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pookha · 7 months

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Dead Inside Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Dead Again

Amity is getting ready to leave port after finding another rare book and breaking another heart behind her when she gets a message that Camila is sick and she needs to see her before she passes. Now she has to feel again and it's too much.

The first to admit I'm the doomed droog addict And I always will be, hey man, don't follow me, yeah No excuses for drug abuse, said these lines a thousand times Don't want to live atrial fib from neurosis, sclerosis Please make me smile if you learn from my trial Baby, I'll pay the price, maybe saving your life for you I can't state this point enough The pickup's easy but the put down's rough

-Peter Steele

Amity’s at the wheel of her airship just getting ready to leave port, Ghost on her shoulder. Another rare book captured, another heart broken behind her. Every port she goes to she tries to find someone and she almost always succeeds. Sometimes it’s her heart broken when she leaves, but more often it’s the woman she leaves behind. She takes a swig from her canteen; it looks like water, it tastes like water, but it isn’t water. She takes a second drink and her hand stops shaking.

She’s just about to cast off when her Pensta chimes. She curses, Ghost flinches back from her, but she doesn’t notice. She digs out her Pensta and looks at it.

Where are you? Take picture right now. Important. It’s from her dad, so she does. Just a few seconds later and Alador and King appear with a whoosh of displaced air. Ghost digs claws into Amity’s shoulder and leaps into the rigging of the airship. Amity falls on her ass.

“Sorry,” King says in his deep, deep voice and holds out a claw to help her up. He’s head and shoulders taller than she is now.

“How?” she starts to ask.

“I can combine glyphs now,” King says.

“No time,” Alador says.

He hugs Amity tightly and she returns it awkwardly.

“Your mom’s sick and you need to go to her right away,” he says when he pulls back.

“Nah, fuck her; she can rot in Hell.” She pushes him away.

“Not Odalia. It’s Camila.” King takes her hand and starts drawing a complex series of interlocking glyphs on the deck of her ship.

“I’ll take the book back to Lilith; you go to Camila. Give her my best and tell her if she needs anything, anything at all, I’ll give it to her.” Alador goes over the ship’s preparation checklist.

King finishes drawing his glyphs and tilts his head at Amity. She nods. Ghost jumps on her, shifts to her carven form and Amity puts her in her pouch. There’s a wrench in her gut and then she’s outside the portal to the Human Realm. Emira’s there with Viney.

“Go,” King says. “Vee’s waiting for you in Camila’s house.”

Amity shuts her eyes. It’s been five years since she’s seen Vee. Three years since she’s talked to Camila. Her friends that visit her know not to talk to her about it or she gets up and leaves.

“Okay,” she whispers. Suddenly, Emira grabs her elbow and drags her away about five feet.

“Are you high?” she whispers in Amity’s ear. Amity starts to deny it, but if Emira can see it, then Viney probably can, too. She nods reluctantly.

“Were you going to fly high?” Emira shakes Amity and King starts to step forward, but Viney puts a hand on his elbow and shakes her head.

“It’s just a Deadening potion. I’m okay to fly and I’m okay to go. If there’s no time, there’s no time. Yell at me later.” Amity pushes Emira away and goes to the portal, then through. Emira and Viney come through right behind her. They all hide their ears then walk the short distance to Camila’s house. Amity’s key still works.

“In here,” Vee’s voice comes from the living room. Amity knows she’s in her basilisk shape from the tone.

They all walk in, Amity first. Someone’s next to Vee on the couch and when they lean forward, Amity sees it’s Masha. She stops dead. Emira bumps into her. Viney bumps into Emira.

Vee squeezes Masha’s hand and stands. Suddenly she’s there. She’s hugging Amity. Her body’s familiar and Amity aches for it.

“Camila?” she whispers and Vee pulls back.

“Hospice across town.” Vee’s crying now and Masha’s there at her side.

“I’ve got a van outside that will take us,” they say and Amity likes their voice. She remembers liking their voice, all those years ago, too. They take Vee’s hand and Amity knows what that grip from Vee feels like.

“I know what a hospital is, but what’s a hospice?” Amity asks as they all pile into the van. From the look Vee gives her from the front passenger seat, she knows it’s bad. Vee’s changed into her non-Luz preferred human shape.

“In the Human Realm, a hospice is where you go to pass your last days in comfort,” Emira says and Vee starts blubbering. Masha pulls out and drives faster than anyone except them is comfortable with.

“She’s dying?” Amity whispers.

Vee nods and now Amity’s crying, too. Three years and she never called, never wanted to know. She should have stayed in touch with Camila, with Mom, but that meant staying too close to Vee, to Luz’s memories. She closes her eyes, but tears still stream. Rivers of tears flooding her memories, flooding her heart.

“What happened?” she finally manages as Masha speeds up even more.

“Breast cancer,” Vee says around sobs.

“They can’t stop it?” Amity asks and Vee shakes her head.

“They found it too late and it spread.”

“I didn’t know,” Amity whispers.

“That’s because you fucking cut us off!” Now Vee’s voice is rising. Amity has only heard it a few times, but it was always bad, and always Amity’s fault. It’s Amity’s fault. It’s Amity’s fault. Her thoughts spiral.

“Vee,” Masha says from the driver’s seat and Vee deflates. Amity thinks of the greater basilisk that Luz defeated and it’s just like that. All the air, all the fight goes out of Vee.

“You should have been here. Whatever happened between us, Camila didn’t deserve that.” It’s cold and matter-of-fact. She turns back to the front of the van.

Emira and Viney are shrunk back in their seats, letting the bad vibes pass them by.

Masha pulls the van into a parking lot with a squeal of tires. They pile out. Vee doesn’t look at Amity. Amity follows Vee and Masha into a building and Emira and Viney come in behind her. Vee signs them all in and leads them to a room in a quiet hallway.

She motions for them to wait in the hallway and goes in first with Masha. Amity hears voices and then Camila’s voice calls.

“Come in, love.” It’s thin and reedy.

Amity opens the door and goes in. Camila’s in a bed. Wires. Cables. Tubes. Hospital smell. She’s impossibly pale and thin. Her smile’s thin, also. Her tone’s still warm though. She still loves Amity; Amity should have stayed in touch.

“Amity.” Her voice cracks. Amity takes two quick strides to the bed and kneels beside it. Masha slides a chair under her and Amity hugs Camila to her. She has to be careful of the tubes in her arms.

“Mom, I’m sorry it’s been so long.” Amity hears the door close. Vee and Masha leave her alone with Camila.

“You needed time; I understand.” Camila closes her eyes.

“I was selfish. I didn’t know you were sick. I should have come earlier.” Wasted time. Wasted time. Wasted time. She looks at the scar on her arm again.

“You’re here now. I missed you.” She tries to sit up, but can’t. She pushes a button on the arm of the bed and it slowly pushes her to a sitting position.

“How have you been?” Camila asks and it pours out of Amity. She goes to Lilith and starts working for her, finding rare books. It’s dangerous and thrilling and she can do it alone. She goes all over the Demon Realm, breaking hearts behind her, never staying. She has a small cottage, but she never stays there long. Willow is happy. Gus. Hunter. Dad. Emira. Viney. Willow’s pregnant with a daughter that they’re going to name Ivy. Dad can erase Coven marks. Eda runs a magical University. King keeps getting bigger and more powerful. She realizes she’s been babbling and hugs Camila who grunts this time.

“I’m sorry,” Amity says again, lamely.

“Willow, Hunter and Gus visit, so I knew most of it, but hearing it from you is special.,” Camila laughs grimly.

“I thought I just kept coming down with the flu, but when I got Covid and had to go to the hospital they found the cancer. It’s in my bones and brain now. Probably a month or two is all I have left.”

Now Amity’s crying and Camila’s comforting her. Camila’s the one who’s dying, but Amity feels like it’s her. It hurts, even through the deadened emotions of her potion, it hurts.

“It’s okay. I’ll see Manny and Luz again and be with them.”

“Mom…” all Amity can say. They hold each other for a long time. There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Camila says thickly.

Emira comes in and then Viney.

Camila’s eyes light up at Viney and they hug. Viney had spent some time at Camila’s clinic studying the human way of healing animals.

“Viney,” she says and Viney hugs Camila. Amity sits back.

“You’ve met Emira?” Viney asks and Camila says yes.

“We’re here to see if we can do anything, okay?” Emira says. Camila closes her eyes, but nods.

“I don’t have much hope, but magic can do so much.” Camila lowers her bed back down.

“Go to the waiting room with Vee and Masha,” Emira tells Amity. “It’s down the hallway; follow the green stripe.”

Amity squeezes Camila’s impossibly tiny, bony hand one more time and leaves. She follows the green stripe to the waiting room. Vee is sitting on an ugly green couch. Masha holds her hand. They’ve both been crying. Amity sits next to Vee who sniffs, then leans in to whisper to her.

“Deadening potion?” She puts her hand over Amity’s and rips the magic from her. Amity tries to pull back, but suddenly Vee has claws instead of hands and is gripping her tight. Vee’s not gentle and it hurts. Amity gasps. Vee sucks away all the magic of the Deadening potion and all the hurt comes back at once. Amity twitches, yanks her hand away from Vee. Vee’s claws leave red scratches. Amity topples to the floor, curls up and sobs. A nurse pokes his head in and Masha shakes their head. The nurse leaves and closes the door behind him.

“Does it hurt?” Vee asks and Amity groans, but nods.

“Good,” Vee says and flops back on the couch next to Masha.

“Vee,” Masha says warningly.

“She should have fucking been here for Mom. Selfish bitch.” Amity’s never heard this from Vee before.

“Vee!” Masha yells in her ear this time. Vee stands and leaves the waiting room. Masha’s suddenly by Amity and they help her up onto the couch.

“I deserved that,” Amity says.

“Maybe,” Masha says and the way they don’t contradict Amity twists the knife a bit more. “Maybe not; it’s not for me to judge. Only the Goddess can judge and she’ll usually defer to what you think of yourself.”

“In that case, petrification is too good for me. I deserve death.” She holds out her arm for Masha to see the scar.

“No,” Masha says and puts their hand over Amity’s scarred arm. “No.” Their voice is softer this time.

“You don’t deserve death. You’re punishing yourself far more than anyone else could right now and the worst thing about it is Camila can see it and it hurts her, too. She loves you; she knows why you went away, why you couldn’t come back. But you did come back and you’re here.”

Amity squeezes Masha’s hand and Masha holds her while she cries.

“How did you get with Vee?” she asks between sobs.

Masha tells her. A month after they broke up, Vee came over to their house and told them that she was the Luz they knew at camp. She changed shape and Masha said they already knew, had always known since after that first boba; they were just waiting for Vee to be honest with them. It was fast from there. Masha had been Vee’s first friend and Vee had been their first friend after Masha realized they were Masha and not…their deadname. They’ve been married for a year, eloped secretly with just Camila and Masha’s mom in attendance. Masha just finishes when Vee comes back in with sodas and snacks. She hands a can of soda and a bag of chips to Amity then sits between Amity and Masha on the couch.

“I’m sorry,” Vee says after a while.

“I deserved it,” Amity says.

“Damn straight you did,” Vee says and her voice starts to rise again, but Masha grasps her hand.

“Anger won’t help. Camila will feel the negative vibes and she doesn’t need that. Show her daughters as a consolidated front.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Vee says.

“I’ll try,” Amity says.

Amity eats her chips and drinks her soda. It's Dr. Pepper. Vee remembers it’s Amity’s favorite, even years later. She watches Vee and Masha out of the corner of her eye and she sees they have something that she and Vee never had. It’s not just love, but some type of intimacy that she and Vee just couldn’t get to. Friends and lovers, but maybe not partners and helpmates. Amity sighs for what might have been: with Luz or with Vee…or maybe one of the hearts she carelessly discarded behind her.

Viney and Emira come in a few minutes later. Amity knows her sister’s face well and can see the answer before Vee even asks the question.

“Can you do anything?” Vee’s voice cracks and her face spots as it does when she’s under stress.

Emira sits next to Amity on the ugly couch and lets Viney answer.

“All we can do is help make her comfortable. The spells we use can take away her pain, and keep her lucid, but we can’t heal her or even really buy her time. It’s just too far gone.”

Emira takes Amity’s hand and squeezes it. She’s crying on Emira’s shoulder. Vee’s crying on Masha’s shoulder. Viney kneels in front of Vee.

“I’m sorry.”

Vee snuffles, starts to say something then just wails. Her hands are claws again and digging into Masha’s arm.

“It’s okay; it’s what we thought,” Masha says, their voice thick.

The next two months are hell for Amity; probably worse for Vee; definitely worse for Camila. She stays in Camila’s house and every morning Vee and Masha pick her up and take her to the hospice. Emira and Viney visit twice a day and keep Camila’s pain down, but everyone can see the decline. Camila hardly eats now and only the I.V. fluids keep her hydrated. The nurses say it will probably be in the next few days. But she’s sharp and has her mind. When Amity’s visiting, she tells Amity about Luz as a girl and Amity tells Camila about her family. Alador shows up one day with a big bouquet of flowers and they talk in private for half an hour. When he comes out he gives Amity a look that she knows means he’ll talk to her when she comes back to the Demon Realm.

Willow and Hunter visit and bring Amity food. They go to see Camila and when they come back, Willow’s eyes are red and Hunter is shaking, holding it in. Only when the door closes to Camila’s house and it’s just the three of them, only then does Hunter let go. His tears spill over all three of them and it’s a flood. Willow puts her hand over her belly; she’s only just started to really show.

“Ivy Camila?” she asks and Hunter nods. They’d been searching for a middle name, and this is right.

They stay the night, Willow sprawls out on a cot, Amity on the bottom bunk with her hand on the star-shaped string lights, and Hunter on the top bunk. In the morning, they go back to the Demon Realm and Amity goes back to the purgatory of the hospice. Someone stays with Camila at all times now. Camila’s eyes are open and she seems to hear when Amity talks to her, but she doesn’t respond. Her fingers twitch a couple of times and Amity holds her hand. She definitely smiles at that. Masha comes in so Amity can go to lunch. She gets one of the sandwiches that volunteers bring each day for the families. It’s plain, but filling and all that she thinks her stomach can handle. She’s just finishing it when Masha comes into the waiting room.

“She’s gone,” Masha says and they’re crying. They’ve been the rock this whole time and seeing them cry is an earthquake, a tidal wave. The tears rise and fall, rise and fall. Amity hugs Masha, and they cling together as a lifeboat in this tsunami of tears. Vee is there fifteen minutes later and the tears start again, a flash flood this time that sweeps them all away.

The days leading to the funeral and memorial are a blur. There’s a trip to a restaurant. Everyone is drunk except Masha, who’s driving. Everyone is blubbering. They all toast Camila and tell their favorite stories of her. The alcohol is almost as good as a Deadening potion, but the headache in the morning makes it all not worth it. She spends the next day cleaning Camila’s house while Vee takes care of the things that need doing. Gus shows up to help and he makes it better just by being there. When they take a break, he tells her he wishes she’d visit more and she promises she will, but she knows it is probably a well-intentioned lie.

The memorial service has family from out of state and she’s introduced as Luz’s ex, which is true, but weird to hear. Vee has to play the part of Luz more than she has for years and it’s wearing on her. Amity sees that Vee’s gotten better at the small talk over the years, but she’s having a hard time holding it together. She drags Vee away for a moment and asks her if she needs magic. Vee as Luz nods and it breaks Amity. The pieces fall away; her heart’s exposed again and she hates it. She hates feeling.

She pulls out her small vial of Abomination goo and gives it to Vee. Vee makes sure no one’s watching and drinks the whole thing. It’s powerful magic, but doesn’t taste good; it’s tainted with how Amity made it. Vee can taste Amity’s loneliness and desperation; she can taste Amity’s self-loathing and doubt. Now she understands why Amity stayed away.

“She did love you. I loved you. Luz loved you. Your friends love you. Trust them. You do deserve love.” She hugs Amity tightly and then goes back to Camila’s family.

“Need to escape?” Masha asks from behind her.

Amity jumps, then nods when she sees Masha.

“I’ll run you to Camila’s house. Vee and my house now, I guess.”

“I’m going to go back to the Demon Realm. I can’t stay anymore.” She hugs Masha and they return it.

