#(BARELY spoilers but I did include the images so :/ ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

petit-etoile · 5 months

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even if the world collapses, i will be alright

pairing: shadowheart/karlach wordcount: 3,388 content warnings: spoilers for shadowheart's act iii quest, don't worry they get together after this other tags: canon compliant, character study, introspection, pre-relationship, shadowheart is bad at feelings, c.unnilingus, v.aginal fingering note: i don't normally write pairings outside of astarion/tav. i'm sorry if things seem ooc or not quite accurate enough. i usually only write for a.starion/t.av so i'm nervous as to how this reads !! archiveofourown: here.

summary: Karlach knows the truth Shadowheart wants to show her.

‘Karlach?’

Shadowheart barely understands what has brought her here. Perhaps it was the loss of a mother’s love or the emptiness of divinity flooding her bones. She shivers. She will never confess to crying, to cutting her hair off in a fit of rage. That is not her image. She was a Sharran beauty, a devout worshiper, and now…

She looks at her silver braid and tries not to feel sick. I am nothing but a confused girl, she thinks spitefully. Bile rises in her belly, and she tears her hair down before she feels weak. It hardly helps.

Karlach’s tent is large and looming, enough space for herself and all their companions if they felt like getting together. It’s warm and inviting. It’s… A safe place. Shadowheart isn’t ready for the jeers of their peers when they see what she’s done to her hair. She climbs in to hide.

Karlach is inside because of course she is. The tiefling woman is too busy singing and using a whetstone to sharpen her blade to really notice her intruder. Shadowheart almost feels grateful she can pass by as a ghost unannounced. She crams herself into the corner and wraps her arms around her knees, pressing her mouth against her leather pants, fingers clenching to avoid feeling empty. The swelling ennui is a familiar emotion — She could not remember the last time she had not fought against despair, not since the illithid ship, not since the Moonrise Towers.

Seeing Dame Aylin everyday was almost a vicious mockery. That the child of Selûne could stand so tall without a fear in the world but Shadowheart could not. The wound on her hand refuses to throb. If she is lost, why is the Goddess of Loss not guiding her? It was not a true betrayal. Anyone would have refused… Shadowheart still loves her or so she supposes she does. She has not known a life that did not include Shar’s teachings and her cruelty. She feels as though she’s falling into an ocean made of pitch. There is a faint part of her that is assured she will die. Her goddess wills it so.

Karlach doesn’t turn around for a minute or two. She’s busy humming a song that Shadowheart doesn’t recognize, and Shadowheart stares miserably at her spine. It makes her feel somewhat frustrated. Here a woman who had lost almost everything and is still as happy as can be while Shadowheart…

Shadowheart is indecisive of how she feels.

She clenches her fist.

‘Just a moment,’ Karlach calls over her shoulder.

‘Take your time,’ Shadowheart replies. She’s been seen after all. She begins touching the skin around her nails, delicately squeezing and prodding them. They’re sore after her evening at the river washing sins from her hair. ‘I hope you don’t mind. The others were…loud.’

Karlach does not take her time. She sets her weapon aside and turns around almost immediately. In her haste, she seems to forget. Shadowheart watches as a thousand gorgeous sparks shine throughout her body. Her amber gaze comes to life, fragmented like stars in the sky. Karlach focuses on Shadowheart first and then her hair, grinning from ear to ear.

Shadowheart doesn’t have the time to flinch before Karlach is reaching across the distance, grabbing a strand of her hair and pulling it closer to her for inspection. She navigates the closeness of the tent on her knees, and like she’s parched, she inhales Shadowheart’s scent. It’s a communion of sorts. Her flesh is the flesh of Shar, and her blood the holy ichor. The sincerity of Karlach’s interest floods every part of Shadowheart’s body. Like Dame Aylin to Isobel, Karlch can’t seem to get enough.

‘Shadowheart, your hair — ’ Karlach breathes. She holds Shadowheart’s freshly dyed tresses against her nose. ‘It’s like moonlight! It’s fucking amazing.’

A compliment? Shadowheart’s throat seizes up. She wants to look away or to disappear entirely. There is nothing left that she can do besides tolerate Karlach’s awe of her. But it warms her frosty skin, and she meets Karlach’s gaze bravely.

‘So you like it?’ she asks faintly.

‘Of course I do!’ Karlach replies. ‘You look incredible, really. Like you’re the moon — ’

Shadowheart knows what expression contorts her face. Karlach immediately looks apologetic, eyebrows pulling together. She begins to apologize, but something overcomes Shadowheart. She doesn’t want apologies. She doesn’t want anything akin to pity. She wants release. Shadowheart leans forward and kisses her, mashing their noses together uncomfortably. It’s unchaste. It’s hostile, almost. But whatever she might feel about it, Karlach kisses her back, both hands coming to cradle the side of Shadowheart’s face.

It’s exhilarating.

Karlach is everything Shadowheart is not. Not repressed, not devout, not weak. She is larger than life and above it all. Her skin smells like warm fire and her hair always smells of chestnut and honey no matter how many she’s killed. It must be some sort of talent.

Shadowheart wants more and more. She pushes Karlach harder than she means to and while it doesn’t do much, it does cause Karlach to grab her wrists roughly. She kicks her greatsword haphazardly out of the tent flap.

‘Let’s not get hasty, Shadowheart,’ Karlach warns her.

‘Shut up.’

‘This isn’t a fight,’ she says. ‘Don’t make it one.’

‘What do you know?’ Shadowheart asks bitterly. ‘Perhaps I want it to be a fight. What good has being pious done for me? It’s all nonsense and you know it. So I say, let’s fight, Karlach. Let’s fight the way we know how.’

Karlach doesn’t say anything at first. It’s like she’s thinking of what to do next, but Shadowheart knows better. It is careful restraint to keep her infernal engine from overheating. Karlach likes the idea of a challenge, and what is a greater challenge than this? Shadowheart wants to be cruel. It might work better if it were Lae’zel she sought out, but it isn’t. Instead, she raises her chin and struggles against Karlach’s hands around her wrists playfully. Karlach knows the truth Shadowheart wants to show her.

No matter how hard she tries, Shadowheart will always be the lost girl in the woods who trembles at wolves. No goddess will cure her malady. The same could not be said about mortals whose hearts are prone to rupturing. Shadowheart wants to ignite the flame. She raises her arms above her head. She submits to Karlach’s will and watches her lights turn blue.

‘I can sit here and I can talk about my feelings,’ Shadowheart says, tone blasé, ‘or we could fuck the stress away, you and I.’

Karlach’s lips press into a firm line. ‘I — I want to make sure you’re feeling alright.’

‘I’m feeling about as well as anyone would,’ Shadowheart snorts. She shakes her head. ‘Do this with me or don’t, but don’t mistake me for someone who wants to lament her feelings. I’m not that kind of girl.’

‘Just for tonight then,’ Karlach says, and that’s good enough. She’s a romantic after all. A dreamer. A wish-upon-the-stars kind of woman. Shadowheart is almost jealous. ‘Tomorrow,’ she warns, ‘we talk about it.’

‘Fine,’ she says with a shrug.

Shadowheart tries not to frown. In its entirety, it is probably the best offer that she would get from anyone else. A night of careless and raunchy sex. With Karlach, too. Shadowheart struggles with the weight of it, the complexity of the offering. But it’s what she wants. It’s all she wants. She closes her eyes. Shar would have made her forsake this. Karlach’s hands are tight around her wrists, and the sound of her infernal heart beating is better than any opera. She leans forward and devours Karlach’s lips.

If Shadowheart is going to hell, she may as well enjoy it.

There’s something fascinating about being pinned down by someone who wants to be good. No whippings, no torturings, just a wholeheartedly good time. Karlach pulls her around like she hardly weighs a thing, and when Shadowheart’s back is pressed into a bedroll that smells of ash and honey, she can’t help but shiver. Karlach doesn’t command her to stay put, but she does. She’s a good listener and always has been. She waits patiently as Karlach makes quick work of her camp clothes and tries not to preen at the way Karlach swallows thickly as her nightshirt opens up and her breasts spill free. She smiles.

Karlach leans forward and mouths at her breast, sharp teeth over sensitive skin, and her hands move to focus on the task at hand at Shadowheart’s hips. She’s lifted by the curve of her ass so that Karlach can fuss with her leggings, pulling them down her legs as quickly as she can amd tossing them aside without breaking contact with her nipple. It’s too delicate. It’s too dainty. Shadowheart closes her eyes.

Karlach does not ask her ‘if she’s ready.’

For once, she isn’t treated as though she is willing to be broken or that she craves it. It’s almost a silent vow, a secret prayer. You will be ready for me. You will take it. It’s a much nicer situation than the reverse. Shadowheart has wept and wailed since they left the Shadowfell. She is done with tears. She is done being lost. Karlach sweeps her hands down her body like she’s never touched someone before — and, well, she hasn’t, at least not in a while. That’s a kind of hunger that can never be contained.

‘Stop being so gentle,’ Shadowheart says.

‘No,’ Karlach replies. ‘You’ll take what I give you tonight. Kindness and all.’

Shadowheart grinds her teeth. ‘I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it.’

‘We all deserve things we don’t want,’ Karlach says patiently. ‘Now shut it. You came to me, remember.’

Shadowheart tosses her head in despair. She’s almost certain she will cave into this emotion, this serenity that pours over her in waves. She is going to fade away tonight. Her hair is no longer as dark as the night. For all her talk of grandiose kindness, Karlach is rough. She pulls and digs her nails into Shadowheart’s supple flesh as if determined to take her apart and put her back together. Instead of a Sharran teaching guiding her every move, it’s instinct. The instinct to be a hero that pollutes Karlach and causes her to become something unrecognizable in the heat of battle. A howling beast. She presses her burning mouth to Shadowheart’s navel and sets fire to her skin.

Karlach begins her relentless assault. She starts by hooking her arms around Shadowheart’s thighs and lifting her hips up so that she can slot her mouth against Shadowheart’s cunt to begin feasting. It’s unprompted, it’s unscripted, and it’s so much more than Shadowheart could have ever imagined that she can’t stop the startled moan that slips between her lips. She’s lifted as though she weighs nothing. Her heart stutters.

It’s messy and frenzied. Karlach lets out an equally shocked noise, and Shadowheart searching for her eyes does more damage than good. She doesn’t know what she was expecting to see, but the hunger is better than she imagined. Shadowheart was a ripe fruit begging to be plucked, and for an adventurer, it was the finest feast of them all. Karlach’s fingers dig into her back sharply as she tries to control herself. Shadowheart hisses. The pain is welcomed.

She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to control anything. Shadowheart leans into the touch and quivers. This goodwill threatens to eat her whole. Karlach licks and sucks at her insistently. It’s almost as though she’s afraid the taste will be gone if she doesn’t indulge now. But it will be there. It will always be there. Even Shadowheart can’t tamper the flames of jealousy. And she is jealous. It buds in her chest every time Karlach smiles at someone who isn’t her.

‘You’re so wet,’ Karlach murmurs against her thigh. ‘You taste so good.’

Shadowheart squeezes her eyes shut and tries to ignore the shiver that races down her spine. She isn’t sure what it is about what Karlach said that drives her crazy. Or she does, and she just didn’t want to admit it. Despite being an astute pupil, she was never perceived as good. Karlach makes her want to be.

‘That’s what you want to be, isn’t it?’ Karlach murmurs. Her eyes flicker and Shadowbeart burns. ‘You want to be a good girl — ’

I don’t know who I am anymore, but the sound of Karlach’s voice rumbling to tell her how well behaved she’s being is enough to stop the torment for now. She isn’t sure how she’s going to survive the night. Her thoughts turn to dust the moment Karlach presses her tongue flat against her clit and tortures her so well that even the Mother Superior would be jealous.

Shadowheart lets out an unrefined whine and reaches for the first thing she can. She drags Karlach’s pillow and places it under her hips to relieve pressure, and then whatever little self-disciple Karlach has snaps. She devours like she never has before, and Shadowheart’s back arches so far off the bedroll she’ll feel it in the morning.

It isn’t enough for Karlach to indulge. It would be so easy to make Shadowheart come by using her tongue alone, but Karlach presses the broad of her palm against Shadowheart’s hip and slides a single finger inside as if to test the limits. Then she slides in another, and Shadowheart is already so full she doesn’t know if she can take anymore.

