crutch bangs against Den's automail, so focused on getting back to the bench he didn't even see the dog trot up to him. Den figures out quickly that Alphonse would do better without him underfoot and backs off, tail wagging nervously until he finally eases back down to the bench.

He spends something like five minutes with his hands over his face, breathing deeply, watching Den shuffle anxious circles around the bench from ankle-height. All in all, no more than ten minutes into Time Test #1 and no sign of the array failing yet. He drops his hands and spends another five or so minutes petting Den and murmuring quietly to her. Dog fur is so much coarser than he remembered it to be, and leaves his hands tingling every time he pets her.

"Good girl," he tells her. She gives him a lolling doggy grin and collapses in the grass at his feet, obscuring the view from his soul bit completely. He finds he's not inclined to move her, so long as she doesn't roll up against the array and risk ruining the experiment.

Nothing else for it now but to sit here and wait; either for Winry to come find him or for the array to peter out. He takes up the book—a slim treatise on the applications of geothermal energy in Cretan alchemy—and does his level best to sink his teeth into it.

...As if a book he’s already read three times could be enough to distract him from worrying, honestly.

Winry finds him several hours later, having moved back inside before he could earn too bad a sunburn and already dreading Edward's drugged outrage when he sees it. He'd made the trek upstairs to Winry's room, knowing she'd know it was far enough away from the operating room not to hear anything and knowing too that she wouldn't mind the trespass.

"I thought I'd find you up here," she says, a little sympathetic but mostly exhausted. Den jumps up at once to circle around her, whining.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't hear you come up." He shuts the book, gone mostly skimmed with next to nothing absorbed, and tries to surreptitiously cover up his experiments with it. He underestimates the weight of the book, or the distance, or something; the scrape of steel against wood gives him away immediately. Winry comes over all suspicious, and there's never been any luck hiding secrets successfully from her, so he resigns himself to a good telling off and moves the book.

"Oh, Al," she sighs.

Alphonse sinks into his collar guiltily. He hates when she uses that voice. She only does when he or Edward have properly disappointed her.

“Ed’s sleeping,” she says instead of tearing him a new one. She really must be tired. “Everything went fine. He’ll probably be out for a few more hours, so try and finish... whatever you’re doing before you go see him, okay?”

“Winry—”

She holds up her hand, not looking at him. “I need to take a shower.”

Well that’s a get the fuck out, please if he’s ever heard one. He nods meekly, leveraging himself to his feet and crutch before gathering up the book and scrap metal. He can’t help the grimace as he jostles his second and third pair of not-really-there eyes, and of course Winry sees it. Her mouth thins, but she doesn’t say anything until he’s at her bedroom door.

“It’s scary, y’know? We’re just… we’re worried. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

“...I know,” he replies. “It scares me too.” That isn’t the right word for how he feels about all of this, but that’d be getting into semantics. Winry’s never had their patience for splitting hairs and is dead on her feet besides. “But I want to understand it more. It happened purely by accident the first time. I don’t want something like that to catch me off guard.”

“Who are you so dead set on fighting that you’re planning for worst case scenarios like—like that already? You only just got your body back, Al!”

“Nobody! Nobody,” he repeats when she gives him a doubtful look. Jeez, it’s a lot scarier now that she’s taller than him. Hopefully that won’t last. “But—god, I don’t know. Ed and I—it seemed sometimes we could hardly go a week without running into purse thieves, never mind everything else that’s happened. I want to travel again, once I’m strong enough. There’s so much of Amestris I haven’t seen yet, and I want to study alkahestry in Xing one day too. I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll never have to protect myself, or somebody else, and I don’t want to be surprised by this.” He does a one-shoulder shrug to indicate the metal pressed between the book and his chest, wincing again when his vision jostles weirdly.

Her mouth thins again, but instead of yelling she only nods tiredly. “No surprises. That includes for us too, okay? Don’t go skulking around just to avoid Ed’s yelling. You know he’ll only go off twice as loud when he does eventually find out.”

He huffs, feeling his cheeks tighten with a stifled grin for all that the conversation is so serious. He’ll never get over how good it feels to smile. “Right.”

Up go her eyebrows in an obvious, are you serious with this? expression. She flaps her hand at him impatiently. “Well? What have you been doing up here?”

“O-oh. Well, uh—” He tells her about the initial tests out in the garden, small increases in distance and how long it would take for the array to fail on its own. It took about 90 minutes the first time, when he’d only wandered once, and about ten minutes less than that when he went and read on the front porch. Then when he went inside he figured he’d see if he could do more than one soul bind at the same time (this makes Winry look like she wants to beat him upside the head then crawl into bed to leave Edward to deal with this crazy alchemy shit, but she just nods and gestures for him to keep going when he hesitates) so he did that in the living room, and those arrays failed within five minutes of each other after little more than an hour, so then he decided to put one soul bind down in the basement then come all the way up here to bind two more, and well. Here they are now.

“How long’s it been?” She asks, not looking at him again. He can’t figure out her expression but he’s mostly sure she’s not going to yell at him, if for no other reason than to avoid waking Edward up.

“Mm, half an hour or so?”

“And you don’t feel like puking after spreading yourself around so much?”

“The one in the basement is facedown and so was one of these,” he says, shrug-gesturing again. “It helps. Honestly, Winry, I’d have canceled these two binds at the first sign of anything weird, but there’s been nothing. I mean, beyond being able to do this in the first place. I don’t feel sick, or strained, and nothing hurts. There hasn’t been anything like how it felt when my bind to the armor was failing either. I’m a little bit dizzy, but I’ve technically got four pairs of eyes right now. That’s just to be expected.”

She takes time for a slow inhale, sighing out more explosively as she scrubs her eyes. “Yeah. Okay, sure. Just—nix it on any more experiments until Ed’s out of bed, okay? And tell him what you’ve done once he’s not drugged to the gills.”

“I will, I promise.” He beams at her. It makes her go all happy-crinkly around the eyes when he does that, and this time’s no different.

#fma #fmasecretsanta2020 #fullmetal alchemist #my writing

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