“Please come visit. Don’t stay away for years again. Vee could use you as a friend again. It’ll never be what it was before, but it can still be good.”

“I—I’ll try,” Amity lies smoothly. She knows she won’t try. She’ll hide again. Maybe the Deadening potion, maybe reckless adventure, maybe just mindless sex, but she’ll hide somewhere.

Masha sees the lie; Amity knows they do, but they don’t say anything. They drive them to Camila’s house and Amity gets her stuff and goes back through the Portal. She dithers on the other side, deciding between the Manor and her dad or her cottage on the Knee. She closes her eyes, spins and when she opens them, she’s pointed to Bonesborough so she goes that way instead. Merton’s just opened his new storefront and she can refill her potion supply.

#owl house fanfiction #major character death #cancer #amity blight #vee noceda #masha #vee/masha #drug addiction

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littlemisslol-fic · 3 years

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Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: Big finale time! Part one of a two-part ending!

They’d taken the Der Sonne. Rapunzel scowled at the warship, the thing looming over the horizon. It made her sick to think of her father’s flagship, the crowning jewel of the Coronian navy, stolen and used by their enemies. She couldn’t keep the scowl off her face as she sailed the Oracle closer to the massive stern side of the ship; their little boat was dwarfed by the Der Sonne in a way that was almost comical.

The early hour ended up being their biggest advantage. Eugene had doused all the lights on board the second they’d taken sail, the Oracle becoming a smudge of ink against navy sky. It would be difficult to see them coming from the deck of the massive warship, made even worse by the storm beginning to brew above.

Rapunzel shuddered in the harsh wind, her short hair flying in the cold breeze. Eugene stood to her left, his face set in a grim mask as they got closer. Ruddiger was curled around his shoulders, the raccoon looking glum; without his human, the animal had quickly lost his spark.

The Der Sonne looked like a looming beast, ready to devour them if they got too close; Rapunzel scowled and turned the wheel gently, bringing them as close to the warship as they dared. The waves were rough. If they moored too close the Oracle would get slammed against the Der Sonne and surely torn to shreds.

“He’ll probably be in the brig,” Eugene murmured. “I can’t see them keeping him anywhere else, not if they want him to actually stay there.”

Rapunzel sighed, remembering Corona’s inability to keep Varian in a cell in their own dungeons, or the boy’s stories of escape attempts from Barviel Keep. As much as she didn’t like to think about it, Varian had proven hard to keep a hold of, no matter who was the one trying to keep him in.

“He’s got a knack for it,” she admitted. “But we’ll be there if he needs backup.”

Eugene looked troubled, looking up at the massive ship. They were in her shadow, covered by darkness. It made Rapunzel nervous, to be so out in the open with enemies so close. If she strained, she could hear Merrick and his men hooting and hollering on the deck high above.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asked. She wasn’t sure if she was looking for an honest answer or pleasant placations; she wasn’t sure which would be better. Eugene didn’t seem to be in the mood to lie.

“When we find him,” he said, “We’ll have to be ready for the worst.”

“What do you mean?” Rapunzel asked. She felt a tendril of dread curl around her heart. What did he mean? That wasn’t what she needed to hear right now--

“I mean, we don’t know what state he’ll be in,” Eugene admitted. “Merrick needs him alive, sure, but we’ve seen what the guy can do. Just… be ready. It might not be pretty.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Rapunzel said firmly. “He just needs m— us. Needs us. We need to get him out of here.”

Eugene seemed to have caught her slip, his face souring slightly. “What he needs, is for us to trust him.”

“I do!”

“Do you?”

Rapunzel paused. Did she?

“Of course I do.” The fib tasted bitter. “I just want what’s best for him.”

“And if that’s what’s not what you think it is?”

Rapunzel blinked, confused. “Where is this coming from? Of course I know—”

“He still wants to leave, after this.” It felt like a punch to the gut, but Eugene didn’t seem to care. “And I think we should let him.”

“What? We can’t… he’ll get hurt, out there!”

“But it’s what he wants.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.” Rapunzel’s grip on the steering wheel got tighter. “He’s emotional, right now, and he needs to be somewhere we can keep him safe.”

“Isn’t that what Gothel always told you?” Eugene’s face wasn’t angry, but for how much his words cut Rapunzel, he might as well have been. How could he say that? It was different; she wasn’t sure how, but it was. Eugene seemed to have seen something play across her face. He started to backtrack.

“Sunshine, you need to—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Eugene blinked, taken aback. The guilty feeling nagging at Rapunzel’s thoughts only got worse when she saw his reaction, but she couldn’t help it. She needed Varian to be somewhere safe, somewhere she could keep an eye on him. It was rude of her to shut down Eugene like that, and she knew it, but she couldn’t deal with this right now. Not with the mounting danger.

“Rapunzel.” She turned to look at Eugene, who wouldn’t meet her eye. “Do you want him safe for him, or do you want him safe for you?”

The princess reeled, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to argue more, only for her husband to cut her off with a gentle movement.

“You need to trust him,” the man said. “Or at least give him more credit. Varian’s a smart kid, and he’s stronger than you think. We have to let him spread his wings eventually.”

With that, hopped down from the steering platform of the Oracle, not giving her time to reply. Rapunzel stewed as Eugene crept close to the gap between the ships, poking at a closed window on the side of the Der Sonne. He was talking nonsense; Eugene must have been chatting with Varian and swayed onto the teenager’s side. Varian could be very convincing, when he wanted to be, and obviously Eugene had been tricked into following the boy’s terrible idea. She sighed, pinching at her nose.

Eugene didn’t seem to pick up on his wife’s mood, working at the lock. Within seconds he had the porthole open, the small circle big enough for them to shimmy through. Eugene gently plucked Ruddiger from his shoulders, putting the critter down on a nearby crate.

“Best you stay here, bud,” he told the sleepy animal. “This is one adventure you might want to sit out.”

Ruddiger didn’t seem to want to argue, instead opting to roll over and curling up in a miserable ball of fur. Eugene frowned, giving the raccoon one more scratch behind the ears.

Rapunzel hopped down as well, not meeting her husband’s eye. Something in her felt defensive; she was right to want her brother safe, she didn’t understand why Eugene was suddenly against her on this. Varian was a given, he’d never been one to be ordered around, but she’d expected her husband to side with her. He wanted to protect Varian just as much as she did, she knew it, so why—

“We should get in there,” Eugene said, jabbing a thumb at the open window. “We don’t have much time before the sun comes up; they’ll see the Oracle.”

“Right.” Rapunzel smoothed out the folds of her dress. Priorities. “Right, of course.”

She braced herself on the porthole, stepping up and carefully maneuvering herself aboard the Der Sonne. The princess took a deep breath. They had to find Varian. She turned, helping Eugene through with a steady hand. Rapunzel tucked away the feelings of guilt, the creeping wrongness that had begun to take over her thoughts, and elected to ignore them.

They could deal with the rest later.

>>><<<

Varian found himself pacing. He felt like a caged animal, the iron bars of the brig taunting him. It was claustrophobic, the walls pressing in on him from all directions. He had to get out of the brig— had to track down that staff, had to get back to his friends, had to see if they were…

Well.

He had a hell of a to-do list, to say the least. Varian grit his teeth. One thing at a time. The Staff still had to be on board, there was no way that Merrick would let it out of his sight. Varian still wasn’t entirely sure what it did— but that didn’t really matter. If Merrick wanted it, was willing to go to such extremes to get it, then it stood to reason that the best thing to do would be to steal it back before the mage could do too much damage with it.

Varian couldn’t help but feel responsible. He was the idiot who’d been tricked, he was the one who’d been forced into opening the coffin with almost hilarious ease. It wasn’t entirely his fault— but he knew he was smarter than this. He’d been so caught up in the possibility of finding Aisha, of seeing her… he’d left any sense of logic behind. Eugene had seen it, so had Rapunzel. Varian hadn’t, and obviously that had gone fantastic for him.

Varian cast a wry glance over to the cell door, a bitter taste thick in his mouth at the sight of it. Step one was to get loose again; he’d blown his first shot, but Varian knew he was nothing if not a crafty little shit. He’d find a way out if he had to. Then the Staff. Then his family. Then, hopefully, a nap. He’d been awake since early yesterday morning, and it was certainly starting to wear at him. His everything was hurting by this point, from the top of his head down to his aching, bruised feet. The alchemist sighed, kicking idly at the floorboards under him.

“What to do,” he mumbled to himself. “C’mon genius, think.”

The darkness was starting to leak away, he could see through a window on the far side of the brig. He hadn’t noticed it before, it being so late that the porthole might as well have been another part of the wall— but in the early hour, he could see the beginnings of a dull grey sky. The sun would be up soon. Hopefully with more light to work with, he could figure something out.

Varian let himself pace again, the three-meter square cell not offering much else. He needed a plan. The Staff would be near wherever Merrick was; it would be tricky to grab it without getting spotted. He might have to make a detour, see if he can’t knock out one of the Bayans and steal their uniform to be able to move around the ship without drawing attention.

The boy looked down at himself, sighing. Quirin’s cloak was nearly in tatters, covered in cobwebs and dirt and dust. His formal clothes, long since rumpled and ruined in a way that would make Nigel pop a blood vessel, were almost grey instead of the blue they’d started as. Frederic and Arianna had only packed them one change of clothes each; Varian regretted swapping back to the formal wear on the Oracle the day before. He hadn’t expected to be grave robbing and getting kidnapped (again) or he would have worn something easier to run in.

Varian knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. If— when— he got out, he’d need to change. Which meant incapacitating a soldier or finding a spare uniform. He grimaced. That could be dealt with after he got out. He was thinking too far ahead.

The door at the end of the cell block started to rattle.

Varian nearly jumped out of his skin, the boy backing up and pressing his back against the wall. Gods did he wish for anything to defend himself with. A sword, a knife, hell, he’d even take a fire poker at this point. The wooden planks of the wall dug into his spine, pressing into his skin like a thousand descending hands. He shuddered, focusing as the door cracked open.

Lamplight streamed into the brig. Varian winced at the sudden change, pain spiking through his aching head; he threw a hand up to cover his eyes from the bright light. He slammed his eyes shut, trying to block it out and calm the pounding headache. Thus, the voice that rang through the brig took him by total surprise.

“Varian?”

“Rapunzel?!”

Blue eyes snapped open in shock, blinking away the spots and catching sight of a blur of purple standing at the end of the hall.

“Varian!” Rapunzel sprinted toward his cell, her hands wrapping around the iron bars in an almost manic frenzy. “Thank the Sun, are you okay?”

“Been better,” he said, truthfully. The bruise on his cheek stung something horrible, now that he was talking. Varian blinked as Eugene appeared behind the princess, lock pick already at the ready.

“Hey kid,” he greeted, “Good to see you.”

Varian huffed his way through a laugh, stepping back as Eugene cracked the door open. “I think that’s a new record,” the boy said, nodding toward the lock. “You’re getting too good at breaking out of jail cells.”

“Eh, I’m a man of many talents,” Eugene shrugged. When Varian stepped out of the cell, the man tilted his head and pointed to his cheek. “Ouch, goggles,” he said. “That’s a hell of a shiner.”

“A shin— Varian!” Rapunzel gasped as she saw what was probably a developing bruise. Varian winced when she grabbed at his face, forcing him to look to the side as she inspected the injury. It stung, her fingers poking and prodding. “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been yelling. It plucked at Varian's already frayed nerves, especially considering the situation they’d been separated in.

“I’m fine,” he said, firmly pushing at her hands until she let him go. He took a step back, nearly back into the cell in an attempt for space. “I’m fine,” he repeated when her face soured. “I’ve had worse. I pushed too far and Merrick—”

“He’s dead,” she spat, not waiting for him to even finish. The phrasing shocked Varian; he hadn’t thought she had it in her. He noticed how the grip on her frying pan was snow white. “He’s done enough damage for today. We need to get out of here, get you somewhere safe—”

Varian blinked, taken by surprise when she reached over and grabbed his wrist, starting to tug him behind her.

“Wait—” he started to say, only to lose his voice with a harder pull. “Wa—”

“Uh, sunshine,” Eugene’s voice was nearly lost behind them. “I think Varian’s trying to say something.”

“We’ll get back to the ship,” Rapunzel muttered, probably not even noticing she was speaking out loud. “We’ll sail back home if we have to, back to where it’s safe, we just have to get to the boat.”

“Rapunzel!” Varian snapped, yanking his hand from her grip. She whirled around, stunned. Her green eyes were blown wide, her mouth slightly open. Varian huffed, nervously smoothing out non-existent creases in his cloak. “I can’t go yet,” he admitted. He almost backed off when her face darkened. Almost.

“The Staff,” is all he said in explanation. “We can’t leave it here, not with Merrick. Whatever he wants it for, it can’t be good.”

Rapunzel looked like she was going to be sick. “Okay,” she nodded, a surprise. “But you go back to the Oracle, Eugene and I will get it.” There it was.

“Splitting up isn’t exactly a good idea,” Eugene cut in, bless his heart. “If all three of us are looking, we can find it faster.”

Rapunzel’s face seemed to twitch, but it was obvious she knew she wasn’t winning this. Her face flittered through multiple expressions—anger, sadness, frustration, until finally, resignation—but when neither Varian nor Eugene backed down she bit the inside of her cheek. She nodded, rough and jerky.

“We’ll be quick,” Varian tried to placate her, “Just a little detour.”

She sucked in a long breath through her nose. Varian winced, instinctively rubbing at his wrists. Gods his arm smarted, too, the stitches Eugene had made only days before had definitely torn a bit. Something in him demanded he keep his distance, trying for space even if she refused to give it. He wanted to wilt, to shrink away, and it took a very conscious effort to keep himself from fully retreating. Rapunzel shook her head at long last, letting the breath out as a long sigh.

“Just promise me you’ll stay close,” she finally sighed. Rapunzel turned to Eugene, overlooking Varian. “Where do we start?”

Eugene blinked, obviously befuddled. It was obvious that he had no idea, though it wasn’t like any of them really did.

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” Varian said, his hands idly twisting together as he thought. “Wherever Merrick is, that’s where it would be.”

“We heard him,” Eugene cut in, “Outside. I think he was on the deck. I’m not sure if he’s still out there, not with the storm.”

“It’s still a good spot to check.” Varian nodded, gently worming past his sister and starting for the door. They had to be running out of time before Merrick sent someone to check on him. Varian’s cheek stung at the reminder. He heard gentle footfalls behind him. His friends, following closely. It was a balm to his anxious heart, having his family together again. Varian felt something almost like confidence at the sound. His friends were here, they could do this, together.

Hopefully.

>>><<<

The storm was getting worse.

The Der Sonne rocked back and forth in the pounding surf; if Varian didn’t have a stomach of steel from a lifetime of being his own crash test dummy, he’d certainly be sick. It was rhythmic, like a countdown. A stopwatch.

Tick, tick.

There was a thrumming energy in the ship. Eugene and Rapunzel hadn’t seemed to pick up on it, as they moved through the underbelly of the warship, but Varian could feel it. Like a fishhook in his stomach, it pulled at him impatiently, luring him toward whatever was on the other side. It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d held the Novis Staff, that connection. Varian had never been one for magic… but he was willing to bet that this was something more arcane in nature.

A crack of lightning lit up from outside; the row of portholes on the side of the hall they were sneaking through cast bright circles of white light across the corridor in front of them for only a second, before it was snuffed out. Almost immediately after, a crack of thunder rattled through the air. Varian felt it deep in his chest, the gunshot rumble echoing in his ear long after the noise had ended. The Der Sonne gave another sickening lurch— rougher now.

The storm was growing more violent.

Varian paused when they reached a final staircase. They needed to get up there, the tugging in his chest was only getting stronger the closer to the deck they got— but something in him hesitated. They hadn’t seen any of the Bayans, not a one since they left the brig. It felt too easy. Much too easy for one of their adventures, at least. The last time things had gone this well, Varian had ended up with a snake growing out of his head. Nah, this was suspicious.

And he wasn’t about to get caught in another blindside.

“Is this the only way to the deck?” he asked, looking at Eugene. If anyone was going to hopefully know the layout of a navy ship, it would be the captain of the guard. Eugene blinked, thinking, before nodding his head.