It’s the size difference, Shadowheart thinks. She’s always been svelte and lanky, but Karlach is muscular enough that her mind begins to wonder nastily. Karlach is able to support her weight while feasting on her flesh and doesn’t even seem to mind. It’s too much. Shadowheart thinks she might fall.

Shadowheart’s stoic disposition crumbles beautifully beneath Karlach’s hands and tongue. The frigidity dissipates as Karlach adds a final third finger, bundling so tight inside of Shadowheart that she can hardly stand it, and when Karlach sucks and twists her fingers, Shadowheart cries out so loudly she’s convinced she’s woken the entire camp. She digs her fingers into Karlach’s hair and tries to keep her hips still, but she can’t help the way her legs shake on either one of Karlach’s shoulders. So tight, she feels dizzier than she ever has.

‘Karlach — ’ Shadowheart says weakly.

Karlach shakes her head and doesn’t say a thing, not even as Shadowheart comes so hard she loses her vision. She slips and falls lax against the pillow and Karlach chases her down, unwilling to let her escape too far. Shadowheart presses a hand against her chest to stop her racing heart but it isn’t enough.

Karlach over-stimulates her and giggles wickedly against her cunt, squeezing her thigh with her freehand. She doesn’t stop until Shadowheart has come again with a hoarse wail, curling on her side as if that will help her escape the never ending building pleasure in the pit of her stomach. Only once Shadowheart has come thrice is Karlach satisfied to release her in a boneless puddle on the bedroll.

Shadowheart’s body still twitches with the memory of Karlach’s fingers twisting deep. She squeezes her thighs together and tries to even her breathing by pressing her fingers against her belly. It doesn’t help. The only thing that lends any aid is Karlach’s chest pressing against back. She’s acutely aware of the differences of their stature — Karlach engulfs her entirely like a wildfire. She is a forest. She is the roots beneath the willows and the silence of the night. A wolf that howls at the moon.

The moon. Shadowheart pushes her sweaty bangs out of her face. She is content to rest and catch her breath as long as Karlach will allow it. It’s hard to feel kicked out of the tent when Karlach presses a tender kiss to the back of her head.

Shadowheart’s eyes open frantically. She is forced to admit what she’s always been afraid of. There is something not right with her past. She’s never chased the shadows before, but the Noblestalk had reminded her of things she never wanted to know.

‘I changed my hair,’ she says numbly. She stares at the flap of Karlach’s tent in muted horror.

‘It suits you,’ Karlach murmurs.

‘I don’t want to be in pain anymore,’ she says. She stares at her hand.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Yes. ‘No,’ Shadowheart says. ‘Is it alright if I rest here?’

Karlach is silent for a moment. Finally she says, ‘You can stay the entire night if you want.’

Shadowheart turns to face her. It’s hard to confront the things that she’s afraid of. She looks Karlach right in the eyes and tries to relax, biting the inside of her bottom lip to keep from frowning. Every day since the illithid ship has been lived in fear. She doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. She doesn’t want Karlach to be afraid either.

‘Well, shall I?’ she asks. She reaches between Karlach’s thighs.

‘Ah, no need,’ Karlach says with a shameless laugh. She’s blushing, and the only proof is the flame that flickers against her skin. ‘I, uh, already did.’

‘Oh,’ Shadowheart hums. It hits her. ‘Oh.’

Karlach doesn’t even seem the least bit embarrassed about it, and why should she? It’s flattering, to say the least. Shadowheart folds her hands back between them both and watches as Karlach settles for the night, dragging over a fur cloak to be used as a pillow. Shadowheart doesn’t have the heart to ask what happened to the other one. She’s fine enough knowing that their rendezvous was the culprit. But as Karlach’s eyes flutter shut to rest, Shadowheart’s stay open. She realizes she doesn’t know how to sleep next to another person.

It isn’t the same as sleeping in a camp surrounded by companions. There’s no idle chit chat or laughter to distract from the fact that her only companion was Karlach. There was no flickering fire to drown out the sound of her misery. Only Karlach’s quiet breathing and the smell of the dye in her hair, the thought of starlight replacing the twilight, the memory of Dame Aylin knowing who she was. Shadowheart reaches her hand across the distance.

Her fingers bump against Karlach’s. She has the audacity to be surprised when Karlach takes her hand and smooths her fingers across Shadowheart’s skin. She braces for pain that never comes. Lady Shar really has left her. Shadowheart doesn’t know why, but it makes her throat close.

Would she ever stop feeling like a child who knew nothing? Anger burns hot in the bottom of her throat as she tries to relax, but then the fury and fear and abandonment are washing over her in waves and she sobs.

Shadowheart doesn’t sleep, and Karlach respects her wishes to leave it alone for the night. That doesn’t stop her from imagining what it would be like. Shadowheart has spent her entire life running away from the brightness of the moon, but Karlach is so beautiful beneath the pale light. It’s strange. Shadowheart has never allowed herself to want before.

It has always been about Lady Shar’s will. It has always been about following Mother Superior’s creed. This was another taste of rebellion that would have had her palms caned until they bled. It feels like this will be the only chance for freedom now that the goddess has closed her eyes to Shadowheart.

Karlach’s face is soft and slack as she sleeps. She snores too. It’s an undelightful sound. It fills the entire tent until there’s no ignoring it. Yet Shadowheart doesn’t mind. She doesn’t care even the slightest bit. She would listen to it willingly if it meant happiness.

This is one of the easiest decisions Shadowheart has ever made. In the morning when Karlach wakes up, Shadowheart goes with her. They break their fast together by a stream and take time scrubbing their bodies clean of filth. When Karlach touches the small of her back, Shadowheart smiles for the first time since the Shadowfell.

‘A smile suits you,’ Karlach tells her earnestly.

Shadowheart stares at the water. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I think the moonlight does too.’

#shadowheart #shadowheart hallowleaf #shadowheart bg3 #karlach #karlach cliffgate #karlach bg3 #shadowheart x karlach #karlach x shadowheart #shadowheart smut #karlach smut #bg3 smut #from ，carcosa .#other fic #HAHA WHY AM I SO NERVOUS ABOUT THIS WAHHHH #anyway they get married the end

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soniclozdplove · 11 months

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So I have a mini theory about TOTK based on the memories, major spoilers under cut

So Zelda is around 10,000 years in the past, in the Era where this iteration of Hyrule was first founded. I say this iteration because I believe that this isn't the true original Hyrule that we know to have been founded form Skyward Sword but most likely a refounding of the kingdom from further down the timeline, similar to how New Hyrule was founded by Link and Tetra after Wind Waker, but that's my own headcanon and I don't really want to deal with the whole timeline bs right now. Which is why I'm only focusing on Zelda doing time travel in TOTK.

So... my question here is, exactly how long was she in the past!? The answer is 10,000 years, I know, but I mean... how long was ZELDA in the past. Not Zelda the Light Dragon but Zelda as herself. Time travel is a finicky subject since, for us, she could have only been missing for weeks, maybe months, before the end of the game. For her it could have been much, much longer.

My idea stens from a few factors, first being her relationship with Sonia and Rauru and the second being the Imprisoning War. A little bit of Ganondorf thrown in there too.

First and foremost, the bond between Zelda and her ancestors. Queen Sonia and King Rauru treat Zelda, a literal stranger to their politics and therapy, like a daughter. Far more so than he rown father ever did! When she has something to say, they listen to her concerns and validate them. Now that could just be them being good parental figures to their decendant, but Rauru had no reason to believe a word Zelda said about her concerns over Ganondorf's treachery when, in her time, the Imprisoning War that hadn't even happened yet was little more than a legend and barely remembered history. Nobody even knew who the Zonai were by the time BOTW came along. Yet Ganondorf aoemhow knew Sonia would listen if Zelda asked to see her in private, and Sonia and Zelda were both able to put a contingency plan in effect to thwart the attamped assassination. True they failed in the end, but the initial attempt had failed and the fact Ganondorf knew Zelda's image would move Sonia to leave her protection and her husband says a lot in and of itself.

Then the war itself. First of all, war isn't a quick matter. There is jo su h thing as a fast war no matter what history claims. All war is messy and takes years to deal with the fallout. And the Imprisoning War wasn't a simple skirmish. It was a massive war that put the Hylians and their aloud forces to the rbink of extinction, one that had long lasting consequences including but not limited to the longterm exclusion of all males within the Gerudo tribe with the exception of Link over 10,000 years down the line, and even then that only happened AFTER he saved the tribe twice over. A war that is o far reaching it is mere jyth and legend yet still very present at the time of BOTW. By the time the Sages swear allegiance to Rauru, he was the last bastion against the Demon King in his rampage with the last of the Gerudo falling shortly beforehand. That is, the Gerudo who are OP as hell in BOTW in all accounts and are literally trained from childhood as elite warriors in most cases.

Zelda had FOUGHT in that war and had spent an undetermined time after its ending, preparing the Kingdome of Hyrule and the remaining survivors for Ganondorf's inevitable revival as best she could. That in and of itself will likely take years, especially since she had to find a caretaker for Rauru and Sonia's unnamed and unseen heir to ensure her bloodline lasted long enough for her own birth.

So, I bring you back to my theory... Zelda has been in the past for at least several years before she turned into the Light Dragon. She did not immediately go to the Temple of Time and swallow the secret stone. She had to have had at least several months after the war at minimum before she could transform into a dragon. I know the Tears make it appear shorter than it was but there's no way all the events of the 8 tears can happen within a span of a few months. It had to have been years.

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ppomumgranatum · 2 months

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eyes don't lie.

Chapter 1

more on Ao3 and Wattpad

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow fic #hogwarts legacy fanfic #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow x mc #drama #sebastian sallow fanfiction

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couldtransitionsaveher · 3 months

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SIFFRIN from IN STARS AND TIME

JUSTIFICATION:

"Siffrin exhibits multiple traits commonly expressed by transfeminine individuals, including aversion to touch out a belief that her body is disgusting or monstrous, feeling as though she has to act or perform in a certain way in order to be accepted by her allies, and believing that she is only of use when she is serving others. Craft being used to change the body is normalized in Vaugarde, however Siffrin has shown in the story to be afraid of change and fully admits to running away or ignoring her problems. Going into spoiler territory, one important fact about Siffrin is that she does not remember her past or country, with this in mind, as well as seeing how she expresses a very ‘go with the flow’ attitude, it’s likely that she took her pre-transition body as is the default and simply never stopped to think about it more (or maybe she did think about it, didn’t like it, and buried it away). The game emphasizes Siffrin’s fear of being hated; she keeps details about herself hidden under a layer of irony and jokes out of fear she won’t be accepted, this is clearly shown in regards to the loops, but I don’t think it’s too far-fetched for her to be DEEP in the closet and staying there out of a desire to keep the group dynamics as-is.

Other anecdotal evidence that I’ll just list off:

-Feels uncomfortable with being thought of as a man (Happened in one of the bathroom break scenes).

-Has trouble crying even when she wants to (Also a bathroom break scene).

-Wears a (dysphoria) coat.

-Goes by he/they and all I can think of is the ‘he/him to she/her pipeline’ image. She’s so close to cracking I swear.

Considering the apex of the game is about laying yourself bare to those you love, I think Siffrin coming out and transitioning fits the game's themes to a T and WOULD save her some hassle altogether." - Anonymous

Reminder: Submissions are always open! Submit here!

#could transition have saved her #in stars and time #in stars and time siffrin #siffrin #transgender #trans hc #anonymous submission

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skania · 1 year

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THOUGHTS ON TOMMY & LIZZIE IN S6 (PART 2)

So this has been in my drafts for almost a year now. I kept putting it off because I wanted to rewatch the season to write my thoughts more coherently, but by now I think that’s just not happening so I’m posting it as is lol

Part 1 HERE

Once again, this post will contain tons of images, and spoilers for the entirety of Season 5 and Season 6. So, read at your own discretion!

So where I left off, Tommy and Lizzie had chosen to overcome Ruby's death and all the pain and stay together.

Tommy even makes her another promise, that he will change and change for good. For real this time. Just not yet.

The thing is, Tommy is right when he says has no limitations. He doesn't know when to stop. So, he doesn’t stop to think that other people may have a limit to how much they are willing to put up with. He figures that as long as he can keep providing for them, that as long as he can stay at the top of the chain, people will stay. That they will need him.