“It is,” he answered, “Unless you want to climb over the side.”

Bad idea. They’d probably get tossed into the sea. Varian winced at the thought, the sound of roaring waves unmissable outside, pounding surf and shrieking winds spelling certain death for anyone who was in the water.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you guys managed to grab any alchemy supplies on the way in?”

Rapunzel shook her head. “We’ll just have to be sneaky,” she said, as if it were that simple.

Even Eugene winced, tapping his foot. “There can’t be too many left,” he mused. “I only counted ten on the deck when we were getting close, plus the twenty that—” he looked down, as if suddenly remembering that Varian was right in front of him. “That were in the tomb and didn’t do so well.”

Varian couldn’t help but feel a little shocked, extrapolating why Eugene had cut himself off. “So… only ten?” he asked, trying to smooth over the sudden awkward silence that had taken hold of Eugene’s tongue. The man nodded.

“Only ten. Plus metal-arm.”

Not great odds.

But they’d faced worse. Ten versus one wasn’t impossible, but it would definitely be a difficult morning to say the least. Their numbers were low—at least they had a shot.

Another crack of lightning illuminated the ship. The rolling thunder was louder still, enough that the glass inserts on the portholes began to rattle. Varian sucked in air through his teeth— they weren’t getting any younger, here, and they had to make a move. He moved up the first step, ready to just get this over with, when he was stopped by a hand that nearly dwarfed his own.

Eugene looked nervous, and rightly so. Varian tilted his head in silent question, arching a brow when the man tugged his knife and scabbard from his belt.

“Here,” he said, “Just in case.”

It was the same blade Varian had used to cut his hand to get into Geldam’s tomb. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding it gently. It was one of Edmund’s, he knew. It wasn’t something Eugene would just give away, let alone in a scenario where he might not get it back. Was he sure?

“Sure,” Eugene shrugged, like it didn’t mean anything. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Are you sure that’s—” Rapunzel started.

“Yep,” Eugene said, flatly. The princess pouted a little bit, obviously unhappy at being outvoted. Eugene didn’t seem to want to budge. At least someone was willing to let Varian take care of himself.

Varian decided to bite his tongue, opting instead to clip the knife’s cover to his own belt, letting it rest. It wouldn’t do much in a fight but having it still did wonders for soothing Varian’s frayed nerves. At least he could maybe stab someone before they all got murdered. The alchemist turned from his friends, continuing up the stairs and up to a massive door that stood at the very top.

With a deep breath he cracked it open, peering out onto the deck. He was immediately greeted with a face full of rain and seawater, forcing him to close his eyes with a splutter. Varian nearly let the door slam but caught it at the last second with frantic hands. He rubbed the water from his face, holding tight to the doorknob to keep the oak door from flying open in the harsh winds.

He took another, more cautious, look outside, grimacing at what he saw.

The Bayans had indeed congregated on the deck of the Der Sonne. Varian counted nine, though he knew number ten could be running around elsewhere. On the very end of the ship, near the bow, stood Merrick, his coat flaring out in the wind, an ink stain on grey canvas. Varian grimaced at the flash of silver in his hand.

Bingo.

“How’s it looking, goggles?” Eugene whispered, inching up behind Varian and peeking over his head. The teenager grimaced, looking back to his friends.

“Good news or bad news?” he asked them.

“Good news,” Rapunzel said, at the exact same time Eugene said, “Bad news.”

Varian snorted. “Good news is I found the Staff. Bad news is I also found Merrick.”

Both of them winced; Rapunzel looked like she’d eaten a lemon. Varian looked back to their enemy, watching as Merrick fiddled with the Staff. The mage seemed confused, a fact that was only highlighted when Merrick began to gently smack the Staff off the railing of the ship. Varian could hear the angry ting of silver on copper from their vantage point and winced.

“I don’t think he knows how to use it,” the boy mused. They might have a chance, after all.

“That’s good,” Eugene said, nodding.

“But it’s also only a matter of time before he figures it out.” Varian said, pointedly. Eugene paused.

“That’s bad.”

The boy nodded, wincing when Merrick threw the Staff in the air, flipping it and catching it with a flourish. The Bayans clapped, laughing. Varian rolled his eyes with a scoff. Drama queens, all of them. Almost bad as everyone back home.

Eugene was still looking over his shoulder, Rapunzel behind him. “Alright, what’s the plan?” he asked.

Varian bit the inside of his cheek. “Get the staff, and go home,” he said flatly. When both adults shot him a look, he pouted. “I’m making this up as I go along!”

Eugene sighed. “If the two of you can hold off the grunts, I can make a break for our friend over there. I’ll grab the stick, we jump off the back, and swim for the Oracle. Then, we get the hell out of dodge.”

Rapunzel and Varian both nodded in tandem. “Leave it to us,” she said. Varian could see she already had her pan out and ready. He tapped his fingers on the doorknob, looking around one final time. He didn’t see much in the way of weapons, but that didn’t make them any less of a threat.

The Der Sonne gave another sickening roll. None of the Bayans seemed to notice, too caught up in their leader’s little show to care. If there was a time to strike, it was—

“Now!” he yelled, throwing the door open and making a run for it. He heard Rapunzel and Eugene moving behind him, but his focus was entirely on the crew in front. Ten total, five for him and five for Rapunzel. All of them had jumped when he yelled, which was exactly the point; if they were surprised, they’d react slower.

Rapunzel let out a fierce cry, her pan swinging in a wide arc and slamming into the stomach of one of the soldiers. They went down with a grunt, wheezing as they clung to their abused torso. They didn’t move again, curling up on the deck. Varian winced, remembering a time he’d gotten the wrong end of that pan, but quickly added to his mental tally.

Nine to go.

Varian managed to weave around grasping hands, content to play bait. He was easily faster than them, his lack of armor and smaller size making it easy to avoid them as he danced away. The boy caught sight of Eugene trying to get to Merrick, but his way was blocked by two more soldiers. His sword flashed as the man parried their attacks, a streak of silver against the dark wood of the Der Sonne.

Rapunzel had taken care of three more, while they’d been busy, meaning—

Six left. They could do this.

Varian swerved away from another solider, a woman with dark red hair, and ducked down, sliding under her grabbing hands, and popping up behind her. With a cracking cry he turned, bringing up a foot and managing to kick her in the back, right in the center of the spine. She yelped, thrown off balance and toppling forward. She fell over a set of crates that had been on deck, her yelling cut short when her head slammed against one of the corners.

“Sorry!” Varian winced, “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

Five.

He was startled by another shout, this one from Rapunzel. She was fighting against a larger man, the brute holding a massive hammer. She cried out as he swung at her. Varian saw red, his feet moving before he could even think; with a screech he ran clean across the deck, jumping onto the unaware man’s back and wrapping spindly arms around his neck.

“Varian!” Rapunzel shouted. He couldn’t really hear her, however, as the large man began to swing around, lifting tree trunk sized arms back to try and grab the boy latched onto him. Varian held tight, but gods he was going to be sick from the spinning— he dug his grip in harder, trying to choke the man unsuccessfully.

“Get off you little shit!” the man screamed, trying and failing to get a hold of Varian.

They flipped around once more before Rapunzel finally managed to get an in. With a great crack she brought her pan down on the man’s skull. Varian felt the way he shook on the impact, the man dropping to the deck. The alchemist only just managed to let go, letting the man fall. The boy huffed for breath, shaking out his aching arms. That had been… unorthodox, but effective. Interesting. He looked across the deck again, taking a head count.

Four left. He nearly laughed, relieved, but suddenly was confronted with a face full of angry princess.

“Varian, what are you doing?” Rapunzel demanded, “You could have been hurt— that was reckless!”

He felt a drop of anger at her tone. “I was saving you!” he snapped, “You could say thanks, you know?!”

She threw her hands up, frustrated, but before she could inevitably start to tear into him again there was a massive cracking noise of broken air. A shock wave pulsed across the deck of the ship, sending them all falling over. Varian landed roughly on the wooden slats, instinctively covering his head. He heard Rapunzel scream, and peeked over his arms to see her flip ass over teakettle across the polished surface. Anything not nailed down, people included, were tossed around like children’s toys, some of them nearly taking the plunge into the inky depths of the ocean below.

Varian winced, looking frantically toward the bow of the Der Sonne. Merrick stood there, openly laughing as he held the Novis Staff above his head. The crystal shone a bright orange, sending out rhythmic pulses of light into the sky above. The storm, violent before, picked up in intensity, rattling the very bones in Varian’s chest. He gripped onto the slick deck, trying to keep himself still as another pulse of energy flew from the staff. The wind tousled his hair, sending it into Varian’s face and slapping him with the rain. Varian winced, peering through the storm with watery eyes to catch sight of his enemy.

Merrick looked plenty pleased with himself, waving the Staff in triumph. “Uh oh,” he shouted over the wind, a fake whine in his voice. “Guess I was able to figure it out without you, huh?!”

Varian scowled. Enough was enough— he was putting a stop to this. He pushed himself to his feet, aching arms shaking under the effort; his left hand felt slick in his glove…. Ah. The stitches on his arm had given up the ghost at last. His sleeve was stained a bright red, the fresh blood mixing with rain and seawater. Quirin’s cloak was a mess, the red staining the fabric and turning ashy blue a deep maroon.

Varian tried to steady himself, only to be thrown to the side by a particularly rough wave hitting the Der Sonne at the side. He heard the others, Bayan and Coronian alike, scream as they were tossed. He hit the deck once more, pain from the jagged cut in his arm lacing up his nerves. Varian grunted, blinking away salt and sea; he focused on Merrick, who stood tall and proud at the bow of the ship as if he didn’t even notice the rolling waves.

There was a bright flash of light, flickering for just a second. Varian screamed as his eyes slammed shut, the intensity of the glow making his eyes burn. Immediately after was a massive boom of thunder, along with a cracking sound of snapping wood, like breaking bone. He blinked away the spots, catching the last vestiges of the mast bursting into a thousand pieces.

He yelped, rolling out of the way of a massive chunk of wood that fell to the deck. The others did the same, various screams filling the air as the mast of the Der Sonne exploded into flaming, pointy shrapnel. The lightning had been quick, like a burst of bright sunlight, but the thunder had nearly popped his ears. The rolling noise of it rang in Varian’s skull and made all other sound muffled.

The ship below them began to rumble. Varian could feel it with how his spine was pressed to the deck. His teeth chattered in his mouth, rattling in his skull; the mast of the Der Sonne had crumbled, spewing flaming shrapnel across the entire deck. The alchemist could see a massive, charred hole left in its wake, punching down to the very heart of the ship. The rumbling was getting worse, coming from where the mast had once stood. If Varian listened closely, he swore he could hear…

Water.

Lots of water, rushing into the belly of the ship.

Wonderful.

Varian pushed himself up again. It seemed he’d been forgotten, in the chaos. Eugene somehow still standing, was caught up in fighting the last of the Bayan forces. Rapunzel was getting to her feet behind Varian. The Der Sonne was properly on fire now, and from the sounds of it, flooding. The ship was certainly going down.

But Varian himself had a clear shot to Merrick.

And to the Staff.

He was moving before he could think, rolling to his feet and stumbling with the creaking of the floorboards. Varian grit his teeth. He could end this, he had to end this; he may have hated his family history, but that didn’t make burying his head in the sand an option. He’d unburied all of those festering emotions at long last, the ones he’d buried and left to rot at the behest of everyone around him— but enough was enough.

He was done running.

A thin hand caught his wrist before he could make a break for it, holding him back, like a shackle. He turned, blue eyes meeting devastated green. The world around them seemed to slow, everything pausing.

“Don’t,” Rapunzel pleaded with him. Her face was tear soaked and pale. “Please, let me protect you.”

Varian’s world narrowed down to where her hand was on his skin. He stared at her, silent. Unresisting.

Stagnant.

She was looking at him like he was a priceless vase about to topple. The widening eyes, the drawn face, the dawning horror of the incoming loss of something precious; all of it pointed to her inability to let him fall. Varian felt the world begin to spin again, the rain and wind fading into the forefront in the light of his sister’s desperation.

But something in him, the trauma, the fear, the anger, something… it refused to be shoved back down. Not for her. Not for anyone. The bandage had been ripped off. The wound was open, the cancer exposed. Whether she liked it or not, he was stepping toward somewhere she might not be able to follow. He caught her eye, twisted his hand… and finally, he was free.

Her eyes widened with dismay, her grip getting stronger for just a second more before he tore himself from it. Varian heard her scream for him, his wrist slipping from her grip with the aid of his own dripping blood. Rapunzel yelled for him again, her wailing voice lost to the wind as Varian turned and sprinted toward the bow, leaving her firmly behind.

Something in him hurt, hearing the pain in her voice… but he had to do this. Had to fix his mistakes, back in the tomb, had to fix the problems his bloodline had brought to those around him. This was a step, a crucial one, to finally moving on. At least, he hoped.

Merrick was still at the bow, swinging the Staff like one would a baseball bat. The mage was cackling, looking up to the brewing storm with glee. His back was turned— good.

Varian’s feet thudded against the slick surface of the deck, nearly slipping once or twice against the rain. His boots weren’t the greatest for this, curse every fancy tailor under the sun; but he quickly ran through the gaps between Eugene and the Bayans, leaving them all behind. The boy deftly vaulted over flaming wreckage, weaving through the destruction of the Der Sonne as if it were a walk in the fields of Old Corona.

“Kid?!” He heard Eugene shout, horror obvious in the man’s voice, but Varian didn’t dare stop. Not now, not while he was so close. Merrick loomed a mere few meters away, back still turned; the mage was confident in his victory. Idiot.

Varian prided himself on being a problem solver, a smart guy, if science could fix an issue, he would figure out how. He was a man of knowledge, of academics. Typically, all his problems could be solved with wit and enough creativity.

But sometimes all you needed was to tackle someone to the ground.

With a scream Varian threw himself at Merrick’s undefended back, launching himself with brutal precision at the other teenager. Merrick’s voice went shrill with shock as Varian slammed into him, sending both of them toppling to the ground. Varian landed with a grunt, catching himself with his hands and wincing at a fiery ache that ran up his arms from his wrist at the impact.

The Staff clattered to the deck, swirling away from both teenagers. Varian was on his feet first, scrambling for the Staff with all the grace of a fish on dry land. Merrick was up a second later, managing to shove Varian back down as he passed. Varian yelped when he fell, rolling with the shove and stumbling after Merrick with a scowl.

The mage shifted; Varian could see the start of a spacial jump happening—but when Merrick tried it, he only managed a few feet before popping back into reality with a crack.

“Godsdamned rain!” Merrick snarled, stumbling from the failed teleport, and running for the Staff on foot.

Rain. Water. A fitting weakness for a fire based mage.

Merrick reached the Staff first, scooping it up with a snarl. Varian was right behind him, grabbing at it as well. They pulled at it, neither willing to give ground, yanking it back and forth like toddlers over a toy.

“Let it go!” Merrick snapped, “It’s mine!”

“You stole it!” Varian’s voice was nearly carried away by the wind. “It’s too dangerous, we have to put it back!”

Merrick’s expression darkened, pulling the Staff toward himself roughly. “It’s mine!” he repeated, “My destiny, my revenge, mine!”

“Will you cut it out with the revenge shit!” Varian pulled the Staff back, ignoring how the silver seemed to buzz under his hands. “This is stupid! It’s all stupid! Can’t you see we have bigger problems right now?”

Merrick looked ready to kill, letting go with one hand to swipe at Varian. The boy ducked out the way, catching an opening. With the same movement he thrust out one of his feet, catching Merrick right in the knee with the heel of his foot. Even above the rain he could hear the crunch of an unhappy joint, a bloodthirsty grin appearing when Merrick yowled in pain.

The hands holding the Staff fell away, Varian nearly falling on his ass without the force to pull against. He rolled, a good few feet away from his downed enemy. The alchemist forced himself to breathe, clutching the Staff tightly to his chest. He felt like a child holding a toy, gasping for air and flat on his back. He’d had the wind firmly knocked out of him— the boy was stunned, lying on the deck like a freshly caught fish.

The silver hummed in Varian’s hands, that tugging feeling in his bones finally stopping now that he had it once again. The cold was even worse now, like holding ice against bare skin. A burning cold that turned his fingers numb; Varian winced as his grip tightened on it. He managed to roll onto his knees, coughing roughly from the harsh landing. “Bullshit,” he whined, “Absolute bullshit.” Merrick, nearby, was doing much of the same, the older teenager wheezing in the rain.

Varian stumbled to his feet once again, already sick of being knocked to the deck. The Novis Staff continued to send out energy, a rhythm of pure magic that shot through the air. It was like holding something alive, conscious. Like holding a beating heart in the palm of his hand.

Varian looked for his friends, catching sight of them through the smoking wreckage of the mast. The Der Sonne was listing now, slightly, but still listing. She had truly begun to sink; they had to get off the warship and onto the Oracle if they wanted any chance of getting to safety. He was cut off from them, the fire spreading across the deck and consuming the upper levels. Varian swallowed thickly, catching sight of his friends’ terrified faces.

“Varian!” Rapunzel called. Her voice was reedy, nearly swallowed by the sounds of crackling fire and rushing water below. Eugene was by her side, the man scanning for any way to get around the flames. There wasn’t one. Varian knew this. He’d looked. He saw the exact second Eugene realized this, the man’s face dawning in abject horror.

Something in Varian clicked.

“You’ve gotta go!” Varian called, shooing them away like it would do anything. “I’ll meet you there!”

“Not happening!” Eugene was the one to shake his head. “We’ll get you— shit, kid watch out!”

Varian twisted, ducking down and narrowly missing the slice of a sword over his head. He yelped, scrambling away as Merrick loomed over him. The man looked nearly demonic, hair astray with a wild look in his eye. A river of blood was falling from a cut on his cheek, ruby against the grey sky. He didn’t speak, swinging his sword down to try and slice at Varian again.

The boy twisted away, Quirin’s cloak flaring out behind him. He caught sight of his panicking friends through the wreckage, the two of them trying to find a weak point in the fire that didn’t exist. The Der Sonne was listing more now, nearly enough for Varian to start slipping. She was going to split in two at this rate, her weakened center surely pushed to the very limit. She was going down and would take them all with her.

Unless someone forced their hand.

“Go!” He shouted at them again, turning his back on his friends. He rushed at Merrick, reeling the staff back like one would a bat, but at the last second before impact he instead let himself jump down into a slide, the listing angle of the ship and the slick wood of the deck helping him to skid under his enemy’s sweeping sword. Merrick let out an indignant noise at being swerved again, but Varian wasn’t paying attention to that, instead opting to sprint for the weakened center of the ship.

The Staff hummed in his hands, a buzzing power that he could feel from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. It wanted to detonate, like a chemical reaction in a stopped bottle. The pressure of magic was building, pushing at the edges of the corporeal world with the vigor of a caged animal. Aldred’s machine had felt the same.

He skid to a stop, a flurry of water kicking up under his boots. Rapunzel and Eugene were yelling for him, their voices loud in the background, but Varian paid them no notice. He had a plan. Not a good plan, mind you, but a plan. He held the Staff high above his head, waiting for a split second. His breath heaved, choking, cloying smoke filling his lungs.

He had a choice, here. Either his friends would wait for him to try and get across the flames, something they obviously didn’t have the time to do, or…

Varian could force their hand.

The Der Sonne was weakened already by the lightning strike, all it would take was one final push and she would crack in half like a Fabergé egg. And Varian had always been one to push things to their limits, hadn’t he?

Merrick stood across from him. The mage’s eyes widened at the sight of Varian holding the Staff high, obviously seeing what Varian intended to do. He was slowly inching forward, trying not to spook Varian into acting, but it was a lie and they both knew it. Merrick was very much a predator on the prowl, stalking someone he thought was weaker than him until he thought he could get the upper hand. It wouldn’t work.

Not this time.

“You won’t let this die?” Varian asked, something in him smug at the way Merrick’s toxic green eyes flicked between Varian and the staff, like he was holding a grenade with the pin out. The taste of Merrick’s fear was delicious, seeing how cautious his enemy was being. Good. That’ll teach him.

“You know that this goes beyond us,” Merrick tried to argue, still inching forward. Varian scoffed, raising the Staff above his head by another inch and grinning when the man in front of him flinched. “It’s bigger than us. The feud started ages ago; you think you can just stop it? After all the blood?”

“It might be,” Varian admitted. It was-- bigger than them, that is. Countless years of history, of pain and blood and suffering, all boiled down to the two last members of the families facing off on a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean. How poetic, that they would both go down, together. Varian was done living in denial. When he next spoke, it was with a strength he thought he’d lost, those days in Barviel Keep. Things may have started a millennia ago…

“But it ends with me.”

He brought the staff down onto the shattered remains of the Der Sonne. The crack it made of silver against wood echoed much louder than it should have, accompanied by yet another massive pulse of energy, stronger than any before. Varian’s ears rang with it, all noise fading out into a high-pitched squeal. The deck below him gave one more violent shake, a bright light flaring out from where the base of the Staff was embedded in the wood.

It was almost too bright, pure white lines reaching out like spider’s webs from where Varian stood. The alchemist shouted, the metal in his hands so cold it felt like the very air around him would freeze—

Then, with the groaning of an ancient beast, the Der Sonne shuddered one last time.

The light faded out, leaving a perfect slice straight through the deck of the ship. Varian watched in awe as the Der Sonne began to shift, cleanly sliced in half from top to bottom. The teenager stumbled back as the two sides began to separate, grinding against each other in a scream of shattering wood and cracked glass. The listing became extreme, so much so that Varian was forced to grab onto what was left of the mast— he caught sight of a few of the Bayans falling over the railing and plummeting into the raging waters below.

Eugene and Rapunzel were clinging to the railing on the higher side of their half, Eugene holding tight while shielding Rapunzel in his arms. They looked no worse for wear, but as the stern half of the ship fully separated from the bow he could see how they were being forced into moving. Good. Exactly as planned.

He ripped the Staff from where it had stabbed into the deck, lifting it up once more and turning to where Merrick was holding tightly to a rope. The bow half of the Der Sonne was nearly at a eighty-degree angle list, their half almost perfectly on her side. The railing… well, it was below them now, already long since sunken under the rough waves.

Their flaming piece of wreckage, for the Der Sonne had long since stopped being worthy of being called a ship, was going down, quicker than the stern half. Varian winced as his fingers began to ache, a swooping feeling developing in his stomach as the floor finally fell out from under him and the wreck turned completely on its side. Water rushed over the railing, the wreckage under him bobbing in the waves like a cork.

He… may not have thought this through.

But as he caught sight of Rapunzel and Eugene being forced to leave the deck, rushing for where they’d moored the Oracle, he felt a surge of relief. Surely they had some crackpot scheme at the ready, but they were safe; he’d finally made sure his family wouldn’t go down with him. His heart was beating fast, so loud in his ears he didn’t hear what they were shouting… but as they vanished around a corner, Varian breathed easy for the first time since he’d been brought aboard.

He clung to the last of the mast, managing to get his feet under him as he awkwardly climbed on top. It was parallel to the sea, one foothold now that the deck was nothing more than a slippery slope into the ocean beyond. Merrick, nearby, had dug his metal hand into the wood, holding himself high by one arm and holding tight. Varian was forced to back up as much as he could as the mage swiped at him, trying to snatch the Novis Staff.

Varian nearly dropped the stupid thing. Ironic, considering the hell it had caused. Merrick swiped again, this time managing to maneuver himself onto the little piece of mast. It was only two meters long, offering no distance for Varian to scuttle away or hide; but as he faced his enemy, someone who had once terrified him… he didn’t feel that fear. Instead, he could only feel… regret, maybe? That things had gotten so out of hand, that he’d been drawn back to the sordid family history he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

He was so tired.

There was another burst of lighting. Both teenagers yelped as it hit near the top of the bow, an explosion of light and sound that violently tore the worlds to shreds in mere milliseconds. Varian felt himself stumble, his feet unable to get purchase—

He toppled, dropping off the mast and falling the nearly twenty feet into the water.

Varian saw a flash of ink fall past him— Merrick, also dropping from the wreckage— and heard a splash. A split second later he felt a ruthless slam on his own back, the ice-cold water below feeling more like concrete with how hard he hit it. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream, coughing as saltwater rushed in instead of air. He was choking, drowning— he couldn’t tell what way was up, he was sinking— he tried to blink away the water, fruitlessly trying to force his hands into a paddle. The salt burned, his eyes, the cuts on his hands and arm, a burn that had somehow happened in the scramble. His skin felt like it was on fire, the sting worming in and sinking deep.

The Novis Staff was still in his locked in grip, his hands tensing in primal fear and unable to let go as he sluggishly kicked and flailed. There was debris everywhere, shadows that played across his blurry vision and made everything that much more disorienting. He felt something solid smack into his back— a board? A barrel? He couldn’t even tell— and screamed again, water rushing in to fill his aching lungs.

Varian’s vision began to go spotty. He began to feel a stabbing pain in his eyes and ears, pressure from his aching lungs demanding he do something, swim—

His limbs were almost lethargic. Like he was trying to swim through molasses. His chest convulsed, trying to force a breath; he inhaled more water, the salt of it clear on his tongue. He turned the direction he hoped was up, blearily reaching his hand toward the red orange of flames above. If… if he could just get to the surface…

Another convulsion had him breathing in more water. Spots filled his vision, the panic fully settled in. He was going to die here. He’d never get home. He was going to sink to the bottom of the ocean, just like his mother had. How poetic.

He tried one last kick, weak and ineffectual. He was sinking, limp hand still reaching for the sky. The light from the flames got dimmer as he got further away, unwillingly descending into the depths. His eyes burned, from the saltwater or from tears, he’d never truly know.

He’d never fix things with his sister.

Varian’s vision began to dim, then darken. He was paralyzed, unable to twitch so much as a finger. Maybe… maybe this was the end. He’d been looking for it, after all. And it was quiet, here. Dark. Almost peaceful. There were worse places to sleep. He blinked one last time, slow. His eyelids felt so heavy… He was so tired… Varian closed his eyes for a final time, and let the ocean claim him.

Maybe now, he would have his ending.

>>><<<

The first surprise was that Varian wasn’t dead.

Or, at least, he didn’t think he was dead. Not yet anyways. He could feel solid stone under his back, cold and unyielding. It leeched the warmth from his skin, but the chill was blissful on Varian’s pounding skull. He winced, trying to ignore the bright light coming from beyond his eyelids. Had he slept in again? Why hadn’t Rapunzel woken him up…?

He cracked an eye open. The room beyond was familiar. Not one he’d seen in nearly two years, but one he knew well from his nightmares. From the lofty, arching ceilings, to the solid marble floors, it was exactly as he’d last seen it, the day he’d help burn it to the ground.

The Hall of Portraits was as immaculate as ever, every golden frame polished to perfection and shining in the dim sunlight coming in from the domed skylight. Varian opened his eyes fully, wincing as he sat up. The headache disappeared as quickly as it had started, and the ache that had followed him for the past week was long gone. He felt like he’d slept a hundred years, groggy but rejuvenated all the same.

“Maybe I am dead,” he whispered to himself. The vague impressions of the last week filtered through his head, Pincosta, Ori, Geldam’s tomb. The sinking of the Der Sonne. His family, escaping at the last second. Varian, sinking. Oh, gods maybe he was actually dead. Just his luck to wind up back here for his eternal hell.

He stood, scanning the room. It had been years, but he still remembered the Hall like it was yesterday. Like he was still in that tower, hidden away like a precious artifact. Varian shuddered, looking for one of the exits, only to find that the walls had somehow extended to cover where the exits had been.

Oh, so he was definitely dead.

Varian scowled. Quick feet took him to one of the “new” walls, the alchemist rapping on it with a knuckle. It sounded solid, as did the rest of the paneling. The oak blended seamlessly. He sucked in a small breath through his nose, trying to keep himself from freaking out; the nerves were beginning to fray, the idea of being stuck in the Hall for longer than necessary striking him with dread.

The portraits were as unappealing as always, masterfully painted but with sneering, judgmental subjects who all leered at Varian from their place on canvas. He wandered, skimming over Geldam’s painting, then Kamron and Abelia’s, coming to a stop in front of Aisha’s.

She still looked every bit a warrior queen. She still held that stupid blue bundle, the representation of Varian that Aldred had committed to paint and canvas when the man had assumed him dead. He glared at it, this little piece of Aldred’s horrible obsession with bringing his son back to the Keep. It made him sick. Varian reached out, intending on ripping the stupid thing off the wall, when a voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Varian grit his teeth, tensing up at the familiar voice.

“Father.” His voice was flat. Varian refused to turn around, a hand still outstretched toward Aisha’s painting.

“Oh, come now,” Aldred sounded like he was pouting. It made something angry boil in Varian’s stomach. “It’s only been a few years, right? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten our lime together, my boy. I thought we had such fun.”

“I had fun tossing you off the tower, does that count?” Varian snarled, twisting and meeting his tormentor head on. Aldred seemed nonplussed, amused, even.

“I see that you’ve still got your mother’s fire,” he cooed. “Lovely. You’ll need it.”

Varian cringed as the man stepped closer, his body moving without thought. He backed as far away from father as he could, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Too close, he thought frantically, too close, too close—

“I will not have my son be weak,” father declared. “You are the last of our line-- and you’re going to wake up.”

“W-wake up?” Varian cursed himself for tripping over the words. His whole body was shaking, small spasms that had his knees knocking and his chest shuddering. It was almost embarrassing, if he had the space to be embarrassed between the waves of terror. “What—”

“You’re drowning,” father said flatly. “Just like my wife did. Just like I thought you had. I refuse to let one of those freaks win against us— so you’re going to wake up, and you’re going to kill it.” Father’s face sunk into a scowl, leaning closer to the terrified boy in front of him. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Certainly seem to be, from my perspective. I will admit I didn’t think you had the balls… but you proved me wrong in the end, didn’t you? I forgot something crucial.”

“Wh—”

“As much as you are Aisha’s child… you’re my son too.”

Varian was going to vomit. He cowered back, bringing his clenched fists up to his chest in an attempt to self-guard, shrinking back into the wooden paneling next to Aisha’s portrait. Father seemed to grow tired of Varian’s panic, shaking his head.

“You’ve got the fight in you, like it or not,” he ground out. “And I’m telling you to grow up, stop being a coward, and finish the job.”

“I—” Varian’s voice was choked; he could barely speak through the lump in his throat. “I won’t, it’s not—”

“Not what?” Father’s voice was dangerously low. “Not right? What wasn’t right was you letting them into the tomb and handing them our family’s prized possession.”

Tears bit at the corner of Varian’s eyes. He couldn’t break down, he couldn’t, but seeing the man in front of him, the subject of his nightmares for over two years— it was a cloying, terrifying thing. His chest hurt, from how much his breaths stuttered. The alchemist was truly worried he might faint.

“I-I’m sorry, father.” His voice was weak, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Varian hated this; he hated that he could just be reverted back to the scared little waif that had been plucked from the ashes of Barviel Keep by father’s mere presence. It was like a switch had been flipped— Varian’s mind had immediately swapped back to the tactics that had kept the man’s bad temper at bay. The apologizing, the meekness, the way father spilled out from his tongue without thought. It was all things he’d had to work to break, after being brought home; it had been months before Varian was able to speak at a normal volume again, and even then he caught himself slipping if someone were cross with him.

He couldn’t go back. Not to that, not again. But here he was, trying to disappear into the wall once more. Varian hated himself for it. Hated father for reducing him to this again. Hated the cold tile under his bare feet, hated the wood paneled walls, hated the stupid domed windows.

He hated all of it.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” Father stepped back, giving Varian a little space to breathe. “You’re being a disappointment, letting those aberrations get to you like that. You are the last of our line, yet you’re still clinging to a princess’ skirts like a child.”

Varian bristled, but kept quiet. He the words were trying to push out of his chest, clawing at his tight throat and demanding to be said, but he just couldn’t, not in the face of father’s ire, not while he was angry. His self-preservation wouldn’t allow for it.

“I expected better, after what happened,” father’s face was sour. Blue eyes, mirrors of Varian’s own, flicked up and above the boy’s head, focusing on Aisha’s portrait. “I expected better,” he repeated, more wistfully.