I feel like this is the crux of his behavior towards Lizzie, but when it comes to her, it’s not about the money. In his lowest moments, Tommy likes to pretend that it is; like in the S3 where he tries to give her money only for Lizzie to refuse to take it. Or in S5, when he lashes out saying that everyone needs him, she included.

But what keeps Lizzie by his side isn’t his money, it’s loyalty. It’s her love for him. Tommy knows this. It’s the reason why, whenever he does something he knows she will not like, Tommy feels guilty but still expects her to put up with it. And really, Lizzie has put up with so much throughout the series that Tommy's expectations aren't unfounded.

Until Diana happens.

Diana

The powerful thing about this scene is that all at once, Tommy knows that he has gone too far. He knows this is something he can’t ask Lizzie to overlook. Something she may not be able to forgive.

What Lizzie feared has come true. He has crossed the line.

The focus on his wedding ring tells us all we need to know, but what follows is just as striking.

His guilt, his panic is such that he feels trapped. He is back in those tunnels in France, a man with a death sentence and no way out.

And it’s all because he has stained Lizzie yet again.

Honestly, there’s a lot to say about Tommy’s dynamic with Lizzie. Tommy keeps most of his relationships transactional, but what Lizzie asks of him—what she deserves of him—is something Tommy doesn’t know how to give. I think this is part of what makes Lizzie get under his skin the way she does.

She loves him thoroughly and honestly and Tommy doesn’t know what to do with that because he doesn’t love himself, so he doesn’t know how to love her right, either. But—and that’s the thing—he wants to try. He sincerely wants to be a better man.

This is why he has such a visceral reaction to sleeping with Diana. Lizzie deserves better, she deserves so much better and Tommy is painfully aware of this. The fact that he was even capable of doing this to her makes him sick, because what does that say about the kind of man he is?

He changes the combination to the safe after this.

It’s not even because of his sickness, but because of this betrayal. He doesn’t want Lizzie to know. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Not yet. Not when he doesn’t have results that could perhaps, somehow, make her understand why he did it.

The saddest thing is that back when Tommy took Lizzie to that hotel room, he offered to let Lizzie into some of his plans, and she rejected his offer. She said she knew enough, because she was hurt at finding herself at the top of Tommy’s regrets. But now that she understands he doesn’t regret her, Lizzie is willing to give him another chance. She wants to know again.

But now more than ever, Tommy can’t let her in. All he can give her is a promise that he hopes he will be able to keep. That once everything is done, he will bare himself to her, sins and all.

The way he even restates his promise to her during the dinner shows the importance he is giving to it. Even now, Tommy thinks there’s time to make things right.

Of course, nothing ever goes the way he plans, so Diana comes in and the bomb explodes.

This scene is tragic but it’s so funny at the same time. He doesn’t even dare to look at Lizzie when Diana reveals they slept together. He tries to but immediately looks forward again. How sad is that lol

He is literally seething after Lizzie leaves. These two bastards humiliated Lizzie — and doomed his marriage — because he himself gave them the ammo.

And then Mosley goes and twists the knife right where it hurts.

How ironic! Tommy’s entire conflict with Lizzie this season is the entire opposite! The irony is not lost on Tommy, he kept to wine despite the american’s insistance that he switch to whiskey, but after this he does ditch the wine to pour himself a glass of whiskey lmao

This exchange pretty much summarizes everything Tommy has come to realize about himself and Lizzie this season.

Tommy tries and tries to do the right thing, but his means are always wrong. Sleeping with Diana is just the latest in a list of fuck-ups, and he has come to realize that even though he would like to believe the opposite, he can’t be what Lizzie deserves him to be because he does belong at that table.

And that’s the saddest ending.

The ending he has brought on himself.

Lizzie’s goodbye

It's funny because Tommy is an inherently selfish person. He is greedy and self-centered and single-minded. Despite having no plans of making her his wife, he tricked Lizzie into not marrying John in Season 1 and made sure she wouldn't date Angeal in Season 3.

What this all comes down to is that Tommy is caught in a hell of his own making but he's not selfless enough to let her go, because he wants her by his side.

Hell, if it weren't for his sickness, I bet Tommy would've found a way to convince Lizzie to stay, even after Diana. But his sickness and his lack of future (she doesn’t deserve what I’ll become) give Tommy the last push he needs to finally put Lizzie first and to free her from the curse (him), so he lets her go without a fuss.

The tragedy in all of this, is that this is the first time Tommy has been selfless about her. This is the first time he has truly put her first. But Lizzie doesn’t know this, because she never found out why the bomb was ticking.

This is literally the biggest act of love Tommy has ever done for her, but she doesn’t even know it. To her, his acceptance probably only confirms that he doesn’t love her enough.

Truly tragic from beginning to end.

The Rings

This was one of my favorite details this season. She takes hers off, but Tommy keeps his on until the bitter end. He wears it until the very day he intends to die.

Even though Lizzie has left him, Tommy keeps the reminder of their marriage on him. He chooses to stay married to her until his last moments.

Which is no surprise because even during that plane ride, Lizzie and all the ways he failed her kept weighting on his mind.

Right now, In this Moment

I wanted to wrap this up with this scene, because holy hell did we have to wait for it.

In Part 1, I talked about muy favorite bits: the parallels behind Lizzie knowing the combination to the safe, and Tommy saying that she married a man and she married a curse. But there’s something else that really stood out to me about Tommy’s wording, and it’s the way he choses to frame his long-time-coming confession.

I feel like this has so many layers; the wording is utterly deliberate and means a lot of things at once. Tommy chose that place because they have no history there; unlike Arrow House, there are no painful memories there. It isn’t tainted by their past and their mistakes. It’s a blank canvas where it’s just him and her.

But there’s more to it than that. Tommy dreads what he will become. Not only because of his business, but most of all, because of his sickness.

He fears he will have to crawl, grow insane and helpless. A few months from now, he may not even be aware of who he is and of the way he feels about her.

So I feel that he is essentially telling her: for the record, in this moment, when I am of sound mind, and in this room, where you and I are all that matter, I want you to know that I love you. I wanted you to know this, while I can still say it. Please remember it.

And of course, Lizzie knows at once that something is wrong. That Tommy is like a bomb waiting to explode, because why else would he be admitting that he loves her now? Why else would he be expressing it with such ominous wording?

So all in all, Season 6 is just really bittersweet because it’s like Tommy and Lizzie didn’t even have a fighting chance. He was dead because of Polly, dead because of Ruby, dead because of business, dead because of his illness; and then Lizzie is gone.

Throughout Peaky Blinders, we saw Tommy fight his love for Lizzie, we saw him accept it, then we saw him admit it; but we never got to see them happy the way we should have. There was always something bigger than them going on, and it’s a huge shame.

In all honesty, I have no idea what is expecting them in the movie. In a way, I think Tommy knows that finally letting her go is the best thing he has ever done for her. In that way, their chapter may truly be closed.

But if he does manage to change, to truly change for good and become a man worthy of having her by his side, then I’d like for him to think he deserves to fight for her. I do think that despite everything, Lizzie would likely give him another chance.

Because for better or worse, Lizzie loves Tommy Shelby. And while it was often for the worse, Tommy Shelby loves her too.

#peaky blinders #lizzie shelby #tommy shelby #tommylizzie #tv: peaky blinders #to the anon that asked me about this post a while ago #I'm so sorry it took this long!#I think I've played myself #back when I started writing these posts about them I didn't even ship them #I just really enjoyed their writing in S5 so I wanted to dissect it #but now I'd definitely rather they end up together lmao

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dag-hammarskjold · 1 month

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I cannot believe it, I found the Hammarskjold movie

I really enjoyed it, it is about everything I would ask for

Thoughts under the read more, will include spoilers

I really like the direction, the dichotomy between Hammarskjold the Secretary-General and Dag the person. I see why some wanted more focus on the crisis itself, but I actually think the crisis is not that relevant to him, as the subject of the movie. And given the almost 2 hour run time already, I think it was the right decision.

I cannot talk about the dichotomy between Secretary-General and man without talking about Peter. I remember reading that the director added Peter as a stand-in for him, as a voice to which he said what he wanted to Dag. I definitely see that, but his sub-plot with Dag was so good it is barely noticeable. (And I respect the rpf self insert shipping 😂)

In the movie, Dag and Peter knew each other since University, but were estranged after Peter tried to kiss him on a camping trip. It’s almost like a romcom setup - the love interest reappears into the protagonist’s life in a time of turmoil and uncertainty, reigniting feelings the protagonist long repressed. In the past, Peter even gave him a gift - a statue of a unicorn - something Dag would later use in Markings to describe himself.

The conflict within Dag is so palpable. When Dag was told Peter had previously been found guilty of homosexuality in Sweden, the first thing he asked was if anyone else knew. When he rejected Peter for the second time, Greenback his pet monkey and sole companion died almost simultaneously… the parallel writes itself doesn’t it?

The Congo crisis itself was probably the weaker part of the movie, and I am fine with it. It quietly builds up in the background, and ends almost just as unsatisfyingly quiet. Because there is no fight at the climax, this is not a 3-arc narrative where everything is resolved, not even like the more well-known crises in the Cold War where everything ended generally better than it started, the crisis continued on for years, if not till modern day. Hammarskjold died, and the movie ends with him. I would suggest watching a different movie if you want to focus on the events of the crisis.

It somewhat reminds me of reading about the crisis in real life: you know what it is from the start, there is no gallant fight, you watch them walk away less hurt than the good people, you watch them win using all the dirty tricks, you know it doesn’t matter that the pilot who shot his plane down had tears in his eyes, you know how it ends.

Most other characters are relatively one-note, and I think it fits. Dag was a lonely, perhaps very repressed man. I think on some level he was afraid of being known so intimately, the way Peter did, and thus he keeps most people (that he didn’t know prior to being at the UN) at arm’s length.

The use of quotes from Markings were also well-chosen and well-timed. I could almost recite them by heart, and they fit very well into the plot. The movie does a really good job making you want to see Dag happy - in a cottage near his friends, back home in Sweden, no stressful job, and perhaps love. When Peter sent him a letter telling Dag that he had a right to be happy too, and Dag replied that Peter would be welcome when his term ended, it hurts ever more knowing it was too late.

I previously said this movie was my Oppenheimer, but that isn’t entirely accurate now, I suppose. Oppenheimer was a deeply polarising individual - the father of the atomic bomb - the movie must balance between his point of view and addressing the reality/horrors of him and his creation.

But Hammarskjold does not have this baggage - he is still by a wide margin considered the best Secretary-General of the UN, remembered universally positively. For once, Hammarskjold didn’t have to be the image of an impossibly perfect Secretary-General, he can be Dag. And I think he has more than earned it.

If this movie is all that the world will ever learn about Dag Hammarskjold, I would be satisfied. I would rank this a 10/10, but I am very easily satisfied by movies.

(If I got anything wrong, it’s probably because the version I watched had a dub in a language I do not speak, and subtitles that were not in sync with the movie)

#dag hammarskjold #united nations #hammarskjold (2023)#hammarskjold fight for peace #congo crisis

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some-complete-idiot · 8 months

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You know while I’m thinking about Hotline Miami I’m gonna rant about something.

Let me first show you a completely wrong (in my opinion) image

Jacket is no villain.

RANT BEGIN!!!

Also! There will be spoilers for both Hotline Miami 1 and 2! If you’re at all interested in playing some ball busting games that are so fucking good, go get them now!

Now I can understand why you could call Jacket a villain, but I feel that completely undermines his whole character and story arc!

The quick and simple way to explain why Jacket isn’t a villain is by this comparison,

Calling Jacket a villain is like calling The Punisher a villain.

You’re not completely wrong, they both do things that are barely redeemable, but the difference is that The Punisher keeps trying to find new scapegoats for his family’s death. While Jacket only goes after the people he considers to be the cause of his problems.

That’s why at the end of Hotline Miami 2 (from now on will be referred to as Wrong Number) you see Jacket just sitting in a jail cell. He’s content with his fate, for he finally got back at the people who hurt him, and his friends.

Jacket’s Reasoning

Here I’ll give you an outline of what Jacket’s reasoning for his rampage of Russian Mobsters was for.

You see, Jacket is a veteran! And he was on this super special team with 3 other people, including the character known as Beard.

Now in Wrong Number we get to see what Jacket did in his service years, he was stationed in Hawaii and was tasked with pushing out the Vietcong that had invaded. (I think? lol) Him and Beard were already good friends, hell they got a war reporter take their picture together! Very wholesome buddies* in my opinion. Every person on Jacket’s team all had their own things they wanted to do after the war, but only two, including Jacket, ever got to leave Hawaii in one piece.

You see, Jacket’s team was tasked with taking out some enemies that were hulled up in a power plant, Jacket was heavily injured, but Beard saved him and got his ass out of there. But there was still one more squad member left behind, so another one of Jacket’s squad that got out went back in to save the MIA member.

But sadly, the only survivors of the mission would be Jacket and Beard.

Skip ahead to after the war, Beard got to do what he wanted to do after the war, open up a small shop in San Francisco…

But in war, it’s winners are the one who get to write the history books, so Russia decided to nuke San Francisco to win the Cold War.

Now Jacket is the last of his squad.

How Jacket Grieves

I consider Jacket’s actions in Hotline Miami, for the most part, be him grieving in a strange, twisted way.

I mean, if you were given a mask by a random organization, told to go to an address, and found a bunch of Russian Mobsters who you in part believe are the ones who caused your pain, you’d be bashing in skulls as well.

But I do believe that Jacket does have a sense of who and who not he will kill, an example is that after you complete the first level, you go to throw away a briefcase you got from the scene of the Russian Mobsters. But when you throw away the briefcase when, RANDOM HOMELESS MAN ENCOUNTER!

Jacket is forced to kill the man, and while you begin to walk back to your car Jacket stops himself and takes off his mask and pukes. He clearly doesn’t like to kill people who are not involved with his pain.

Jacket and Girlfriend

Now this is what I constantly point to when people just call Jacket a villain, in Hotline Miami, after one level Jacket finds a poor girl who was being tortured by the mobsters that were in the building you had just cleared out.

The woman fully expects Jacket to kill her, but instead he takes her in and nurses her back to health. And he doesn’t force anything out of her, he gives her all the space she wants and she ends up becoming someone that seems to help Jacket.

That’s what makes the death of Girlfriend even worse when it happens.

Jacket is no Hero

I would like to also say that Jacket is no hero either, I believe his worst action was raiding the police headquarters and killing the cops in there just so he could learn why the person who killed Girlfriend (another person who was getting calls) did so.

But the ending of Hotline Miami is what I feel like shows off his character, Jacket kills the head of the Russian Mob in Miami and walks out to a balcony. He lights a cigarette and pulls out a Polaroid picture, he looks at it one last time before he lets go of the picture.

Because he’s avenged the person who saved him back on Hawaii; Beard.

Conclusion

In conclusion, calling Jacket a villain in my opinion is somewhat misguided.

While some of Jacket’s actions don’t feel justifiable I do feel completely condemning him is completely misunderstanding his character and motives.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk :)

#*boyfriends #hotline miami #hotline maimi 2 #rant post :)#yeah

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14muffinz · 1 year

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Statistics Rambles!!

OKAY EVERONE, HERE WE GOOOO

so, before we begin, this includes unposted/never to be published chapters, going from old drafts of the 07 crossover to the beginnings of a cassandra-centric adventure in the bayverse, but here is the calling out statistic post that nobody wanted, made in the nice hours between 1 and 4 in the morning

So.

Some characters have not appeared yet.

Spoilers, obvis. Some is from deleted which I will not be specifying but still.

So to clarify names:

slipper_slime = 18!Sunita kickin_karai: 12!karai nardo87 = 07!Leo

If you do the math, the 07 boys could have been mutated in 1987, which is obviously something that this fandom would find nice enough to headcanon. It's not just me. anyways.

For each individual universe, here's who (percentage-wise) talks the most! (Sorry mobile users)

In order:

2012 Dontron97 24.7% - 473 happy_Mike 20.2%% - 387 newage_red_artist 19.1% - 366 Cpt_Leo 13.7% - 263 sticks_n_pucks 10.6% - 204 ello_yello 7.6% - 146 kickin_karai 4.1% - 78

I was honestly surprised by how close Casey was to Leo? I knew he was gonna catch up despite his late entrance but have I not been including Leo enough or is Casey just everywhere.?

I thought that I had April talking a lot more than i did, lmao. Then again I have a few chapters in my notes app that aren't in these numbers yet so maybe she's a lil closer than will be shown in the images.

Rise NeonLeon9000 27.3% - 512 Bootyyyshaker9000 21.7% - 407 mystic_mike 17.5% - 328 red_Raph 14.7% - 276 sherlocked_corn 7.3% - 137 free_brownies 6.1% - 114 CJones 4.4% - 83 slipper_slime 0.9% - 16

Raph's number in comparison to his bro's is where I expected 12Leo to sit. Percentage-wise the two are essentially the same, but Leo is way behind his mikey whereas raph is only about 40 messages away, which mind you is still a lot but its less noticeable.

Cass is definitely further up because of the times her name is used in the 600 word abandoned draft of an actual fic I mentioned previously, but other than that her being just barely below April is what I guessed. CJ being so close, though, was a surprise.

Bayverse sleepdeprived_shell 26.9% - 286 im_blue_katanas 26.5% - 282 dear_pizza_supreme 23.3% - 248 callme_rafi 21.1% - 225 Casey 1.2% - 13 April 0.9% - 10

I knew Don was going to be first. Not a doubt in my head. I expected Mikey to be above Leo, but I guess I had a little too much fun writing the blue one. I did also use Bay mike as a conversation starter rather than a carrier a lot, so I guess that's why he's so little to what I remembered. Raph's expected, I removed him for the entirety of the winter arc which is like 1/6 of the fic rn.

Poor April and Casey 😭. I'm sorry but Bay April is confusing and Bay Casey is annoying and that's how they're probably going to stay for the durration of the fic.

2007 secretly_mike 56.9% - 112 don_247 29.4% - 58 raph87 10.7% - 21 nardo87 3.0% - 6

Leo and Raph were in an old draft of the first 07 appearance. In that draft, Mikey also sends 34 messages, apparently? I was surprised when I saw it, but it turns out i just had him do triple messages a lot.

MM sarcasm_stabs 33% - 35 tech_hits 27.4% - 29 actually_mike 19.8% - 21 blueberry 19.8% - 21

~~~~~

Next up: who do I write the most.

There was a version of this with every character in the fic, but it is way too eye-hurty and way too long for me to list out each individual character in this post, but here's the simplified version that combines each iteration into one person.

Same numbers as last time, just combined differently.

Characters Don 24.6% - 1149 Leo 21.4% - 998 Mike 21.2% - 990 Raph 18.6% - 871 Casey 7.5% - 351 April 5.4% - 251 Karai 1% - 47 Sunita 0.3% - 16

I knew Don was gonna be in first. Hes the fav. Leo being in second? Surprising, but Leon was the most talkative person which is not only on brand but theres also 2 leo cult chapters and I'm always a sucker for some disaster twins. I expected Raph to be 2nd, so him being 4th? Shocker.

I knew the Caseys would be bigger than the April's just because there's an extra one for their possee. I considered making JR his own collumn but decided eh whatever.

Also Rip Karai n Sunita I love you both but self control <3

~~~~~

And of course, finally, by dimension. We already knew the results but here we go.

By Iteration Rise 40.1% - 1873 TMNT 2012 32.9% - 1539 Bay 22.8% - 1064 TMNT 2007 4.2% - 197

Yep. Just as I guessed. Rise, then 12, then Bay. And then of course 07 who haven't even been given a chance to shine yet.

I'll get to them. At some point.

Anywhizzle, I'll come back to this post a lot just to edit numbers if I'm bored, but the images probably won't ever change, so take then with a grain of salt.

#bonus: there are 8 references to 'tinies'#calling out from the multiverse

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autumnalwalker · 4 months

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Empty Names - 20 - Changeling Child

Author's Note: In which Ashan helps out a fairy that just realized they aren't human and draws uncomfortable parallels to his own experiences. Also, Lacuna horrifies everyone with mad science. There were a lot of delays with life generally getting in the way of this chapter being written, but I am a little proud of myself for just barely squeezing this in before the year ends, as per the goal I set for myself a month ago (in my home time zone anyhow). That said, I didn't manage to give this chapter my usual once-over full reread before posting, so I won't be too surprised if I edit this post later, if only to add the spoiler commentary to the tags. Hope you enjoy, and Happy New Year, everyone. Minor edits to wording/typos have now been made and additional commentary has been added to the tags. Word Count: 11,337 Content Warnings: Fantasy fight scene violence. Attempted (but failed) mind control. Passing reference of blood and gore without detail. Mild body horror. Deadnaming and misgendering a trans person (not Lacuna for once).

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

It is a strange thing, to suddenly obtain a new material possession when one has previously made a point of keeping as few as possible. Stranger still when that new possession is slightly too big to fit into the folded space within the sleeves of your robe to keep safely on your person at all times. Eris did however include a white carrying case to go along with the matte-black laptop she gifted to Ashan last week, so that is something. It is not quite the same shade of white as his robe, but it is close enough that Ashan appreciates the thought.

For the time being, that laptop has stayed hooked up inside the guestroom within Bridgewood Manor that Ashan has been occupying since that first mission with Road nearly two months ago. At Lacuna’s urging he has tried to incorporate it into his morning and evening routines, if only to check the electronic mail. Thus far that has mostly just consisted of messages from Lacuna containing images with humor he is still grasping, the occasional suggestion from Eris regarding educational resources, and one from Bridgewood congratulating the three of them on connecting to the Manor’s WiFi. That last part had been nearly as esoteric process as Lacuna’s explanation of memes, and that had rapidly devolved into a rambling lecture about long cats, defunct deities, a philosopher called Plato, dual linguistic meanings lost in translation, and the ultimately futile and deceptive nature of the written word.

Whether it had been Lacuna’s intention or not, that extended feline rant led to his spending even more of his downtime on the computer than in the Bridgewood library since then. Not for the memes, but to find out who Plato was. That reference to an (apparently) historic figure as if familiarity were assumed once more drove home the fact that being stolen away before even completing an elementary-level education made him a foreigner in his own homeland. True, Aliana had tutored him on mathematics, logic, literary analysis, and other such skills in addition to magic, but none of the history or philosophy he learned under her guiding hand came from Earth. And why would it have?

But now this strange little bifurcated box offered a way to, if not fully amend, then at least mitigate that ignorance. While Ashan had long been aware of the Internet and its theoretical use as a store of knowledge and a communication medium, between a childhood in a home without a computer and adolescence spent in world without electronics he had never really experienced it until Eris showed up at the Lonely Walk office and handed him a surprise gift. To hear about it is one thing, but to actually scroll through the pages upon pages listing titles for tens of thousands of transcribed books free for access and hyperlinked inter-referencing encyclopedia articles tracing an interwoven tapestry of conceptual linkage from ancient philosophers to arboreal bearcats was another thing entirely. Ashan had known scholars on Orthon who would weep with joy and envy at the mere idea of such a library.

Admittedly, there were some complications with exploring the wider Internet caused by his translation charm not knowing how to handle trying to use a keyboard. Writing words by hand had been bad enough ever since the onset of his condition, causing whatever he wrote to come out as a pidgin of a dozen or so different languages - many of which he had never even personally encountered before - that was effectively gibberish to anyone without translation magic of their own or a very intense interest in linguistics. Trying to force his thoughts through a single achingly unrecognizable symbol at a time to try to form words specifically in a language that had been stolen from him was… distressing. Speech recognition software had proven no better, with the device - as Eris explained it to her - responding to specific physical sound patterns without any true perception happening for his charm to tap into. But he still has the collection of links and bookmarks his friends had sent him, and that is proving to more than suffice. Just those first two resources Eris provided him with were more than could be read in a single human lifetime.

Friends. What a wonderful thing to be able to call someone. How had he never realized what he was missing?

So now, on this particular morning, after his long-standing morning rituals of exercise and meditation (and a breakfast that he is perfectly capable of remembering and not putting off when there are not more pressing matters to attend to), Ashan turns on his laptop and checks his electronic mail. There is one new message, sent from Lacuna at two in the morning.

Its subject line reads “Simulations are done.”