Varian inched to the side, trying to worm out from between father and the wall. He felt constricted, claustrophobic; he felt like he was being boxed in with the walls slowly crushing inward. Father noticed the movement, leaning forward and grabbing the terrified boy’s chin, forcing eye contact between them.

“You’re going to wake up,” he ordered, “And you’re going to finish the job. Are we clear?”

Varian breathed deeply, closing his eyes. He clenched his fists, grit hit teeth.

And then, he spoke.

“I won’t.” His voice was strong, but there was no mistaking the shaking of his bottom lip. “I won’t do what you tell me, not anymore. I-I’m older now, and—”

“And what?” Father seemed amused, “Does being older suddenly make you unable to understand an order? You’re trying my patience.”

Varian almost shrank back when the grip on his chin got tighter. Almost. “It means I don’t have to listen to you,” he managed to get the words out through grit teeth. “It means you don’t have any more power over me; you’re dead.”

“And you’re dying,” Aldred shot back, “Or did we forget that little fact?”

Varian brought a hand up, wrenching father’s hand from his face and moving away. The man seemed almost shocked by the sudden outburst, eyes following as Varian stepped into the middle of the Hall. He ignored the feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes on the back of his neck. He wasn’t backing down, not again. He’d stood up to Merrick, he’d stood up to Rapunzel.

He could stand up to a ghost, too.

“I hate you,” he said bluntly, and oh did it feel good to say. Father snorted, but Varian wasn’t stopping— now that the words had been let go, it was like unstopping a cork; his voice was flowing from him without much conscious thought.

“I hate you so much. I’ve hated you for two years, and I don’t think I’ll ever be finished. Y-you hurt my sister, you hurt Meave, you hurt me; and you…” he had to pause, to push back the salty tears in his eyes. “You killed my dad. You killed him, just because you wanted to.”

“I killed him because I was bringing you home.” Aldred’s voice was condescending. “Really, my son, only a few years away and you forget everything I tried to teach you.”

“Teach me?” Varian scoffed. “Teach me what? How to be the most hated king in the Seven Kingdoms? How to traumatize children—?”

“How to be strong.” Varian shrank back at the coolness in father’s tone. “I taught you how to take what was owed to you. Would you have rather grown up as a princess’ little pet?” The man scoffed. “Obviously you wanted to, seeing as that’s what you did as soon as there was no one to push you to be better.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Even if Varian had feared that very outcome, with Rapunzel’s protectiveness, it wasn’t the same when Aldred brought it up. “You don’t ever get to talk about her like that.”

Aldred’s face was stormy. Varian didn’t back down this time, even when the man loomed above him. It was like he was fifteen again, stuck under the thumb of a man who’d caused him nothing but misery— but unlike before, Varian met Aldred eye to eye. He didn’t cower. Not this time.

“You were destined for greatness,” Aldred said. “You were meant for so much more than this.”

Varian’s hackles raised at the reminder of what was supposed to be his name. His face twisted into something ugly, something angry. “I was born into love,” he shot back, unable to resist pointing out where his mother had truly denied Aldred any sort of connection to Varian as a child. The man hadn’t even known his name, until he’d stumbled upon the boy in Corona. It was salt in the wound, to be sure.

The insult hit, as it was supposed to. The man snarled, stalking forward and making a grab for the boy. Varian backed up, putting an arm up to try and push the man away. Aldred snatched his wrist, as he had so long ago— Varian pushed down the memory, the panic, the heart pounding surge of fear that sent his nerves screaming; the touch made his skin crawl, remembering how father had shaken him for speaking out of turn, had made him cry— and pulled the boy, his mirror, closer.

“Wake up,” Aldred pressed again. He tried to shake Varian, just like all that time ago. Varian squared his shoulders in retaliation, keeping himself exactly where he was. The man in front of him, the source of two years of night terrors, went oddly flat faced.

Varian was ready for the slap before it could hit.

He shifted, backing away. Aldred’s hand hung in the air, pausing when it missed the mark. Varian felt something smug rear up in the way the man’s tells had become obvious to him— the first point to defeating an enemy was to know it.

“No,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not done yet.”

Something caught his eye, in the back corner. A section of the wall, directly behind Aldred, had gone nearly black. Almost like… soot. Varian blinked, focusing on it for just a second, seeing how it got bigger. The ghost was unwinding.

Aldred himself looked… off. Now that Varian had gotten his proverbial feet underneath him, he could see the little details were different. The man’s face, though it was always thin and pointed, looked much more skeletal than before. One blue eye was darker than the other… the one Varian had carved out, himself. The edges of his salt and pepper hair were dark— almost singed. Hm.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Aldred asked him. The smell of smoke started to drift through the air. Varian’s fists curled at the threat— because it was very much at threat, just one he refused to let work on him again.

“I’d like to see you try,” the alchemist challenged. He wasn’t a scared little boy anymore— he wouldn’t be intimidated, or pushed down, not by anyone else. The black stain on the wall got bigger, smoking embers starting to pop up in the very center. The wallpaper began to curl from the heat, a few of the portraits getting singed on the side. Aldred’s eye was looking red and bloodshot. Things were beginning to crumble.

Good.

“I’ll drag you back to that room, if I have to,” the man threatened, the sudden spring of anger long since expected. Varian began to move, constantly evading the grabbing hands following him and keeping an eye on the wall. The flames had stirred to life, smoke and ash climbing through the air and spreading into the room. Varian winced at the sight of blood, ruby red against pale skin, began to leak from Aldred’s eye, looking almost like tears.

Despite the flames, Varian’s hands were… cold. Like ice.

The Novis Staff, it seemed, was still in play. Varian’s mind clicked— surely it had conjured this odd dream space. None of this was real. Father’s ghost may be here, may be lashing out as blood flooded from his now hollow eye socket, but—

“You don’t have any power, here,” Varian’s declaration was loud over the noise of flames. Aldred tried to interject, to wrest control back, but the boy wouldn’t have it. “You don’t.”

The fire had spread, encompassing them. Aldred whirled around, something like fear in his eye. Varian stood still, winding up in front of his mother’s portrait. The man was crumbling, his skin turning black and singed at the edges, the blood coming in rivulets. It was something to see, how quickly his abuser fell apart without the fear, the illusion of power, to prop him up.

“You’re still my son,” Aldred tried one last ditch attempt, stumbling forward as his body turned to ash. “You’re still my legacy.”

Varian was stoic when Aldred collapsed to the debris covered tiles. The man was nearly disintegrating, his ghostly form burning up just as his actual body had, in the fire that claimed Barviel Keep. The boy couldn’t find it within himself to feel anything other than a cold resignation— to watch as his nightmare finally crumbled away.

“I’m not your anything,” Varian said firmly. “Not your son, not your heir, not yours.”

He stepped back, uncaring when Aldred’s reaching hand fell to the ground and burst into a plume of dust and fire. The crackling heat around him, what should have felt like molten fire, was nothing more than a summer’s breeze on his skin. He looked down to the remains of his torment, and, at last, began to smile.

“Not anymore.”

Aldred let out one final, gasping snarl. It was pathetic, a wheezing noise from a dying memory; Varian watched as the man finally crumbled into ash. The room around him continued to burn, paintings crumbling into nothing but flaming wreckage, timbers falling from the ceiling, and yet… he didn’t feel scared. Not of the fire, not of the corpse in front of him, not of the memory of it.

Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

Varian refused to open his eyes, listening as the noise of fire began to drain away. Soon there was nothing but silence left behind, echoing after the chaos of the banishing of Aldred’s ghost. He sucked in a deep, grounding breath through his nose, keeping his eyes closed for just a moment more. All he could hear was the beating of his heart, a steady, pulsing thing.

You’re alive, you’re okay. You faced him again, and you won.

It was a mantra, as the cold spread over his skin and a brief feeling of saltwater pressing on his chest faded in and out within seconds. The chill spread from his hand, stronger now, more stable. Varian kept his eyes closed until the sensations left. Instead, he stood as still as he could. Breathing. Listening. Grounded, and staring into the darkness behind his eyelids. The noises faded, as did the chill.

The smell of apples drifted across his nose; if he were more foolish, Varian would blame his dad’s cloak, still wrapped around his shoulders. Instead, he pinched his eyes a little more closed for a beat, preparing himself.

When he opened them again, he was somewhere new.

Somewhere he recognized.

The house in Old Corona, his childhood home, had been destroyed in the final battle against Zhan Tiri. Countless waves of black rocks had pockmarked the land, leaving countless villages in ruins. It had been part of the reason Varian had accepted the engineering position— and why Quirin had followed him in the new role.

Yet here he was, standing in the kitchen like he was three years old and waiting for his dad to return from the orchard, apples in hand so they could bake together. Varian turned, gently putting a hand on the weathered, old table. It was exactly as he remembered, the stains and burns from countless alchemy experiments gone wrong littered the surface. He could see a groove on the edge where Quirin had slipped with a knife while cutting vegetables when Varian had been around eight, even a few little nicks where Ruddiger had jumped up without fully retracting his claws first. It… it was home.

Varian blinked a few times, trying to shake himself from his stupor. The house was the same, just as the Hall of Portraits had been. Like a manifestation of his memories, brought to life. Father had infested one memory… but this one…

There was the familiar sound of the front door, opening and closing softly. Varian heard footsteps, heavy ones. He nearly burst into tears at the sound of them, as familiar to him as breathing. Someone, a man, was whistling, his deep voice echoing through the front hall as the person got closer to the kitchen. Varian couldn’t hold the tears back, suddenly feeling them flood from his eyes.

When Quirin turned the corner from the hall, standing in the doorway, Varian let out a loud sob. The man looked stunned, dropping the basket of apples he’d been holding. They rolled across the wooden floor, scattering around the kitchen without anyone to stop them. Varian and Quirin stared at one another, both of them at a loss for words for a fair half minute. Varian sniffled, biting at the inside of his cheek, and finally forcing his aching chest to say something.

“Hi daddy,” he said. His voice cracked, but he pressed onward. “I missed you.”

That seemed to break Quirin from his paralyzed state. The man rushed forward, reaching out to wrap his arms around Varian in a tight hug. Varian clung back, snorting when Quirin lifted him up and off the ground. His legs dangled, swaying as the man hugged him tightly. They stood like that for a long while, both of them unwilling to be the first to let go. Varian buried his face into the fur of his dad’s vest, inhaling the smell of apples and soaking his tears into the fabric.

After what felt like only seconds, Quirin finally put his son down. Varian stumbled a bit, wiping at his eyes. Quirin stopped him, cupping Varian’s cheek and wiping away the last of the tears with a large thumb. Varian sniffled pathetically, grabbing at the man’s hand like he would vanish again; his fingers were nearly white with how hard his grip was. Quirin didn’t notice, his eyes locked onto Varian’s face. The man looked shocked, nearly paralyzed.

There was a beat of silence, save for gentle birdsong outside the window. Neither of them seemed to know what to say—Varian’s thoughts were stumbling over each other in an attempt to be the first said, but it only made his silence stretch. Quirin’s shocked face sank into a warm smile, the man moving his thumb gently across his son’s face.

“You got taller,” Quirin said quietly, staring at Varian like the boy was about to vanish from sight the second he looked away.

Varian laughed wetly, trying to keep his hitching breaths from bubbling to the surface. “Yeah,” the boy choked out, “I, uh, I guess I did.”

He noticed how Quirin’s own eyes were shiny with tears. He didn’t comment on them. Instead he sank into his dad’s touch, the callouses in his hands familiar and comforting. Varian had never thought he’d get to see his father again, not even in a cosmic sense—but here he was, as strong and tangible as he’d been the last time Varian had seen him. All the quiet aches in Varian’s heart sprung to the surface, the misery and loneliness and loss that he’d suffered in the loss of his only parent, all of it rose up in one large wave, threatening to pull him under.

“You’re here so soon,” Quirin murmured. Oh, he probably thought…

“There was a— it’s like a magic, thing.” Varian’s words stumbled over themselves. “I’m okay. Or I think I am? I’m not really sure, there was a boat, I might be drowning. I don’t really know.”

Quirin let out a huffing laugh, reaching forward to hug Varian to him again. The boy went ecstatically, borderline throwing himself into his dad’s embrace. He’d missed this, so much; he hadn’t even known how much until he’d finally gotten his dad’s hugs again.

“I’m assuming the princess had something to do with it,” Varian could feel the way Quirin sighed, the crown of Varian’s head tucked under the man’s chin. It was strange; the last time they’d been together, he hadn’t been tall enough for that. Varian snorted, shaking his head.

“No, this one’s on me,” he admitted. “The Bayan royals had a… thing for weird magical stuff.”

Quirin’s body stiffened, hugging Varian to him a little tighter. “Aldred,” he whispered. Varian flinched, fingers curling tighter in his dad’s shirt. Quirin didn’t seem to register, muttering to himself. “He was going to take you away,” the man continued, “And— I tried, son. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Varian sniffed, allowing himself to back off from the hug so he could look his dad in the eye. Quirin looked haunted, like he’d aged a hundred years. The joy of seeing him slowly settled into something more bittersweet; knowing that their time had been cut so brutally short.

“You did your best,” Varian said. “He— he was a monster.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Varian couldn’t find it within himself to lie. “Yeah.”

Quirin’s face crumpled, the man closing his eyes and looking away. “I’m sorry, son,” he said again. Varian’s chest hurt, seeing his dad so devastated. “I should have been stronger.”

“It’s… in the past,” Varian said. It felt like more of a sweeping statement, after everything that had happened the last few weeks. Aldred, Barviel, all of it. In the light of newfound strength and determination— it all felt farther away. Put to rest, at long last. Like Varian could let it lie and be content. In the past, indeed.

Quirin cupped his cheek again. Varian leaned into it, blinking away tears again. “I missed you,” the boy murmured again.

“Are you… okay, now?” Quirin’s voice was as stoic as Varian remembered, but the teenager could hear the underlying concern. “I’ve been here for a while, I know that. Time’s passed. You grew up, and I wasn’t there for you. Someone’s taking care of you, right?”

“Arianna,” he started. “And Frederick. Rapunzel and Eugene. It was a month before they, uh, they found me. They brought me home.”

“A month,” Quirin’s voice cracked. “A month with that man—”

“He’s gone, now.” Varian cut him off, gently. “I, uh, I made sure of it. He’s gone.”

Quirin blinked, leaning back and looking Varian in the eye. “You…?”

“Yeah.”

“On purpose?”

“….Mostly?

Quirin surprised Varian by laughing, shaking his head. “I think you get that from your mother,” he said, still chuckling. “I certainly didn’t teach you that.”

Varian snorted through the quiet tears. “No,” he admitted, “No, you didn’t.”

Quirin tilted his head, putting both hands on his son’s shoulders. “You’ve grown up,” he said, wistfully. “How long has it been?”

“Two years,” Varian’s voice was quiet. “We buried you in the palace cemetery. I didn’t know where— or if Old Corona, would have been better, or even back in the Dark Kingdom—”

“Wherever you are,” Quirin said, “That’s where I’d want to be.”

Varian sniffled. He wiped at his eyes, trying to keep himself together. “I don’t know if I want to leave, again,” he admitted. “I… I should want to wake up, right? But… you’re here, and I’m so tired, dad.”

Quirin’s face pulled down into a frown, the man patting Varian’s shoulder. “I know,” he admitted. “It’s exhausting, out there. When your mother left, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. You were only a year old, you know, and she’d vanished in the middle of the night, just telling me to keep you safe.” He laughed, something a little more self-deprecating. “I couldn’t even do that, in the end.”

He met Varian’s wide-eyed gaze, the gravity of the situation obvious. “I know you’re tired,” he consoled. “I know. But that doesn’t mean giving up is the right answer. Even if it means saying goodbye again.”

Varian’s heart shattered at the last part. He knew his dad was making sense. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, the tears carving lines down the soot on his cheeks. “Not again.”

“You won’t,” Quirin said, his voice comforting. “You’ll go back, and the rest of our family will be there. You’ll grow old, and maybe find someone like I found your mother. But Varian,” he tipped the boy’s face up to look at him, smiling sadly. “You’ll live. And that’s what’s important. We’ll see each other again, once you’re done with living a long, happy life. Not a second sooner, you hear me?”