Ashan is not normally one to hurry or rush things. Ashan barely takes the time to skim the full text of the message before closing the laptop and departing from Bridgewood Manor and the surrounding Estate at the quickest possible pace that will not leave him visibly winded. The brief time that it takes to reach the tree bridge that will transport him to its twin tree across the street from the office feels like an age in his excitement, and he tries to remind himself that after this long of a wait a few extra minutes will not make a difference. It is certainly nothing worth breaking decorum over, even with no one else around.

An eager grin the like of which has not graced his face in years creeps in all the same as he steps out of the Bridgewood Estate’s secure transit between the trees and into the early morning sunshine.

He crosses the street and then the sidewalk, and then the outermost of the security wards surrounding the Lonely Walk Outreach Agency. Invisible to the mundane or inattentive eye though they might be, after all the time he has spent adjusting and fine tuning them it is difficult for Ashan not to perceive them as a shifting rainbow lattice-work overlaid in concentric bubbles around the refurbished antique building.

The front door is unlocked, indicating that Lacuna must already be inside, given that Road and Eris were not expecting to be back from the followup to their most recent mission for another day or two. Ashan heads straight downstairs towards Lacuna’s basement lab; the woman is hardly ever anywhere else these days.

And yet, when the door slides open he finds her usual chair unoccupied despite all the computer monitors surrounding it being turned on. Ashan’s first thought is that she has simply stepped out for a moment to feed or relieve herself, but then he notices the figure displayed on the monitors. Eight different cameras at eight different angles and levels of zoom are displaying eight live feeds split across two screens Eight mechanical eyes watch a faceless white mannequin in worn and baggy clothes standing almost perfectly still in the middle of an evenly-lit blank white room. Its chest and shoulders rise and fall to the rhythm of slow and steady breaths despite the lack of mouth or nose. A timestamp on one of the video feeds tells Ashan that the recording has been running for nearly five hours now.

Ashan crosses the lab to the testing chamber door where he finds the clothes Lacuna was wearing yesterday lying crumpled on the floor. Curiosity morphing into concern, he hits the large red button to open the testing chamber doors and steps inside.

The mannequin takes no notice of him.

“Hello,” Ashan softly calls out to the figure.

No response.

“Lacuna, is that you?” Ashan asks, sliding his wand out of his sleeve and into his hand in a practiced gesture.

A shudder runs through the mannequin.

“Lacuna,” Ashan emphasizes the name, “are you alright?” Cautiously easing closer, he realizes that the mannequin is making a fist around something in one of its hands.

The mannequin twitches and jerks, contorting its limbs.

“Lacuna, may I see what that is you are holding?”

The mannequin goes still again before slowly turning its head down to eyelessly look at the hand it has brought up to chest level. Its fingers uncurl to reveal a sphere of interwoven plastic tendrils that rolls off of its hand and shatters when it hits the ground.

In an instant, the mannequin grows three inches, shifts its skin from blank white to a mere sickly pale with the occasional freckle, sprouts hair, and contracts its blank face to reveal the contours of features.

It surprises Ashan just how light Lacuna is when she falls forward into his arms. He is barely even eye level with her shoulder on the rare occasions she stands up straight, but he realizes now just how much she is skin and bones beneath the loose-fitting clothing she always seems to favor.

“Don’t tell Eris,” Lacuna breathes into his ear before passing out.

*******

“I’m sorry,” Lacuna apologizes for the tenth time since waking up. The first three times had come in quick succession upon regaining consciousness a minute or so after fainting. The fourth came when asking for a moment of privacy to change back into her clothes from yesterday, and the fifth when emerging from her lab some minutes later. The sixth was a part of turning down Ashan’s advice to put herself into the autodoc suite. The seventh was instigated by her stumbling on the stairs ascending out of the office’s basement, which in turn led to the eighth when accepting Ashan’s offer to help her up. The ninth took the place of thanks when Ashan unstuck the cap she was struggling with on the bottle of apple juice she retrieved from the refrigerator. What this latest one is for is less immediately apparent.

Now she sits at the other end of the kitchen table from Ashan, staring down at an empty wrapper of plain salted crackers. Stripes of morning light cut between the window blinds and divvy up the space between them.

“For what are you sorry this time?” Ashan prompts.

Lacuna flinches at the question, withdraws momentarily, and hesitantly answers, “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? That must be annoying, sor- Gah! Why do I keep - I mean -” She stumbles over her words a few more times before closing her eyes, holding up one finger, and taking a long drink to drain the rest of her glass. Setting down the glass, she opens her eyes and tries again while drumming her fingers on her arms in a rolling motion.

“I should have gone to bed and gotten a decent night’s sleep after sending you that message. So that I’d be able to help you today. Instead I got over-excited and tried to squeeze in a little bit of time now that the server load was free. For a personal project. Selfish.”

“Apology accepted,” Ashan says, keeping the disappointment out of his voice. He tries to tell himself that just one more day of waiting will not hurt him. And if Lacuna is a reckless enough enchanter to run some manner of botched transmutation ritual on herself, perhaps it would be for the best that he does not let her try to experimentally “help” him. “But why did you not want me to tell Eris? Friends are supposed to aid one another when distressed, are they not?”

“I don’t want her to worry about me. Same for Road,” she mumbles.

“You mean to say that becoming stuck as a faceless imitation of a human being all night is not cause for concern?”

“It’s fine!” Lacuna snaps defensively and then shrinks back from her own raised voice. “It’s fine,” she says more quietly. “I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s a problem I’ve been working for a while now and that’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to me so far. And the enchantment had a safety timer built in, so I would have been fine.” She raises her head, looking through Ashan rather than at him. “Compared to some of the other mishaps, this one actually felt… nice? It was quiet. Like all the thoughts going in my head all the time finally shut up for once and let me just be. Awareness without a sense of self to be aware of and in a room with no external stimulus.” She slaps a hand to her forehead and laughs. “Okay, wow, that does sound bad when I say it aloud, but I promise I’m fine. It was actually about as restful as sleeping, I’m just a bit frazzled right now from the sudden jolt back into things. And probably dehydration. And maybe low blood sugar. But I’m good now. Mostly”

As Ashan opens his mouth to form a reply to that, several other noises interrupt him at once. The sharp ringing of the outer barrier detecting an intruder with violent intent. A shout of fear. A howl of pain.

Before Lacuna can even make a surprised exclamation of her own, Ashan is already out the kitchen, past the repurposed check-in counter, and throwing open the door. The frightened and haggard individual sporting a denim jacket covered in enamel pins on the other side stops dead in their tracks at the motion of a wand coming within an inch of poking their eye out. Looking under and past the unexpected visitor’s placatingly raised arms, Ashan catches a glimpse of a smoking pantherine shape on the sidewalk dissipating in a sparkling green haze. The tree-lined street is left empty except for fallen petals and parked cars. The blue electric hatchback with claw marks on the side parked nearest to the former bed and breakfast had not been there when Ashan arrived barely half an hour ago.

Ashan’s eyes flick back to the individual standing in front of the door, locking gazes.

“What was that?” he asks.

“I was hoping you could tell me. Now please, you gotta let me in. Before it -”

They double over groaning in pain. With effort they crane their neck up to reveal a face flickering between two forms. One of an unremarkably average brown-eyed human with two or three days of unshaven stubble, and the other violet-eyed with smooth, waxy leaf-green skin. Violet eyes or brown, the look of desperate fear and confusion is the same. It strikes Ashan how young they are. No more than late teens.

“Help me,” they gasp.

Ashan guides them to a couch in the nearby living room, locking the door behind them. They recover quickly enough after lying down - Lacuna catches up just in time to see the surprise guest’s face flicker for the last time - but even after their face settles back to human their left arm remains green. They cradle it to their chest, as if it were still in pain. Or as if they were trying to hide it. Shame? Fear? Embarrassment? All of the above, Ashan guesses.

“Name,” Ashan says, instruction more than question. He remains standing, alert for the first sign of treachery from whomever he just invited in or of another attempt at entry from whatever that was outside.

“Tam,” the individual on the couch stammers. “Tam Lin.” Their green left hand clutches tighter at the utterance.

Ashan stares this Tam Lin down. On the one hand, that sort of fear - the bewildered fear of having been abruptly thrust Backstage for the first time - is as difficult to fake as it is recognizable. On the other hand, that which he suspects them to be are known to be excellent actors and none of their kind would so easily give away their Name.

“Tell me Tam Lin,” Ashan asks, “what brings you here today?”

The green hand twitches at the Name’s emphasis, even without any attempt at nominal magic infused into his voice. Yes, definitely one of the fair folk, but why the guileless deception? Why take such risk with a Name freely spoken, as sensitive as their kind are to that?

“The website,” Tam says, “it said you can help with weird stuff like this. You can help me, right?”

“Most likely,” Ashan answers, “but first we need to know more specifically what your problem is.”

“If I may,” Lacuna speaks up from where she has perched on an ottoman at the other end of the couch from Tam. As she slips her phone back into her skirt pocket and intently looks Tam up and down all her earlier disorientation has vanished completely. Ashan knows that eager, almost hungry look. It is a look he has seen on experimentally-minded wizards presented with a unique specimen and alchemists greedily eying rare reagents. And on children seeing their favorite animal in the flesh for the first time.

With only the slightest misgiving, Ashan nods in assent.

Lacuna’s eyes light up and she leans in even closer. “Right. So. Tam. Let me know if I miss the mark anywhere. As a kid you saw all sorts of fairies and similar magic. When you got older you wrote them off as childhood make believe, but ever since you had strange and vivid dreams about them. Maybe you even were one in your dreams. When you hit puberty, those dreams got more frequent. More intense. Easier to remember. Almost a second life whenever you were at your lowest points. Still just dreams at the end of the night though. Nothing you couldn’t put out of mind and focus on the ‘real world.’ And then one day. A recent day. I would guess. One or both of your parents died. Ever since, you’ve started having those dreams every night. And then every time you closed your eyes. And then when you looked in the mirror, wide awake, you looked like you did in your dreams. That’s when something started following you. Not knowing where else to turn, you turned to the Internet, and found us. No one answered your calls or the message you left. That’s my bad. Real sorry about that. So you hopped in the car and drove all night to our address.”

Tam stares at her, eyes wide and jaw agape. “My moms are still alive, but everything else is - how did you know?”

Ashan tilts his head, surprised and curious to know himself.

Lacuna slips back into her usual discomfort, awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry. That was weird of me, wasn’t it? Got carried away. Touches on a… special interest of mine. So. Basically. You’re a changeling. A fairy swapped with a human baby to be raised in its place to take its Name.”

“You’re joking,” Tam denies.

“You were quite literally shapeshifting in front of me,” Ashan points out.

“Not intentionally,” Tam says.

“It wouldn’t be,” Lacuna says. “Historically speaking, most children accused of being changelings were just some flavor of neurodivergent. The real ones tend to blend in as normally as the baby they swapped with would have, fooling even themselves. Not that there isn’t overlap between the two from time to time. A Name isn’t just the name it’s tied to, it’s a whole identity, physical and mental. Most changelings have no idea they’re not human until something triggers a change, at which point whatever fae liege made the bargain will come to retrieve them. Or send a servant to do so. Kinder ones will be upfront about it and explain things. Maybe even make an offer to continue living as you are.”

“And crueler ones will send a hunting beast to drag you back kicking and screaming,” Ashan posits.

Tam’s nervous nod is all the confirmation Ashan needs as to what tripped the wards around the office.

“What I’m still hung up on,” Lacuna says, “is what triggered your change. Normally it’s the death of whichever parent made the deal, but…” She trails off as her eyes alight on one of the pins adorning Tam’s denim jacket. A heart of four stripes. Yellow, white, purple, and black. “How long ago did you start calling yourself Tam?” she asks.

“A little over three years ago.” Tam answers. “Just before I turned sixteen. But, come to think of it, the dreams actually stopped for a while when I came out, if that’s what you’re getting at. The therapist my moms had me see told me it was probably just a repression thing that didn’t need an outlet anymore now that I’d accepted myself. I’d just about forgotten about them until this all started out of the blue a couple weeks ago.”

“You said ‘moms,’ plural,” Ashan observes. “What about a father?”

Tam shakes his head. “I asked about it once and they told me they went through a fertility clinic. Anonymous donor. No legal way to know who.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Lacuna says. “Dirty dealing and a really messed up way to get around the classic ‘firstborn child’ contract, but clever."

“Clever or not,” Ashan says, “I suspect it is beside the point at the moment. The more pertinent question is this: What do you want Tam?”

“What do I want? I want to stop being chased by a giant monster cat! I want to stop randomly turning green! I want my life back!”

“Do you truly want that? Even knowing what you know now? Even with the knowledge that it may not be your life to begin with?”

“Of course it’s my life! So what if I was switched with some other kid at birth? It was me that everything happened to. It’s me that everyone in my life knows. My moms, my friends, my experiences, and my life!”

“And you are not the least bit curious about what else your life could be if you found more answers and embraced what you really are?”

“Oh screw you and your mind games. Do I look like I give a shit about some absentee fairy king dad wants for me? I know who I am and don’t you dare imply that my life hasn’t been real.”

“Good answer,” Ashan says. “Now hang on to that conviction. You shall need it.”

“What for?”

“For when we go tell a fae liege unused to being told ‘no’ that they cannot have what they want.”

*******

“Last check if you want to wait until Road and Eris get back,” Lacuna’s voice says through Ashan’s earpiece as he stands just inside the picket fence marking the border of the office and the unwarded sidewalk.

“Road left me behind for the express purpose of helping any clients that show up needing help while they are away, and that is exactly what I am doing now,” Ashan responds. “We have taken the necessary precautions and I see no reason to doubt my ability to resolve the matter. Or are you saying that you would rather wait?”

“I’m nervous, not gonna lie, but what else is new? You’re the one with the hard job here, so we’ll be fine. Anyway, mirror charm’s still holding strong on this end. Tam still looks like you in here, and you still sound like them. Let’s just hope it fools everyone else as well as it fools me.”

According to Tam, the beast that has been hounding them for weeks now only shows itself when no one else is around, which presented a complication for any plans to assist them. Fortunately Lacuna had been able to dig up a pair of bracelets she had enchanted some time back as part of one of her ever-vague “personal projects.” Allegedly they operated via a modified perception filter to cause observers to perceive one wearer as the other while leaving the wearers’ perception unaltered. That last part had caused Lacuna to deem the bracelets “an experimental failure but exactly what we need now,” while leaving Ashan and Tam to take her word on their efficacy. While even now Ashan can tell that the bracelet is doing something whenever he glances down at his wrist, actively focusing on it is nearly as nauseating and disorienting as that concealment ritual of hers.

The same goes for the little metal rectangle engraved with a not-quite-fractal on either side now hanging from a cord around his neck and tucked beneath his robe. According to Lacuna it is supposed to provide protection from anything trying to get into his mind. It was the one amulet out of the whole clinking mass she had tried to foist upon him that he accepted, and mostly just to placate her, if he is being honest. She had been busy these past weeks with enchanting trinkets from her library of pre-recorded rituals from her old job and if Ashan had hung all that she had offered around his neck the combined static noise of their auras that close to him would have run the risk of making him sick.

Once again, he wonders how she has not accidentally killed herself already. Or at least blown up her lab.

But enough of that. What comes next requires a clear mind free of distracted musings.

A static tingle runs over Ashan as he steps through and beyond the outermost ward and onto the unprotected sidewalk. He continues forward, past the car Tam hastily and crookedly parked on the curb. The claw marks on the vehicle are long and deep, and numerous enough to indicate multiple attempts at retrieval. He comes to a stop with one foot on either side of the painted divider line bisecting the empty street.

“I am ready now,” Ashan says to no one. “Guide me to your master and I shall follow of my own free will.”

A sudden breeze carries the scent of dry leaves and kicks up a swirl of sparkling green dust. The same synesthetic mapping that allows Ashan to “see” the wards around the office shows him a rapidly growing ring within the verdant haze. A low growl rumbles out of the hole within the formless ring and a pantherine shape slinks out from behind the breeze.

The great cat sharing the street with Ashan would be longer than he is tall even without the tail that coils and unfurls as it slowly sweeps back and forth. The beast’s baldness only accentuates its bulging muscles and the isolated shock of dark hair atop its head. The brown eyes that stare up into Ashan’s look just like Tam’s. It snarls, barring too-human teeth for the shape of its head, and then turns away.

Ashan follows the hunting beast across the street to a fairy ring of white mushrooms near the bridge tree that most certainly had not been there when he arrived earlier this morning. It pads around to the far side of the fairy ring, looks back to Ashan, gestures downward with its head, and flexes its claws. Its front paws have thumbs.

The message is clear enough: Step into the ring. Run again and claws will catch.

If the earlier swirl of dust was a tunnel, the fairy ring is a hole beckoning him into its depths. Ashan knows better than to let himself fall in.

He leaps.

He does not look before nor during the leap. Such transitions do not wish to be perceived. It takes longer than it rightly should for his feet to touch the ground. He keeps his eyes closed and tries not to heed his less biological senses lest nausea take him as he falls. Not that “falling” is the correct word for it. That would imply an up or down.

His arrival is signaled not by an impact but by the smell of dry leaves and the tickle of inhaled dust. He pinches his nose to stifle a sneeze and opens his eyes.

The space he finds himself in cannot seem to decide if it wants to be a forest or a castle. He is surrounded by pale-barked twisted trees. He is standing in a solid-walled narrow corridor. Fallen leaves crunch under his feet as he shifts his weight to look around. A neat carpet stretches behind him off into shadows and before him up to an ornate beaded curtain. A cloud-muted sun filters down through a canopy of desiccated foliage. A star-backed moon shines through a high vault of stained glass. Either way, motes of dust catch the weak light, shifting through the slow motion gyre of a breeze too weak for flesh to feel.

“Are you alright? We lost the feed for a minute there.” The static crackle of signal decay does little to conceal the concern in Lacuna’s voice. Is that not the tone she normally reserves for Eris? Are she and Ashan closer than he realized, or does she worry like that with everyone she considers a friend? He has little basis for comparison to correlate sensitivity of concern for safety with emotional investment.

It is a distraction.

He wants to ask her what she sees through the filter of the camera atop his ear. To verify the chimeric nature of his environs that shifts with every turn of his head and blink of his eyes. To tell her that her charm of mental protection does not work to shield his senses.

But he is playing the part of Tam Lin right now and Tam would have no reason to ask such questions of the empty air.

He nods and hopes she takes the cue to be silent when the hunting beast pads past him toward the hanging moss (beaded curtain).

For all that Ashan prides himself on stepping as lightly as any thief or dancer, he cannot help but stir up puffs of dust from the carpet (pulverize dry leaves into blooming clouds) with every step. The hunting beast’s guiding passage leaves no such trace. It is its master’s creature within its master’s demesne. Unlike Ashan, it is not showered with gray powder when passing through the moss (curtain) and into the throne room (parched glade) beyond.

The hunting beast crosses the space and seats itself on its haunches in front of a tangle of roots (a bas relieved throne), from atop which presides the fae liege with whom Ashan has come to bargain. It/He/She/They/Fae wear(s) wears robes of gray that are in the active process of becoming moth-eaten before Ashan’s eyes. Fingers and forehead alike are adorned with bechained jewelry; metals tarnished and patinaed, gemstones dull. Its/His/Her/Their/Faer face is an overlaid multitude that blurs expressions into an indistinct haze of imperfectly aligned features.

Ashan nods his head and sweeps an arm in a gesture of respect. It is not something Tam would do, but while Ashan has not dealt directly with the fair folk before he has been trained well enough to know the danger of losing oneself to a role in a place such as this and a true wizard bows to no higher authority. Fortunately, this lukewarm obeisance does not seem to perturb the figure on the throne.

“The Seventeen-Named Count of Curses and Dust bids you a welcome homecoming and congratulations on joining the ranks of the Named, Carter, my little changeling.”

With that proclamation one of those seventeen unspoken Names is chosen for temporary prominence and a conceptual waveform collapses. Ashan’s surroundings solidify into a single hybrid of a forest woven together into the shape of a castle. Tight-packed trees interlace branches to merge into solid walls. Leaves fallen from the canopy above have been carefully arranged into patterns on the forest floor. The fae liege now sits upon roots that have been expertly coaxed into the shape of a throne and wears only a single grandfatherly face. The hunting beast at the foot of the throne winces.

“You honor me with this audience, great Count,” Ashan says. “Pray tell, what next lies in store for a newly returned changeling?”

“So you do still recall the tongue of your true people in waking as well as dream. That shall save us much time in preparing you for your role as one of my emissaries. Once you have resworn your oaths of fealty to me your training in the ways and arts of my court shall commence. There shall be no time wasted on pointless festivities, for ours is the dominion of the dust to which all things return. To be my emissary is to weave the curses that will hasten that return, especially for those foolish enough to believe they can postpone it indefinitely.”

“Well, there’s your offer,” Lacuna says to Tam on the other end of the comms link. “Magic and probably a bit of world-hopping. Still want out?”

“Hell yeah I want out,” Tam exclaims loudly enough to be picked up by Lacuna’s microphone. “Screw this dust-to-dust reaperman crap.”

Ashan nods in silent acknowledgment of the expected response and addresses the fae lord in front of him. “O great Count, thank you for your answer, but I must now take my leave. To be one of your emissaries is not my place.”

“You misunderstand your position, little changeling,” the Count says, “your role here in my court was ordained long ago. Now Carter, kneel before me and renew your oaths.”

The hunting beast crouches and growls. Ashan stands unbowed and serene.

“I do not answer to you.”

“Such impudence! Have you no gratitude for your liege who saw fit to grant you a Name purchased in fair contract? By that very Name, Carter, I command thee kneel and renew your oaths!”

The Count’s voice echoes through the forest and shakes the dust from the trees. The roots of the throne writhe and the leaves stir from the floor. The hunting beast yowls and Ashan stands unbowed and serene.

“I do not answer to you.”

Another of the Count’s Seventeen Names takes prominence and the parched forest glade closes into a vaulted stone audience chamber. Fallen leaves sew themselves together into a threadbare tapestry of a carpet. Soft wrinkles stretch smooth and tight over a sharp-featured skull. From atop a marble throne embossed with arboreal motifs, the steel-eyed Countess of Curses and Dust glowers down at Ashan.

“You are mine. You. Shall. KNEEL!”

A will that is not his own claws at the edge of Ashan’s consciousness, ancient and vicious. The mental wards he was taught early on and has diligently kept up ever since fray and fracture. The invasive presence reaches in and touches a stray surface thought, withering it down to a vague sense of something forgotten. Perverse delight seeps in from the outside at the prospect of doing the same to every other thought until his very self is reshaped by erosion into an ideal servant.

The amulet beneath Ashan’s robe oscillates between burning and freezing against his skin. The intruder in his mind recoils and retreats. The Countess of Curses and Dust lets out a scream from her throne that sends the feasting moths fluttering away from her regalia.

“I. Do not. Answer. To you.” Ashan gasps. He has denied the fae liege for a third time. By the Law of Threes he should be safe from that avenue of coercion for now.

“What trickery is this?” The Count(ess) asks. Their face and hall flickers between aspects on every third word. “You are not my changeling. What are you? You are full of shards of glass and shattered iron that writhes and drips with rotted ichor. I will have no dealings with mad and broken gods or spawn of the eldritch.”

Suppressing a shudder at the thought of what Lacuna has hung around his neck and wrist, Ashan slips off his bracelet and the glamor disguising him as Tam Lin with it. With an audience gained and the nature of Tam’s would-be master displayed, there is no further need for that ruse.

“I am the student of Aliana Glassgaze, wizard, warder, and master of the Dancing Dream Paints style. I am here as the appointed champion of Tam Lin whom you would call Carter to speak on their behalf. I have judged the treatment you would afford your vassals and would now negotiate their release from your service.”

The room settles back into a hall of stone. “Interloper,” the Countess accuses, “you have no grounds on which to negotiate. Carter was one of mine when still Nameless and accepted the offer to become a changeling with full knowledge of and agreement to the terms that would come after. Whether or not he still remembers that agreement is immaterial.”

“Contracts made before a change in Name are not binding except between the Name’s new and original owners, and you were merely a middleman in that exchange. Elsewise you would not require a renewal of oaths.”

“You argue semantics of the general where it is the spirit of the specific that matters. Changeling contracts are always between intermediaries for neither the unreal Nameless nor the unborn Named are fit to negotiate. This contract was made and fulfilled in accordance with custom. All services to the blood father of the prior Name-holder were rendered as contractually agreed upon and fairy was swapped for child as payment rendered.”