Varian bit his lip, sniffling. “I promise,” he tried to joke. It fell a little flat, but it helped to break a bit of the tension.

His hands started to feel cold. The Staff was calling him, back to the land of the living. It had done its job and done it well. Varian was running out of time. He felt a spark of panic—it’s so soon, not enough time, he had so much to tell his dad before--

“Dad,” he tried to start, only for Quirin to calmly stop him.

“I love you, son.” The man said, wrapping Varian up in one last hug. Around them, the kitchen slowly started to disappear, their time together slowly fading away. Varian threw his arms around his dad’s neck, clinging with all his might. Quirin squeezed him once more, making Varian’s aching ribcage creak. “I’m so proud of you,”

Varian could feel his dad’s grip fading, the pressure of those arms slipping away.

“I love you, too,” he sobbed, closing his eyes against the brightness. It was gentle, but too bright. Their surroundings quickly disappearing into the bright void beyond. “I love you, dad.”

The light pulsed once, then twice. Even behind his closed eyelids, Varian was nearly blinded by the brilliance of it. His body was cold again, not uncomfortably so, but the chill in his skin was noticeable. The feeling of Quirin around him vanished, the spell breaking. The boy could feel a solid weight in his hand; pressure all around him began to wash in. Water, surrounding him. Any second now he’d be kicked back into the land of the living.

Varian laid back into the feeling and allowed the light to wash over him. He had a promise to keep, and a family to find. The light consumed him, and Varian let himself be pulled into it, ready for the next step.

It was time to move on.

>>><<<

Varian woke up to nearly being impaled by debris. He nearly screamed in terror, only just keeping his wits about him. He put a hand over his mouth, keeping the air in. The Novis Staff was still in his hand, probably the only reason he was alive at all, but the wreck of the Der Sonne was sinking around him. Chunks of the ship littered the water, as did cargo, rigging, and other wreckage that threatened to ensnare anyone who got too close.

Varian started to kick his way to the surface, awkwardly moving around the sinking wreckage and trying to keep his distance. The grey sky above was light enough that Varian could tell which way was up— a small blessing, but one he wouldn’t take for granted.

As he kicked, however, he caught sight of a dark smudge in the water, something that wasn’t debris. This one was moving. A person, Varian’s thoughts screamed. He began to make his way toward them, pausing as he got close enough to see who it was.

Merrick, it seemed, had gotten tangled in the rigging of the Der Sonne somewhere on the way down. The older boy was struggling, kicking at the rope and sails in a futile attempt to escape. He was yanking at the ropes almost desperately, tugging on them without actual thought or reason. Varian slowed a bit, unsure— but inwardly groaned at his bleeding heart. He shouldn’t have to help; he wasn’t obligated to try. No one would blame Varian if he turned around and swam for the surface and left his enemy to his fate. No one, that is, except himself.

Varian rolled his eyes, reaching for his belt and pulling out Eugene’s knife with his free hand. He swam close, keeping his distance when Merrick caught sight of him and swiped his human hand at Varian. The boy shot him a look, backing off and trying to portray innocence. I’m trying to help, he thought grumpily, the least you could do is work with me, here.

Merrick’s metal arm lay awkwardly limp by his side. It was easy to see that something in the delicate machinery had broken, causing it to be nothing more than dead weight. It was also tangled in the rigging, though not as badly as Merrick’s legs were.

Varian swam closer, bringing the knife up and starting to methodically cut at the ropes tangling the other teen’s legs. They were tied to what looked to be part of a mast, the weight of it swiftly dragging down into the depths of the water. Varian’s lungs burned— they needed to get swimming for the surface soon if they wanted a shot at making it. He kept cutting, slowly but surely getting the mage free.

Merrick looked almost confused, holding still so that Varian could work on freeing him. There was only a few more ropes to go, almost there—

Varian let out a shocked burst of bubbles when there was a sudden pain in his arm. He caught a flash of silver to his left, a knife in his enemy’s hand. Oh, that asshole. Merrick’s face was a flurry of rage, swiping again at Varian with the blade, only to fail. The alchemist began to swim backward, out of reach, only for the man to snag him by the ankle.

There was a loud crack, audible even underwater, and with a sickening dropping feeling, the mast began to sink even faster. Whatever had been holding it afloat had broken, leaving the mast, and the two teenagers by extension, dropping down into the void below.

Varian kicked at Merrick, trying to free himself. The mage had a deranged smile on his face— surely he knew that they both were going to drown, right?!— and tugged on Varian’s ankle harder. It seemed like, even after all this, the other refused to give up.

Problem for him, being that neither was Varian.

The younger boy aimed another kick, grimacing when he felt cartilage break under his heel. Merrick let out a stream of bubbles in lieu of a shout, his hand falling away. Varian flailed his legs with as much might has he had, kicking frantically for distance. He felt fingers graze his feet, only for them to latch onto the frayed edge of Quirin’s cloak. Varian nearly choked when it was yanked, pulling him down, down, down.

Varian panicked, flailing again at the rough treatment. He looked down, seeing the strong grip Merrick had on the cloak, and grimaced. The light from the surface was disappearing quickly, the mast more than heavy enough to drag them both down to the ocean floor. Varian grit his teeth, his grip tightening on Eugene’s knife.

With a calculated slice, he brought the blade down onto the edge of Quirin’s cloak. He felt a stab of guilt, as he cut nearly a fourth of the fabric away, severing the tie Merrick had on him. Varian kicked again, the last of the cloak tearing away and leaving Merrick with nothing but a handful of fabric. The alchemist managed to kick up, launching himself up and out of reach.

The mage below him tried to grab at the boy one last time, only to fail as Varian finally managed to slip out of his grasp. Merrick’s face switched from fury to a dawning horror so quickly it was almost comical. The mast was sinking faster now, air rising from it in a plume of bubbles. Varian was forced to look away from his enemy to avoid more debris as they too began to sink, dragged down by the larger pieces of the Der Sonnes sinking corpse.

Merrick was still trying to grab at him, even as he sank further down. Varian weaved awkwardly around a part of the Der Sonne’s bow as it passed, before watching with wide eyes as it caught up in the rigging attached to the mast, and therefore Merrick. The alchemist began to swim down again, trying to keep the other teenager in his sight, but with the combined weight of the mast and the new portion of the bow, the rigging and sail began to plummet through the water.

Within seconds. Merrick’s snarling face vanished into the darkness. Varian found himself stunned, floating in the depths as he watched the inky outline of the mast disappear. He held like that for as long as he could, waiting for… something. What, he wasn’t entirely sure. For Merrick to swim up? For another chance to try and help?

Whatever it was, it never came.

The fire in Varian’s lungs became too much to bear; he was forced to start kicking for the surface, frantically pumping his limbs, and pushing himself through the water. He was so close, just a second more—

His head burst through the water, a bare patch in the wreckage where the debris had already sank allowing space for him to hit blessed air. He flailed a bit, grabbing onto the first thing he could find and clinging tightly. A board, part of the outer hull, that could barely hold his weight. He clung to it anyways, holding close and allowing his aching body to rest.

Varian cast an exhausted gaze around the wreckage, forcing air into his aching lungs. The storm had calmed, the water gentle around him. Varian held tight to his salvation, his exhausted limbs nearly dropping now that he could finally stop fighting. With the Der Sonne’s wreckage starting to slip below the waves, everything had begun to calm. The alchemist settled, finally able to relax.

And then, for the first time in ages, he breathed.

#fic #tangled the series #tts #varian #set the kindling strike a match

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bunnieresources · 4 years

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paper mario: the origami king sentence starters.

“ ok. i don’t like that. “

“ don’t worry. i know just what to do in situations like this. you just gotta find ____, right ____? ...oh. “

“ wrong answer. right answer. it matters not. your replies are all paper thin. “

“ always gotta make a flashy entrance, huh? “

“ i’m not sure if i should be amazed or scared, but i’m kind of both? “

“ what a beautiful day. i feel like nothing bad could happen here. unrelated, i have amnesia. “

“ yeah... i’m just gonna play it safe and stay here forever-ish. “

“ if there are some snacks, you gotta give me some. finder’s fee. “

“ my therapist says i’m a contrarian, but i don’t agree. “

“ i can’t keep this up forever, but i’m gonna try... who knew frolicking could be so exhausting? “

“ okay, that’s probably enough... for you! i’ll never get enough! “

“ do you have any idea how deficient i am in vitamin d right now? i’m gonna stand here until i get enough! “

“ who am i kidding? you’re ____! you can do it. “

“ uhhh... tell me, ____. is this what doors normally look like? it isn’t right? "

“ i didn’t do it! ...all right, it was probably me. “

“ how do i look? powerful? imposing? magnificent? maybe even a little cute? “

“ why didn’t anyone tell me that the world could be so wonderful?! “

“ you know that memory loss thing? what’s it called... ambrosia? amnesty? thinky thinky panic? “

“ i could learn a lot from you. master and pupil! hero and sidekick! fate must’ve brought us together. you can’t deny fate... right? “

“ the amnesia must’ve sapped up your memories AND your brainpower. how cruel... “

“ this world is so big, ____... but i understand so little of it. “

“ having buddies is pretty cool so far. i’d definitely recommend it. “

“ i promise! i’d even pinky swear, if i had a pinky. “

“ i wonder why leaves turn red in the fall. do you think they’re embarrassed? “

“ could you read my thoughts? are you... reading them now? please don’t. “

“ that has to be it, right? wow, i’m cute AND clever! “

“ did you SEE that? did you see ME? i hope that looked as cool as it felt! “

“ whoa, ____! you’re out of control... in the best way possible! “

“ did it work?! i closed my eyes. "

" i was just taking a little cat nap. don't mind me. "

" i've been watching over this area for hours! nothing slips past me... even though my eyesight is awful. "

" i have achieved total serenity. my feet... are asleep. "

" this tea is so bitter. blech. should have gotten a soda like i usually do. "

" okay, so... i'm clearly bad at this. "

" wow. you really, really need to get out more. "

" somebody! anybody! preferably ____, if possible! save me! "

" it was dark and scary, but at NO point did i sob fully and uncontrollably. any fibs stating otherwise are just that! dirty, mutinous fibs! "

" can't move forward if you don’t know which way you're going... i read that on a twist off cap once. that bottle of juice was so wise... "

" if i can save a friend like this, it means i've finally become the sort of person i always wanted to be. "

" you watch, i'm gonna touch my toes one of these years! "

" wow, look at this! the lights! the sights! it's all so bright! what a night! i'm a poet, right? "

" ...don't you dare say 'i told you so.' "

" brooooo... i'm vibing so hard with this music. it's like i'm totally oblivious to everything else. "

" i'm incapable of embarrassment! "

" aw, who am i kidding... this isn't good! "

" i never gave up hope. not even when you passed by without seeing me 347 times. "

" is everything just, like, flashing green and purple in front of your eyes, or is it just me? "

" well, that was quite lively! i might have even tapped a toe or two. "

" unrelated... have i mentioned that i have a deep and debilitating fear of fire? "

" oh, uh... thank you for taking care of that. i would have helped, of course, but i'm literally terrified of my own shadow. "

" oh, man... why'd you have to harsh my groove? we had it bumpin' in here! "

" aww, you guys found each other. and now you're parading around in your weird hats. good for you. "

" don't you just love it? you love it. i can tell. "

" whoa! this looks bad! hang on, friend! i'm comin'! "

" are we about to fight? because i'm always ready. let's go! "

" do we get to fight someone? i haven't fought anyone in over an hour! "

" my work is finally complete. so... now what? i guess i could... find a new hobby? maybe i'll learn how to fold origami... "

" don't make a big deal out of it. i'm not used to receiving praise for a job well done... "

" i still hear screaming, but i'm pretty sure it's just in my own head. "

" hmm? oh, i'm not stranded here. i was just taking it all in... "

" wait, this doesn't feel right. i've never had anyone just take my advice outright. now i'm nervous! "

" what is that noise?! this is my first time in a jungle... are mysterious crashing noises good? "

" when this is all over, i'm buying a boat. call it a midlife crisis if you must. "

" eeee! look at that terrible thing! actually, i can't even look. it's too scary! "

" hey! what's the big idea, running away like that? you could've at least warned me! "

" all right, ____. i trust you can handle this. if you need me, i'll be quivering off to the side somewhere... "

" i'm going in─just try and stop me! "

" at the end of the day, i am but a humble servant who is overlooked by always correct... "

" something's in there, ____! i can hear it moaning like a ghost. maybe it IS a ghost! i don't think i can meet a ghost right now. maybe another time, over coffee... "

" they're gonna write a book about this, and then probably a movie that everyone will hate. "

" wow! this is... it's... it's really something! ...what is it we're looking at? "

" this is a magic broom. it's not for sweeping. although... i do already see a few dusty areas that could use some attention. excuse me... "

" do whatever you need to prepare yourself. i'm told some anti-nausea medicine may be in order. "

" i just became so blinded by rage. i did so many unforgivable things... "

" you were so brave to do what you did. we owe you everything. "

#the dialogue is so good #ask memes #ask prompts #inbox memes #inbox prompts #rp memes #rp prompts #roleplaying memes #roleplaying prompts #rp resources #roleplaying resources #writing prompts

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aheeheemwhimper · 3 years

Text

When Panic! said, “Whoa keep quiet let us sing like the doves then decide if it's done with purpose or lack thereof,” and, “I'm sure you'd want to give up the ghost with just a little more poise than that,” and, “She spilled her purse and her bag, and held a purse of a different kind,” and “Sheepish wolves looking lived-in, eating buttons,” and, “Jealous orchard, the sky is falling off the ceiling while I'm tucking fibs into a cookie jar,” and, “Scarecrow, now it's time to hatch sprouting sons and ageless daughters,” and, “ Fall comes early and summer leaves as a storm with the car keys,” and, “Don't you remember when I was a bird and you were a map?”.......

We love some incomprehensible kings!

#i'm sorry this is a lot #pretty odd and a fever you can't sweat out are just primarily insane

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Twelve; Storm.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: !!! illness and swooning in this chapter, I mean, seriously, a regency era fic isn’t a regency era fic without the heroine getting caught in a rainstorm-!!!

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

She’d never been more grateful to slam a door behind her in all her life. The sigh that leaves her lips when she presses her back to the wood is the largest she’s ever taken, she’s certain of it.

She had to escape. It was a necessity of sorts- she couldn’t suffer another second of it.

Mother was livid about last night. Iris had been frozen out of her favour - more so than usual - with frosty silences and glowers and glares of displeasure.

When she returned from her shocking interlude out of doors with Lord Ren and the sadly ex-Viscount Eversleigh, Caroline tugged Iris aside and snapped her ear off about decorum and politesse. She returned to Hux’s side and said naught. She couldn’t.

Her mind was overrun by visions of crimson stained fangs, scarlet on ivory bone. And eye’s as gold as wheat sparkling in the sun.

She barely felt the rest of her night. Or saw or heard her relatives around her. She drew into herself.

Lord Ren did not return for the second half. Hux crowed loudly and smug about his absence. Mother sneered, she too seemed pleased. Iris saw none of that.

The night passes and the next day her head is still splitting at the seams. Pain thudding behind her temples and out her ears. Her throat is tickling raw. She suspects a cold coming on. Yet she goes about her chores and errands same as usual. There’s a permanent gnawing ache gathering between her shoulder blades. It burns every time she moves.

Mother seemed determined to remind her of her discourtesy last night. When her, Flora and Posy all sit down to take tea in the front parlour and do their embroidery, Caroline besieged Iris to write a missive to Hux apologising for her conduct of late. To explain herself and her actions. Sacrificing, displaying herself out on the worshipping altar of Hux’s forgiveness.

Iris couldn’t see the sense in it. She’s sat there squinting down in her lap, trying to focus on stitching more infernal thread through the embroidery hoop. Her mother is snapping and fussing and correcting her every cursed move. She’s insulting and sniping and Iris can’t take much more.

She was most insulted that Lord Ren had quit the theatre early especially when he was invited at a proxy invitation. She scoffs that that’s his foreign mannerisms that don’t excuse his rudeness. Probably took off with one of the ‘actresses.’ They were all painted women. He most likely found amusement between a tawdry, painted woman’s thighs.