Ashan puts one of the practiced smiles he copied from his mentor; the narrowing of eyes and lopsided upturn of the lips that lets an opponent know they have just walked into a trap. He never was able to muster the emotion she put behind it, but it remained an effective tool of intimidation and unbalancing provocation whether applied hot or cold.

“You would invoke the spirit of tradition, but this contract violated even that. You failed to account for the realities of modern anchor world humans. The exchange of child for changeling as a valid price is predicated on the bond between parent and child, but no such bond existed between the contract holder and child in this case. This so-called blood father was a mere anonymous donor of seed who met neither mother, child, nor changeling. It is doubtful he was ever even aware of the stolen child’s existence and certainly had no part in the bestowing of a Name.”

The audience hall shrinks down claustrophobically close. Peeling wallpaper faded to gray surrounds the empty and dust-covered royal nursery. The petulant Heir of Curses and Dust pouts from atop a pile of broken toys.

“That doesn’t matter,” they insist.

“Does it not? You were tricked into providing your curses to a human for free and in the process inflicted harm upon an uninvolved third party. That Name was not sold but stolen and was given to the changeling on false pretenses.”

“Liar!”

“If you truly thought I was such, you would not be wearing that face.”

The Count of Curses and Dust regains his composure and returns to being an old man on a throne of roots. The moths return to resume their eternal feast on his regalia.

“All of this is beside the point,” the Count says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “By my station, it is well within my rights to compel any courtless fairy whose Name I have command over into my service.”

“Then let us make a bargain,” Ashan suggests. “What is your price for leaving Tam Lin whom you call Carter and their friends and loved ones alone in perpetuity?”

The Count stares into Ashan’s eyes for a long moment and once again the young wizard feels an alien touch brush against the edge of his consciousness. This time the Count’s will does not seek ingress but instead traces the outermost border. An assessment of general shape if not interior contents. Twice Lacuna’s charm grows warm and twice the presence momentarily retreats before returning more cautiously. On the third time the Count breaks the silence.

“You would deny me the return of a changeling whose Name I bargained for, so it is only fair that I receive the means to create another in return.”

“My Name is not for sale.”

“Neither of them? You have two, do you not? One you wear now and one you have all but abandoned since childhood. A childhood name for a new changeling child would be most fitting indeed.”

“My Name is not for sale.”

“Are you sure? I would think I would be doing you a favor to unburden you from it. I can tell that all the recent times you’ve worn it have been marked by loss and longing. Wouldn’t it be better to let that pain go? To allow yourself to be fully the you that you are now?” The Count leans forward with a smile that is kindly at first glance. “Think about those loved ones you wish you could be with but cannot bring yourself to embody that old Name like you would need to. They could have the you that they remember back and the you that you are now could finally move on. You would be doing them a kindness.”

“My Name…” Ashan hesitates. It would be a kindness. As he is now, he cannot possibly hope to return to his parents without causing more pain than healing. But a changeling with his old Name unburdened by everything he has been through? A fae liege of the Count’s power could probably even alter memories and spin a story well enough to avoid a Masquerade breach. Without that wounded Name, perhaps he could even find it within himself to forgive Aliana and they could travel together again the way things were. Maybe he could even talk her into joining with Road and working with his new friends.

Maybe…

*******

“Maybe we’re wrong,” Eris said to Ashan the night after their mission with the vampire crypt beneath a suburban basement. Hot drinks late at night in the office’s kitchen had become something of a post-mission ritual between the two of them. At least when the two of them were both well enough to stand.

“Wrong about what?” Ashan asked.

“About family. Love. Broken bonds. All that stuff.”

“I am not sure I follow. Perhaps having been drained of blood is still affecting your cognition.”

“Eh, I’m mostly fine. What I’m saying is the Masquerade's done a number on both of us. You feel like you can’t go home after running away and my parents straight up disowned me after I came home covered in blood I couldn’t explain one too many times. But maybe we’re wrong about not being able to go back.”

“That is highly doubtful.”

“Doubtful, but not impossible. Look, let’s make a deal. If you ever change your mind and decide to try talking to your family again, I’ll go with you to support you and back up whatever you decide to tell them. Masquerade cover story or the truth, doesn’t matter. Then after, we’ll go see my folks. If it works out, then great, and if not, at least we tried and we’ll still have friends here to come back to. So, what do you say?”

“I say that blood loss and blunt force trauma are impairing your judgment, and even if I were to accept your deal I would not change my mind on this matter. But…”

“Buuuuut…?”

“Maybe I am wrong.”

*******

“My Name is not for sale,” Ashan says for the third time to the Count of Curses and Dust within his wilted forest glade.

“So be it,” the Countess of Curses and Dust proclaims, her voice echoing throughout her gloomy stone audience hall. “In that case, let us balance the deal with a more finite service in exchange for the denial of a servant. A favor of my choosing to be decided upon and called in at a later date, as is the most traditional price of contract between fairy and mortal.”

Ashan imagines the way Aliana would laugh off such an offer but chooses not to mimic it. “Do you think me naïve? Once again you invoke tradition, but this is a tradition that any knowledgeable mortal would know to avoid.”

“Then this negotiation is at an end, for you have nothing else to offer me. If you will not offer me your lesser Name, then you would certainly not part with your far greater one, and if you would refuse a single favor then I cannot hope to extract any other oath of service from you.”

“I have access to the library of the sorceress Bridgewood,” Ashan proposes. Any payment out of the Bridgewood Estate would need to be negotiated with the current Bridgewood of course, but this fae lord does not need to know that.

“So that is why your mind is so hideously warped and sharp to the touch. Speak that name no further in my presence. I have never known a more unclean thing with a refusal to return to dust than that sorceress, save for the attack dog she made her consort. If you claim to be her ally, then we truly have no more to negotiate”

“If you truly put such stock in tradition, then let me make one final offer on behalf of Tam Lin whom you call Carter. Let us both put forth the prices we would otherwise be unwilling to pay as stakes on a wager. My aforementioned request for noninterference against your request for a future favor.”

“The favor, and your childhood Name. As the price of mentioning that hated sorceress in my home. What is to be our game?”

Aliana’s way of doing things it is then. Yet again. Did she too try and fail to avoid this route time and again before giving in and making it her first option at every occasion? Unlikely. She always enjoyed it too much.

“I invoke the rite of trial by combat between appointed champions, to be held on neutral ground.”

*******

Hours later, after extensive negotiations regarding the precise wording of the terms of the duel and subsequent prices the loser must pay, Ashan finds himself standing on one of the few level rooftops in Crossherd’s outskirts. This far out from the pocket dimension’s heart geometry and geography get strange. The buildings here were dreamt up to give the impression of an endlessly expansive city skyline, not for use or habitation, so while they look normal enough from a distance upon closer inspection they quickly become nonsensical. Overlapping windows tilted at odd angles, doors that open up to the outside seven stories in the air, fire escapes that connect to neither windows nor the ground, sometimes even whole buildings intersecting with their interiors leaking into one another and corners erupting from each other’s faces. The interiors are even worse; where they are not completely hollow facades they are unnavigable mazes of doors that open into flat walls, stairs that recursively loop back on themselves, and floors with no route between them.

This particular rooftop however has become something of a fixed point in the city’s inconstant periphery owing to its repeated use giving it a firm place in the collective consciousness in a certain portion of the city’s residents. In other words, while Ashan was handling the contract negotiations, he had to send Lacuna out ahead to make sure that no one else was already using the rooftop to violently settle a dispute away from potential collateral damage today. Or rather, Lacuna sent one of her remote drones which even now hovers on paratech repulsors above the scorched and pitted ring of concrete where the half-formed air conditioning units and ouroboric ductwork has been cleared away to give would be duelists, pit fighters, and blood feuders room to do their work.

Crossherd has ever been a city built on symbolic stereotypes and tropes, and the climactic rooftop showdown is a powerful one.

Ashan’s opponent - the very same hunting beast that had been sent to retrieve Tam Lin for its master - impatiently paces the far side of the rough ring. Someone has clad the nearly hairless felid in ill-fitting pale gray plate armor and strapped a rusty sword that it has no good way to wield to its back. If it were not for the anger burning in its too-human eyes every time it glances his way Ashan might pity the poor creature.

Behind their two designated champions, Tam Lin and the Count of Curses and Dust stand witness. In the Count’s case he is possessing the body of one of the Nameless fairies under his command. Much like the surrounding buildings, the empty-eyed wretch looks normal enough at a glance but the illusion falls breaks apart and tumbles down into the uncanny valley under scrutiny as if someone described what a human looked like to some skilled alien sculptor who had never seen one in person and thus thought the eye whites and teeth should be the same material and was left to guess as to whether clothes were part of the body or not. The fact that Tam has been having trouble maintaining human form every time he looks at their distant cousin whose fate they presumably once shared has not escaped Ashan’s notice.

“This is your last chance to put aside this foolishness,” the Count says through his Nameless vessel. “Call off this farce of a duel Carter and renew your oaths to me. Do it now and I will not hold this tantrum against you, for you are young and confused. You do not realize the value of what you are and what you would be with me.”

The emphasis of the Name elicits a scowl from Tam and a growl from the hunting beast.

“That’s not my name anymore, old man!” Tam shouts back. “So you can shove your offers.”

“Nonsense,” the Count says. “You cannot simply create a new Name for yourself. That is a privilege reserved for mortals, and no matter how much you believe you are one that can never be.”

Ashan tunes out whatever further barbs Tam has to exchange with his erstwhile and would-be master. He slides his wand into his hand and takes a stance, already envisioning the anchor points from which he will draw his conjurations. He focuses on the hunting beast, the way it moves, the range of motion of its joints, the places where the armor hangs loose. Which way will it dart once the duel begins? Can he incapacitate it before it gets the chance to close the distance between them? Should he open by tying it down with point restraints or start with a loose encapsulation and tighten his grip from there?

No, do not overthink it. Remember Aliana’s advice: A duel is a dance and he must adjust his rhythm to that of his partner. He has already avoided the mistake he made with Logos and set the stage in a locale that does not favor his opponent, now all that is left to do is wait for the signal.

Somewhere in Crossherd’s heart, a clocktower bell tolls the changing of the hour.

The hunting beast lurches forward, then to the left, then to the right. It leaps with claws out and fangs bared.

Five fingers on one hand point to five points on the rooftop. The hand makes a fist and five threads tie themselves to four limbs and a neck. A wrist twists and the threads pull tight enough to keep claws from reaching throat. The fist falls and the hunting beast is dragged crashing down to the concrete. A wand draws a circle in the air and a shimmering disk appears. The wand slashes downward and the disk falls onto the hunting beast pressing it further into the rooftop until the conjuration molds to its target’s shape, sealing off any struggle.

The duel is over before it begins.

But then the threads go slack and the disk goes flush with the concrete below.

The hunting beast is gone but for a shimmering emerald haze.

Ashan spins a glass cocoon around himself just in time to block the claws seeking to tear out his spine. The hunting beast disappears once more from behind him and then reappears to his left. Then to his right. From behind again. In front of him where the prior conjurations have since dissipated. Each time it reappears it strikes at Ashan’s conjured barrier, probing for weaknesses and finding none, then disappearing again in a cloud of green.

Ashan holds steady and examines his foe’s movements for a way to counter them. The delay between reappearances rules out true teleportation. No sign of active cloaking magic or illusions, so probably not invisibility. No active magic signatures at all save for a fraction of a second when the green haze appears. A phase shift then, or possibly stepping in and out of its master’s demesne. Either way, he can work with that.

He pushes outward on his translucent cocoon, turning it into a tight bubble just big enough for him to properly move his arms and legs, but too small to fit both him and the hunting beast lest it try to reappear inside the barrier. Bending down, he begins drawing the first of a sequence of glistening symbols on the ground to turn the surrounding area into a planar-locked ward.

“Arise, my servant!” the Count’s name echoes across the rooftop. “Be not a savage beast, but my noble knight! Become my Champion of Curses and Dust!”

Bone cracks, pops, and knits back together. Skin stretches, tears, and heals. The armored hunting beast stands upright on its still-feline hind legs and hisses through its muzzle protruding from beneath its helmet. It reaches a forepaw-now-hand behind its back and unslings the rusty sword.

The Champion of Curses and Dust charges Ashan once more. The wizard speeds up his drawing of the ward and begins the chant for the spell to activate it. The air inside Ashan’s bubble grows cold and frost covers the ground. The sigils flash. The spell completes. No more teleporting to worry about.

When the rusty sword makes contact with the conjured barrier it passes right through, melting a hole that causes the rest of the conjuration to unravel. Ashan barely manages to spring backwards in time to keep from being impaled. Instead the rusty sword cuts through the ward’s central sigils and into the concrete beneath.

Staggered as he is by the dual backlash of two actively maintained spells being violently disrupted, Ashan fails to press the opportunity presented by his opponent’s blade getting lodged in the rooftop. As the Champion of Curses and dust works the sword back and forth the concrete cracks and crumbles with a century of erosion passing in the blink of an eye. When the sword is at last prised free, a hole in the rooftop the size of a grown man’s torso collapses into the room below, exposing rusted pipeworks and corroded wiring.

With the ward destroyed before it even got a chance to do anything the Champion disappears into green haze once more. By reflex, Ashan throws a hand behind himself to conjure a shield in anticipation of the next strike before realizing his mistake. He jumps to the right quickly enough to dodge the worst of the blade’s path when it reappears and once again passes through his barrier as if it were nothing, but the tip of the rusty sword manages to clip the edge of his arm, just above the wrist. The wound itself heals before blood can be spilled but his hand grows old and wrinkled before his eyes and he can feel the same happening to his arm beneath his sleeve. Arthritic pains flare up from his fingers to his elbow as joints seize and grow stiff, forcing a strained gasp from the otherwise young wizard’s lips.

A twist of his heel sends Ashan spiraling into the air to gain distance from his attacker but the corkscrewing conjuration propelling him is cut down, disrupting his trajectory and crashing him into one of the remaining air conditioning units halfway across the rooftop. He rolls to his feet but still finds himself on the back foot with precious little to do but avoid and evade. Bereft of his usual kinetic barriers he resorts to retooling his technique to conjure streams of fire, wind, and lightning, but even those do little to deter an opponent that can effortlessly shift in and out of this plane of existence, and is an inefficient enough power draw that his breath quickly stings his lungs from the cold air.

All in all, it is nearly as bad as trying to fight Eris when she is wearing those dispelling gloves of hers, a sparring setup that Ashan is yet to emerge victorious from in their regular matches between missions.

A memory flickers in the back of Ashan’s mind of waking from unconsciousness when his mentor thought a monster had just killed him. In her cold fury she had filled the cave with conjured wires and floating shards of glass. The monster’s own weight had forced it through the deadly web like so much cheese over a grater. And then his mentor had set the wires and shards in motion and it became more like meat through a grinder. The sight had given the young Ashan nightmares for weeks afterward, but maybe if he could now duplicate the technique at a lesser scale to merely injure…

Ashan begins to envision and draw the net of monomolecular wires and spinning blades around him for his opponent to cut itself on but hesitates just short of funneling in the energy to make them a reality. Unfortunately, a lifetime of being careful to never kill nor maim with power that could easily do both deeply ingrains inhibitions that are not so easily overcome. That hesitation very nearly costs him the use of his other arm. Fortunately, a lifetime of training for blows coming from the periphery of vision ingrains reflexes that are not so easily overcome.

Another burst of flame buys him some breathing room at the cost of a chill seeping into his bones. If only he could buy himself a moment to draw another planar ward. If only that sword could be taken out of the picture. If only the Count of Curses and Dust hadn’t transformed his Champion mid-fight.

If only…

Gods take him for a fool.

“I call foul play and outside interference,” Ashan manages to say between dodging sword strokes. “By the agreed terms of the duel you must either forfeit or allow a counterbalancing interference.”

“Counterbalance accepted,” the Champion of Curse and Dust laughs from the mouths of Nameless servant and hunting beast simultaneously. “Let us see what my wayward changeling can do to earn his freedom.”

Ashan locks eyes with the frightened Tam Lin watching from the sidelines and shakes his head. No need for them to act. They are not Ashan’s only ally present to act as witness and second.

“Lacuna!” Ashan shouts.

“Already on it!” her voice calls back from the hovering drone above.

The projector mounted on the underside of the drone flickers on and shines a ritual circle down onto the rooftop in the center of the designated arena. The shifting glyphs spiral into a nauseating self-recursive mess that makes the incomprehensible guts of the building beneath seem logical by comparison. The drone’s speakers begin screeching an ear-piercing white noise and the accelerated, computer-generated ritual begins.

The second sight of a well-trained wizard and the sensory organs of a beast tailor made to hunt prey across dimensions are sensitive things capable of picking up on the subtle shifts, folds, stains, and cuts in the fabric of reality that make up what is known as “magic”. Whatever Lacuna is doing is anything but subtle. From the sensation of hooks digging into his skin and intestinal lining, Ashan would guess that it is meant to be a combination of planar lock and teleportation anchor kicked up to a degree that would be overkill for anything short of a demigod or one of the eldritch. Or perhaps a fae liege. Even without that, the sudden chaotic mess of metaphysical noise is enough to set him clutching his head and retching out his breakfast. Blurry glimpses through tear-filled eyes suggest that neither Nameless vessel of the Count/Champion of Curses and Dust are faring any better. Tam Lin however seems unaffected and comfortably human once again.

Having experienced a few of Lacuna’s abominable rituals before - although none nearly this horrific - Ashan is the first to recover. A flick of his wand is all that it takes to wrench the rusty sword from his howling opponent’s grip. By the time the Champion of Curses and Dust is back on its feet, Ashan has already conjured chains linked to each plate of its armor. He stabs his wand forward then pulls it back and the chains strip away the armor in a single motion. His opponent attempts to disappear but there is no green haze to vanish into, only the pain in its gut and the noise in its bones as it drops back down to all fours. A simple dome is all it takes to contain it to the point of being unable to fight any further.

Ashan staggers over to his trapped opponent. Doing his best to ignore the wretched droning of Lacuna’s ritual he asks, “Do you yield?”

The hunting beast in the dome whines.

“I said, do you yield?”

The hunting beast looks up at him with human eyes and whimpers. Once again Ashan is struck by the similarity of those eyes to Tam’s when they are in human form.

“My champion yields,” the Count of Curses and Dust says through his Nameless servant on the sidelines. “You have bested us both, now stop that accursed spell. Not even that hated sorceress would resort to a distortion so vile.”

“Lacuna, please stop,” Ashan says.

The noise, audible and metaphysical, cuts out and the projector goes dark. The drone drops down to eye level with a flurry of apologies from its speakers.

“Was it really that bad?” Lacuna’s voice asks. “It took a bit out of me, sure, but I didn’t think it was that far off from standard parameters.”

Ashan merely stares into the drone’s camera at a loss for words.

“I did not know the sorceress had made constructs that could speak and work magic,” says the Count. “Little wonder such a thing is insane. As are any who would trust it. No matter, the duel is done and the contract sealed.” The Count’s vessel turns to face the approaching Tam. “Enjoy your freedom, Carter. Love and lose those mortals you think you can be one of. And when the pain of outliving everyone -”

“For the last time, old man, that’s not my damn name!” Tam shouts. “My name is -”

“I introduce to you, Tam Lin,” Lacuna interrupts while maneuvering the drone between them, “whom my friend and ally Ashan Glassheart has acted as champion for today. Tam and Ashan, for whom this formal introduction serves to prevent the accidental giving away of Names by acknowledgement, you know the rules, don’t blame me, oh goddess that was incredibly rude of me I can’t believe I just said that to a fae lord please forgive me just trying to help just ignore me and forget I exist I’m going now.”

There is an audible pop of static from a microphone being turned off and the drone rises back into the air.

“A thoroughly insane construct,” the Count mutters before turning his attention to the still-recovering hunting beast. “Enough of this. We depart. Now.”

“I’m not done yet!” Tam says. “Yes, that’s my Name. The one I chose for myself. Because ‘Carter’ was never my Name.” They turn to address the hunting beast. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you dare,” the Count threatens.

Tam ignores him and kneels down eye to eye with the fallen beast and touches hand to shoulder.

“I return to you the Name of Carter, which was wrongfully stolen and passed into my care. I return it to you, its rightful owner. I return this Name to to you, Carter, my brother.”

This time the shifting of Carter’s form to a more human one is smoother, not wood being hacked apart and nailed back together but water poured into a new container. When the transformation is done the two fall into a tearful embrace. Hoarse “thank you”s choke out between sobs from a throat that has never been allowed to make its own words but now knows how thanks to the experience of a well-used Name. Carter’s nails and canine teeth are still a little too sharp, his body's muscles still bulge from years of hunting prey, and the vestige of a tail still protrudes from the remaining cloth scraps of underarmor, but otherwise he could very likely pass for being fully human with minimal effort. He and Tam could even pass for twins who just happened to take very different paths in life.

It occurs to Ashan that that is exactly what the two of them are.

“Remember,” the wizard says to the Count, “the terms of the contract include non-interference towards family as well, and non-retaliation towards the winning participant or participants of the duel.”

The Seventeen-Named Count(ess) of Curses and Dust scoffs and its/his/her/their/faer Nameless vessel steps behind the breeze to depart without further comment.

“So, now what?” Tam asks. They and Carter both look towards Ashan expectantly. The fear of the unknown future for a life that has just been turned upside down thrice over is already beginning to creep into their relief at their ordeal being over.

“Now, we return to the Lonely Walk Outreach Agency. We have multiple guest beds there where you may spend the night in safety. When our leader, Road, returns they will be able to help the both of you find a way to return to the life that was stolen from you. Or to help you find a new one Backstage now that you are in the know. Balancing the two is always difficult, but it is also an option.”

The new twins nervously nod in unison.

What would Aliana say here? Better yet, what would Road say?

“Not that either of you need to worry about any of that just yet,” Ashan says with a nearly genuine smile of reassurance. “You have both had a long day and deserve to rest. Tam, you have handled the sudden revelation of the existence of the supernatural as well as anyone ever has. You should be proud. Carter, while I hope you never have to do so again, you fought well today and I am honored to have faced you. May that strength keep you safe in the future. Now then,” Ashan looks around to hide his sudden embarrassment with the act of searching, “let us find a way down from this rooftop.”

“Hey,” Lacuna’s voice says directly into Ashan’s ear through the comm piece he forgot he was still wearing, “you did good too today. The real hero here.”

“Thank you,” Ashan whispers back. He conjures a platform to take him and the new twins down to the ground and suppresses a shiver.

“You’re welcome. And sorry if this is weird to say, but if you ever want to talk about whatever that was with you having two Names, I’m here for you. I don’t think it’s quite the same thing, but I’ve got some experience with that.”

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you, my friend.”

No, it is not the same, not nearly. But a friend’s experiences need not be identical to share a burden. And who knows, Ashan considers while looking at Tam and Carter already smiling with wonder and comparing memories of mothers that only one of them has met in the flesh, perhaps a change in Name and a foot Backstage need not be the end of everything.

Maybe he is wrong.

Today is not the day to find out though.

He has plenty of time.

Maybe one day he will be ready to find out for himself.

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#Eris introduced Ashan to the Internet with Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia.#Lacuna introduced Ashan to the Internet with tumblr memes and the Homestuck “Detective Pony” fanfic's Longcat Rant.#She has the rant memorized because she used to recite it as voice feminization practice.#writing #original fiction #urban fantasy #web novel #WIP #Writeblr #Empty Names #serial fiction #writing practice #writers on tumblr #creative writing #literature #prose #writers #novel #fantasy #fiction #my writing #emptynameswriting #I pulled the names Tam Lin and Carter from the song “Tam Lin” by S.J. Tucker.#The overall chapter concept was born from hearing the first few lines of “Looking Like This” by Lyre Le Temps #and imagining a first-time shapeshifter freaking out from not understanding what's happening and then sort of ignoring the rest of the song #Then I realized that there are some nice parallels between Ashan's backstory and the changeling myth #and there are some connections between change of Name/identity manipulating form and Lacuna's ongoing transmutation experiments.#Once again the SCP Foundation influence is leaking through in my conceptualization of fairies taking Names to replace people.#And then that mixes with the not-subtle-at-all trans themes throughout Empty Names.

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