Iris’s heart sinks at the untrue insinuation. She’s also suffering after a very much sleepless night after the discovery of Lord Rens... particular disposition.

She spent half the night awake; her mind whirring with thought. All those tales and fibs she’d been fed as child about monsters under the bed. And here she is many many years later, as a woman, finding out that all the creatures in clawing dark nightmares do exist.

The darkest shadows do after all bear beasts.

She can’t help wondering what other demons might roam hereabouts? Other horrid things too frightful to utter.

Mother doesn’t stop her poisonous crusade of nastiness on Kylo.

Before long, Iris’ eyes are watering with the sharp pains of her head. Her heart is beating so hard it hurts - thrumming proud with the constrained want to defend Lord Ren as she sits there ripping him to shreds and goading Hux’s perfect conduct upon her.

Iris throws her needlework aside and storms out. Insists she going for a lie down. She tears across the room and shuts the parlour door. Hot tears dribble out the corners of her eyes. Stings at her skin.

She stands there- and as she does, looking into the foyer, right at the coatrack. Her need to flee is looking better and better.

She dons her bonnet and shabby coat and before she can fully know what she’s doing, before she can even stop herself, she’s going. She needs actions and she needs fresh air. Much good a walk would do her. She slips down to the kitchens and is out the back door before even a kindly warning from their nice natured cook could halt her actions.

They heard Caroline’s vile shouts and screeches. Slamming of doors. And now they see her fleeing in tears. It wasn’t any grand difficulty to piece together all that had passed.

Iris wanted to slam doors. To hit things with her balled up fists. To kick and claw and scream about how much her suffocating life was mauling all capacity for happiness out her. She wants to rip things apart til her fingers bleed. Til her bones ache.

As it stands, her neck hurts with the strain of her clenched tight teeth, grit hard. Her back is shuddering with pinched complaint. She hardly comprehends how enraged she is; how fast her legs are stalking her away into the gardens. Up into the woods.

Her throat is raw and her head is pounding. She shouldn’t be out of doors in a thin dress and coat and in her sorry state. But staying in that wretched parlour was not an option.

She’s so préoccupée she doesn’t even turn her head to look at the wicked sky churning behind her storming path. The weather upon the horizon was turning most foul indeed.

The air above the wood is heavy and dark. Black as a fresh bruise. It fully pierced the sky’s colour. The wind whips viciously cold and that’s how she knows rain is lurking not far off. Everything is so still and the woods are damp with snow that the rain will pelt away. This was the deep breath before the plunge. The whole landscape is waiting. Perching on a razors edge.

Every tree is poised and even the birds have quieted. It’s as if every creature has fled from the threat of the violent storm. Iris is the only one oblivious.

She treads on onto the woods. Needing distance. Needing quiet. Needing to hear nothing and feel nothing but her feet shaking from her footsteps pounding the dirty damp earth. Sinking into the leaves and the mush and crunch of the foliage on the woodland floor.

She wants to move and flee and be somewhere else where she doesn’t feel so crushed.

Her lungs heave dry where she’s running and gasping for breath. Throat sore with the cold air. Chest ice cold from where she hasn’t buttoned up her coat. She feels everything burning at her skin. Making her clammy where the icy winds scrape over her as she soldiers on.

She lets the surroundings soothe her. Tries to let the calm of peaceful woodland soak into her mind. Let it pierce the tempest of her quaking soul. The meat and tissue of her flesh that feels like she’s being ripped apart piece by piece. She feels gouged and compressed by all the pressure she’s under. It’s too much. She thought she could bear it nobly but she’s not strong-her back is breaking.

She crumbles into the nearest tree. Let’s it take her weight and keep her standing.

She tears off her infernal bonnet and jams her brow against the wood. Taking deep lungfuls of air spiced with the fragrances of the wood. Wet bark, dewy sweet grass and the mucky mud of earthy leaves rotting under the grip of domineering snow.

She feels her breath ghost out her lips. Feels it chill and dry her parched mouth. She lets more tears fall. Just for a second. Before she has to button up her coat and return to her trap of a life. Shut the sweet song-dove back into their dismal stifling little birdcage.

That’s when she feels it- a raindrop.

It pats heavily down upon her head. Cold and harsh like a sudden strong bee sting, out of nowhere.

She presses a hand to the tree and looks to the heavens. Where all is smoke black and dismal grey. Clouds seethe and roil up above the treetops. Raindrops shimmer between the tall trees. Iris feels more patter down. Striking down her cheek. A stab of rolling ice. More follow it.

She looks across the woods as the patters turn to downpours. The clouds part like a cracked grey eggshell and the heavens pour and flood out.

Chilling heavy rain now hammers everywhere around her. In her hasty fit to get away from home, between the blurred nature of her tears and her looking down, she doesn’t entirely realise she has walked herself miles.

Miles upon miles- she’s almost in the next county even. She’s in the tall dark woods near large country estates. Unfortunately no house she’s near, is anyone of her acquaintance. She can’t beg at the door for shelter from the storm.

She shoves her bonnet back on. A valiant attempt to keep her head dry. Tied up the soggy blue ribbon under her chin. It now sits there limp. Flopping uselessly. Dripping water down onto her chest.

She buttons up her coat and thankfully finds her grey calfskin gloves in her pocket. She slips the things on her numb hands. The material clings and sticks dreadfully to her reddened palm. She’s trembling with cold before long.

She curses herself. Bitterly. “Stupid. Idiotic, foolish and thoughtless...” She yelps loudly when her shoe catches on a tree root and sends her sprawling to the wet earth. She lands hard on her elbow and bashed her shins on the knotted roots of the unyielding tree.

Dizzy with pain she hisses and heaves herself up. Mud oozes up between her clawed fingers. Her knees stab the earth as she scrambled up. Her coat now befouled with great splotches of claggy mud.

The wind whips up terribly. Thrashing the whole forest with rain. Thrashing her too. Her coat catches to her wet skirts. Hem damp with sticky mud and wet. A chill slides down her back. Treacherous weather sneaking under her collar and soaking down between her shoulder blades.

She seized the two sides of her coat tighter about herself and pressed on. Where she stomps and runs through puddles, wet mud and cold cold rain splashed up her legs. It already bled through her cracked boots and her stupidly thin stockings. Her feet are freezing and she has lost sensation in her hands already.

She hasn’t made it more than a matter of yards and she’s already soaked through to her skin-Hell. To her bones.

She’s trying not to quiver too much. Make her body concentrate on stepping her out the wide open woods that offer little cover. Maybe she can find a sturdy squat tree to shelter under somewhere?

She heads for the muddied little track of the lane she can see far up ahead. It cuts a carved path of worn dirt through the woods. She knows that lane is betwixt two estates.

She sadly had walked too far to remember which two. It could be Lord Havisham’s land. And he was famously an old curmudgeon who was damnably strict about who he let wander on the barest fringes and borders of his vast property.

A soaking wet idiot girl from the village was not a preferred sparkling vision of a desirable houseguest.

She shambles onto the road. Earth sinking soggy beneath her soles. Arms wrapped around herself. Grazes stinging her arms from her earlier fall. She huddled tighter to herself to stop the shaking. It didn’t help. Her whole body wracks viciously with it.

She feels shame creep up her spine. Slithering flushed and awful into her blood. She’d been a over-reactive fool. Running out blind into a storm of all things. She trudges along the sticky muddy road. Now the rain is pelting so hard, it’s sneaking through her straw bonnet. Even her brain feels like it’s shaking. Rattling inside her skull like some fevered thing desperate to be let loose.

She slips quickly along to the next field. The long grass tears at her skirts. Claws more dew drops at her wool coattails. Leaves and blades of grass grip at the wool. She kicks through the long thrashing grass and wildflowers.

Boots wrapped within the clinging long vines. She makes it to the slippery wood style, heaves her leg over the thing. She hears her white cotton dress snag and tear on the nails punctured into the wood. She rips her skirts away. She doesn’t have the capacity at present to be saddened over that instance.

She balances her numb hand on the wooden post as she swings her leg over. She’s trembling so much she nearly falls again. Somehow she manages to keep upright a little longer. Her knees now knock together and each shivering step weakens her legs. Her muscles are all sore and burning.

She treads carefully though these woods. As the gradient is steep. The forest spills down a tumbling hill. By the time she gets to the bottom of the muddy slope, her bones ring with the effort. She pauses to catch her breath against the nearest tree.

She trips over rocks in the path, sends her sprawling on her front again. She yelps and winces at the pain that bursts through her.

And this time she can barely stand. Instead easing herself onto her hands and knees. She groans. She wills her stupid body to work. She sobs tears of frustration and they don’t even feel warm on her face. She tries so hard to crawl. She would crawl home on bleeding hands and knees if she must-

She watches the grey haze of rain pass over the brown-green wood before her. It shatters hard off every leaf and douses every trunk of every tree. She hears the loud drum of it swim in her ears. She’s so cold now and senseless. Her coat feels heavy. Her arms are too tired to lift. As are her legs.

Heavy. Heavy. So heavy.

She sags into the soggy earth. On her side. Absolutely drenched in mud and hammered by rain. Her bonnet saves most her hair from the mud. But she feels long wet coils of it, where her coiffure is dishevelled, seep onto the earth. Burdensome and damp. Wringing wet and now stuck with leaves and muddy forest debris.

She must look frightful. Laying here in the dirt. And even her bones are shivering. Every cell of her vibrates with cold.

Iris wonders if she’ll die here- slipping into a nice, deep sleep. Quivering herself into an early grave.

Like drowning. Only softer. Less strenuous. She doesn’t have to kick and fight the waves or currents. She can look up at at the sky or the tips of the trees that rain blazed between. Raindrops sting and bash at her eyes. Rolling down her pale cheeks like the tears she can’t manage anymore. The sky cries for her.

She would’ve liked to have seen the night sky - all those stars and the full moon - one last time. But she is not so lucky as to be the one fated with control over her own death.

She watches the woods til her exhausted eyes swell shut. Lashes wet. Sticks to her face. Her body seized up. Even breathing seemed to ache too much. It’s too sharp. Too much effort.

Her lips were almost now as blue as her coat. And she doesn’t care anymore. About anything. About anyone. She can’t. She’s tired. She’s far too tired- this seems like a good peace. A good soft ending.

Death could either be so ineffectual or violently unfair for a woman. She’d either fade away as a decrepit old bat with barely a teaspoons measure of wit left in her head. Drift away in her sleep very hushed, and then she’s forgotten. Some other paranoid mad old crone who gets shut up forever in her wooden box in the ground.

Or in childbirth. Maybe that what would be the thing to take her. Aching and yelling and sweating, Swelled with fever. Drained from blood. Bleeding her life away whilst she’s split open and raw between her legs and some ugly squat pink infant wails for her from its crib.

This way seems far kinder- a mercy, really. They’ll put her in a stiff little box, cover it with unscented white flowers and bury her in the Pembleton chapel graveyard. Down in the soil with the other bones of the dead, and the moss and the worms. People would say it was a tragedy; but her loved ones may take comfort in the fact she died doing her duty by her husband.

Such a miserable thought. Rotting away to a skeleton in the hot box in the sweat of earthy soil. The sun bleaching down. The rain soaking in. The frost stiffening her. It seems like such a still eternity when her life has always been busy.

Better it’s her. Now mother can have the exuberant Posy to pin her hopes and demands on. The second eldest sister. The flirty one who tries harder. The weight will finally be lifted off her own shoulders.

It will settle in the ground with her and spill and seep, and bleed into the soil. Her worries will fade as surely as her head will decay away to dust.

A great snap cracks the wet air in half. Splinters it to shards.

Now it’s thundering- most excellent.

She doesn’t know why the clouds are bothering with an unnecessarily noisy fan fare. As it is, she can’t possibly get any wetter.

She can hear the great gallops of it striking the earth. Booming. Clapping quick through the air. Like the beating skin of a army drum being pounded. Actually. It wasn’t thunder. It was- closer to earth. Not quite as sky bound.

It starts off far away and it invariably grows steadily louder. She almost wishes to sit up and shush it to silence. But that would require movement and her body is too busy melting into the cold moist earth. Moulding in with the leaves and moss. Churning into the oozy mud and the carpet of frost that the rain is eating away.

The rhythmic thunder ceases to be quieted. For it can’t.

She grumbles a groan of a breath that crackles out of her sore throat, and she struggles but contrives to peel open her heavy eyes.

All she can see is that same hazy grey of the rain in the distance. The silver blur inbetween the trees.

Suddenly it is interrupted. There’s a dark shape bounding towards her. Her mind would make some inappropriate joke about the devil coming to take her soul if her brain hadn’t been rattled to absolute bits by her shivering.

She blinks, it takes every ounce of energy she has left. The shape is tall and getting taller. Bleeding upwards. The top is wider, where the bottom is thinner. Two long sculpted shapes, like black stalactites, and they move, leaning forwards, then two more behind those do the same.

The shape pounds the ground. Churning up dirt and muddy water. Her eyes focus enough to then recognise a very wide pair of horses hooves.

Slowing in rapid succession toward her. The hooves were as wide as her head. It was an enormous animal this black horse. It’s fetlocks were massively muscled. Formed big and sheared with long black feathering.

A Shire horse? Maybe even bigger than that still. She can hear the massive beast above her, snorting. She hasn’t yet sought out sight of of the rider.

She would raise her eyes if it didn’t ache so much. She feels the drips of rain patter over her dry lips. She opens her mouth to speak. In attempting movement, she closes her eyes and tries to twist around, splaying herself into more mud. She doesn’t want to even comprehend the mess of her coat or dress. The sad sorry miserable state of her.

She must look so pathetic - and that ragged on her dignity. What little of it there is existing.

They call out. It’s all a mumbled blur to her. A deeply dark tone that sounds muffled. As if coming from underwater.

She tries to apologise to this mystery rider she’s accosted. Wonders why they didn’t just stomp over her with their horses huge hooves and put her quickly out of her misery. Do her a favour.

The again, why on earth are they out riding in this stormy delude? Maybe they’re as nonsensical as her.

It never occurred to her that they were out here for her benefit.

“Iris...” comes the deep call through the rain. She intimately knows that rich voice.

She looks. It hurts, but she looks. A pair of black boots slam to the ground in her eye-line. Water and mud spraying everywhere under his fierce tread.

She twists up, wet hair sticks to her face. Her lips gape. Lord Ren? It can’t be. She can’t have walked that far?

She peeks up, eyes as wide as saucers.

Yes. Yes, apparently she had walked that far.

The adjoining land she’d forgotten. The one that Lord Havisham’s estate bordered on... it was Hellford Park. How in the living hell had he found her here?

He’s quite a sight to be devoured. This big wet vampire. Out in all this pouring rain.

He wears only a short and greatcoat. With dark breeches and mud splashed boots. His skin is as wet as hers, an icy rivulet runs off his chin. His white shirt is sticky and tamped to his big chest. If she could gasp at seeing it clinging like a second skin to his body, she would’ve. His wild dark hair is swirled and stuck to his head. That too drips on his coated shoulders.

She fancied if his coat gapes open any the wider, she’d be able to see the whole stretch of his naked chest. Again. The dark patches of his nipples and all those enticing peaks and dips in the muscle.

He moves so fast it makes her eyes hurt and head spin. His face is concerned. Bearing down a sad look at her.

Then he’s there. Above her. He’s kneeling in the dirt. Her numb body senses his hands scoop under her. She tries to speak but her tongue has nearly literally frozen - fallen right back down her throat.

Two big and ungloved hands slide under her. One under her shoulders, the other near the numb things she used to call legs.

She’s soaked to the bone and dirty with wet mud and she’s mortified with the way he clasps her so close to his skin. She’ll ruin his handsome coat. He’s just as icy cold as she is. Like old marble stone. She would speak, but her teeth are chattering out of her skull.

“Are you hurt?” He seeks. She shivers through a shake of her head.

He couldn’t stand to yank her up, and then have her shriek out in pain because of a broken bone he hadn’t foreseen.

He lifts her. In one mighty swoop, unsticks her from the earth and up away into his strong arms. Such musculature he has, it’s undeniably potent. Being held by him in this close a manner.

She tries to curl her tongue around some words. An apology. Or a question. He senses this. He’s softly speaking to her. Hugging her tight to his body in a close embrace.

“None of that now. Don’t try to speak. Don’t speak. Just keep your eyes open for me, little dove.” He instructs calmly to her. He walks them back to a horse she can only assume is Erland.

The great equine beast is already snorting and nickering. Lowering his legs so Kylo can hoist her on the saddle.

She barely grips onto the horse with her senseless fingers. He’s behind her in no time at all. Swings his body up and that compact wall of a body is behind her again. He seizes the reins and keeps her tucked close. Curled into his chest. Her head on his shoulder.

“I’ve got you.” He assures her. His breath hot on her temple. Such a scorching promise in comparison to the chilling rain. His words melt the cool on her skin.

One trunk of a big arm curling around her locks her to him. He coaxed Erland around, and dig his heel in the animals round bellied side. They race off through the stinging rain. The woods are a blurring black and grey mush to her. The stark of trees and rain battered undergrowth.

She feels Erland’s back arch as he rears up and clears a fence cleanly, taking it cleanly like it’s nothing. Kylo’s arm fixes around her. Crushing tight when they do. Ensuring she stays right there with him in the saddle seat. Braced right against his thighs behind, and the saddle horn in front. Her hip cradling the pommel.

She inches closer to him. Tucks her face into the crook of his neck. Uncaring for civility now. She clings onto him so tight her fingers leave creases in his clothes. Ten little crescent moons. She knots her knuckles to grip so tight in his sodden clothes that her wrists shake all the more.

They absolutely fly through the rain. She didn’t need to ride Erland to know he was a powerful horse bred for pulling. Clearly carrying two people posed no issues for him either.

He was as quick as ten horses. The Arabian in his blood made him a fast sort of beast. His legs and his hooves pounded the earth quicker than she could rationally comprehend.

She hears the tempo of Erland’s hooves shift when they come to a paved road. The clops echo louder. Ringing like tinnitus in her ears. Sharply striking her senses. Rattling in her head and bouncing from one ear and across to the other. Her head feels full of fluffy cotton. It’s ineffectual.

Kylo’s body lurched behind hers. Erland slows to a halt as bid by his master in his foreign Bavarian tongue. She sways forwards too. The weight of him disappears and she opens her sticky eyes, weakly clutching onto the leather strap of Erland’s tacking. Kylo is below her on the ground, sliding her off his stallions powerful back, into his arms once again.

She sees the steps afore them, leading up to the front of the house. The doors flung wide inwards. She hears him call sharp orders. She wonders if they are to her but then a most obedient stable hand appears as if out of nowhere, leads the horse away quick. Kylo’s carrying her again.

Storms her right up the steps in his hold. Muddy and soggy in his arms. Running quick with her. As fast as he can move.

She barely registers that they’re out of the rain and inside Hellford’s foyer. She recognised the pointed tiles of the floor. They blur her eyes at Kylo’s fast pace covering ground. His big thighs can stride quick and his booted feet rattle sharp clacks on the tiles.

He’s barking orders again. He used to command one of the largest companies of men in history. Orders are things he’s used to issuing. “Jomar. Stoke the fires in the guest bedchamber, now. Draw a warm bath. Not hot. Warm. If she heats up too quickly there’s every risk she’ll go into shock.” He demands.

There’s another hollow clack. She thinks it might be them ascending a staircase. The great dark mahogany one. He speaks again. “Have two maids sent up to the suite now. They’ll need to strip her and help rid her of her sodden clothes.”

His butler with the soothing honey and cinnamon for a voice answers him. “Of course, Your Lordship. I’ll send for Anna and Mrs Jones.” He assures him. Sending for the most competent maid and the brusque housekeeper. The one so stern she gave his strict regimental measures a run for its money.

Kylo whisks her away upstairs. She’s barely stopped shivering when he bursts them through a bedroom door that he roundly kicks open with the ball of his foot. Curses at the stubborn thing.

She’s sprawled back on a bed suddenly. Feather and down beneath her. Staring at a rosebud pink bed canopy. If she had the temerity to recognise where she was she’d have blushed into the next dimension.

She’s still shivering but she manages to curl up and sit, looking down to see his dripping dark head bowed as he teaches under her skirts, and takes one ankle to gently start on working off her muddy boots. Yanking it calmly off her foot with some urgency. Her hands fumble for her coat buttons. The heat of the house prickles at her skin. It burns.

She shudders a weak laugh. “Never-r thought I’d see a day w-when a peer of the r-realm would be ttaking off my boots.” She sniffs. Rainwater’s dripping down her nose. She looks down and sees the priceless silk eiderdown that she’s sat on. A lump lodged in her throat.

“I’ll soak the b-bedding...” She frets. Trying to work off her heavy slippery gloves. Not having much luck.

Kylo peers up at her. She sees the mud smeared over his hands. On his coat. The watermarks on the fine carpets. She feels wretched. Making work for others.

“Damn the bedding. Iris. It is replaceable. You are not. My first priority is getting you warmed again.” He insists.

Then, in a manner so intimate as nothing she’s ever felt in her life. He rises up and cups her cold face in one hand. His palm covers her jaw and most of her neck. She’s as icy as he is. He suddenly fathoms how dangerous that is.

“How-w did you f-find me?” She whispers quietly. Eyes boring into his own. They are that melting brown again. Gone was the gold and rampant red of last night.

She didn’t see the monster here today. She saw only a loving suitor.

“I told you.” He insists kindly. “I won’t have anything happen to you.” He ushers softly. Thumb stroking a sticky smear of mud and a wet coil of hair off her face.

“I felt you were in peril. That, I could not ignore. I could sense it was you from the second you stepped foot near my land.” He tells openly. He was after all, a territorial creature.

She’s not scared of him. She ought have her head examined-

She’s witnessed and heard what he can do to humans. She saw as much last night. She’s been stood on the fringes of conversations about the details of all the grizzly deaths of late. The ones where men were left parted from their arms and legs with their entrails piled and strung around them like garlands or bunting. It’s too frightening to even consider.

She saw none of that here, in him tonight. He rode out into a vicious storm to bring her home and get her warm; those didn’t seem like the actions of a soulless creature. Quite the contrary.

He can rip out throats or rip limbs off lesser mortal bodies and she isn’t scared. He’s a dangerous warrior from an age long past.

She’s never been more wildly in love.

She’s curious about the other facets this beautiful man may be hiding. She’s determined to seek out more curiosities about his character, if it’s the last thing she does.

“T-thank-“ She begins to stammer. He merely smiles and shakes his head. His hair drops more rain onto his shoulders. It bleeds out his shaggy mane. Stuck swirled to his neck and ears.

He touches her cheek again. “I would rip this very world in two with my bare hands to keep you safe.” He assures.

Their moment is rudely interrupted as a fleet of regimented maids burst into the room. Some carrying water jugs to tip into the bath. A stout woman and a waify blonde cross quickly to where Kylo is knelt. The stout woman puts her hand on his shoulder.

“Your valet is in your chambers, my Lord. We’ll see to Miss Ashton, here. Never fret. We’ll soon see her right.” She persuades kindly.

He nods a quick crooked smile of thanks. And stands up. The polite maid smiles nicely helps Iris with her gloves. Unbuttons the soggy calfskin things and pulls them off. Kylo’s chest crushes at seeing the red raw of her cold palms. Her tiny elegant fingers pricked stiff and numb with cold.

“I’ll leave you in Mrs Jones’ capable hands. Little dove.” He takes his hand off her neck and smiles, before he turns to them both and softly orders. “Act as quickly as you can.”

Another whisper comes so softly, Iris barely hears it for the heavy rain still knifing at the window. It’s Kylo’s fear. His voice trembles with the worry. “Please look after her.”

“Of course. Your Lordship.” Mrs Jones replies firmly with great feeling. He turns away, with great difficulty taking his eyes off her and the soggy black shape of him trudges out the room. Leaving rain droplets and mud in his wake. Leaving the ladies to tend to her. He’s a big shape blocking up the doorframe and then he’s gone.

Iris swallows, nervous, freezing with cold, trembling still, and unused to such attention from staff. They’re unbuttoning her coat. She aches from head to toe. And she’s damnably tired. She wants to sink into this luxury bed and sleep like Hypnos.

“Here we go, pet. Don’t worry now. You’re in safe hands.” Mrs Jones smiles. They are kind. Far too kind. She doesn’t deserve such attention for her stupidity. And yet they’re being so patient.

Passing Iris a towel so she may wipe the muck from her face. She does. And when they divest her of everything get her down to her dripping cotton shift, Anna takes her wet things and then kindly housekeeper helps her stagger across to the bath on her weak legs. Her dark hair bleeds mud and wet down her shoulders. She doesn’t even wish to see the state she left the eiderdown in.

“You lean on me, now pet. We’ll have you right as rain in no time.” Mrs Jones assures. Leading Iris to the magnificent anteroom.

Where a steaming copper tub awaits. The fire in there too was stoked. It blazes off the tub like spun flickers of amber. The air smells of roses. No doubt a clever maid has tipped some fanciful oil in the tub for her. She’s very grateful.

She’ll be even more so to scrub the mud off her skin and hair.

Iris fights back a smile. And remarks to herself how she’s never been told to lean on anyone ever before.

It feels awfully nice not to take all the burdens alone for once.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Kylo’s sitting alone downstairs. In the grand echoing hall of Hellford’s dining room. Washed, dried and redressed. Somewhat uncommonly, at that. One that made Wilton, his valet, arch a wry brow at him. Which Kylo heartily and completely ignored.

He’d coughed a dry polite interjection. His cheeks reddened in scandal. He did always appreciate things done properly. Civility paid its due attention. As it should be.

“You will be dining alone with Miss Ashton Sir. Might you atleast consider a waistcoat?” He flusters. For Wilton that was practically him imploring him, begging on his knees.

Kylo rolls his eyes. After such an impassioned Aria as that, how could he refuse? He let’s him slip the velvet black, satin backed waistcoat up his shoulders. He buttons it.

He distinctly heard the man behind him sigh with newfound relief as he brushed off the shoulders. Kylo escaped the dressing room before he insisted on slipping him into full ceremonial dress.

He was adequate as he was. A fresh pair of dark breeches and boots. And just an undershirt on his top half. No cravat.

And now here he awaits his diner companion. In this cavernous room. He could hardly send her back to Westwell in such a weakened state. He’d have her fed and warmed to the bone before he sends for the carriage. He took great delight in penning a note to Mr Ashton. Telling him his daughter fell ill in his woods. He wonders what her greek harpy of a mother will make of that.

He smiles to himself as he scans around the room, looking to the doors again. Night was falling outside now. Rain still beats heavy on the windowpanes. The scuttle of it fills this room. His dining room.

Finely bedecked in scarlet and gold. The walls are an ornamental barque red wallpaper. The narrow room bears the same pointed black and white tile as the foyer. There’s an ancient mahogany table that he’s sure measures a mile long. When chandeliers or glassware and cutlery are placed on the far end, they glitter like far off stars. The ceiling is governed by three gigantic chandeliers that drop down shimmering gold and crystals from the high gilded ceiling. It’s every inch a rich room.

It’s mostly dark. Candles on walls and side tables lit. Fire blazing. Kylo is settled down the far end from the grand double doors. By the roaring great fireside. Cast in amber all around him.

His sleeves are rolled, and he’s relaxing on an upholstered scarlet wingback chair. One of a matching pair, set by the fire. The one opposite him is currently empty. He hopes Miss Ashton will be the one to fill it shortly.

Mrs Jones had stopped in earlier, poked her head through the door. Said Iris was well. No sign of illness brewing. She’d been bathed and successfully warmed up gradually. Inside and out. She was served two pots of tea, which she drank. And she was most glad to wash all the muck away.

Kylo thanked her for her efficiency. She really was a matriarchal wonder. He couldn’t do without her running this house the way she does. She smiles and bids him a good evening. Slips back down to the kitchens in time for the servants supper.

When the door creaks open again, Kylo leaps to his feet. Head twisting back in the direction of the doors. Face hopeful. When he sees it’s only Jomar walking through with a carafe of wine, and two glasses. Heading toward him.

Today his ever persistent Butler wears his usual robes. A cloaking Sherwani coat. The usual Dastar turban. Today it is a golden yellow like warm gold butter. His coat is an ivory satin. Stitched with beige embroidery of leaves and vines. The same dark dhoti puffed trousers on his legs tucked into his fine long boots.

He settles back down again. Sinking into the chair. Boots scraping on the deer pelt rug stretched across the floor.

“You seem unhappy to see me. Perhaps you were anticipating someone else? I even come bearing an awfully good vintage. A full bodied 1785 Bordeaux.” He smiles. Calling out to his master.

Kylo grumbles. “As enticing as your company is. You know how I much prefer the wine.”

“My lord. I’ve seen you drink the foulest of ale that basically equates to stale barley hops and animal urine. You will tip anything alcoholic down your neck for pleasure. You remain a Viking in some ways.” He corrects with a smile.

“I haven’t drunk in a manner like that since 1632.” Kylo defends as Jomar places the fat bottomed wine carafe on the end table next to his lord. Stands the glasses down next to it. Unstoppering the decanter and pouring the velvety ruby-black wine into the class.

“And you would do the same if you to live around the bloody puritans.... most dull people ever to exist on the face of this earth. That sodding lot and their covenants and bloody purity without sin would drive a monk to tears of boredom.” He whinges.

“Yet. You bear the dissatisfaction so nobly.” Jomar jests. He never passed up a chance to sark at his grumpy Lordship. Handing Kylo the glass wine goblet. He takes it gently. Sips it. Doesn’t want to admit to his butler how right he is.

Jomar knows. He sees the annoyed little twitch tug at he corner of his masters mouth. He stoppers the wine again. Looking too wholly satisfied. He stands with his hands folded behind his back. As if waiting for more.

Kylo glares sharp at him over his glass as the red wine stains his lips. “Pray what is it now?” He asks and is met with a smug smirk.

“Don’t expect me to sit here and gossip with you like some giggling waify bluestocking.” Kylo grumps. Jomar smiles wider. Not the least put off by his grousing.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” Kylo adds. “Staff to order about... go and- polish the silver or wind the clocks or do something insipid, would you...” He urges.

“No duties at present are as urgent as this.” He grins. His Butler won’t budge. He was famously obstinate. That’s why he’s able to serve Kylo so well as he does. They are two peas in a pod.

If Jomar had been a lesser man maybe he would have put up with Kylo’s snipes and bore them all in silence. Kylo’s secretly glad he doesn’t. He likes a healthy challenge. Part of his Viking spirit he believes.

His Lordship sighs and rolls his eyes. Cursing heaven and hell and everything inbetween the two.

“Mrs Jones tells me our pretty houseguest is well recovered from her tumble in the rain.” His walnut brows arch softly up his forehead. Cocoa brown eyes glimmer with loving insinuation.

“You and your confounded relations have wanted to see me married, since before Queen Elizabeth I took to the throne.” He strops.

“She’s an excellent match for you. So I understand it.” He continues on as if Kylo has not spoken. He always did.

“I will dock your wages if much more of this insolence continues.” Kylo’s threatening. But he can’t help the smile that breaks his lips.

“I was just curious, is all. And If you do perchance happen to persuade that sweet darling girl to marry you, then please make it somewhat soon. You’ve been alone for eons too long. You really could benefit from loving someone again.” He turns to quit the room with a polite bow. The fire light shines off his marigold yellow silk dastar.

“And also please host your nuptials as soon as. Because then in that circumstance, Mrs Jones will owe me 20 shillings.” He remarks as he takes his leave. He listens to Jomar’s footsteps fade away. Clacking away into echos in the grand room.

Kylo wants to roll his eyes. He settles for drinking some more. “Begone. You wily cur.” He smiles, calling loudly after his retreat.

Jomar talks loudly as he gets to the doors. For Iris is just walking through them. He smiles at her widely. Hands folded demurely and stiffly behind his back. He hears Kylo clatter to stand to attention down the room. Hears the scrape of the chair legs whine on the polished floor.

“Miss Ashton. We are all relieved to see you so well recovered.” He insists. His smile creases his cheeks. He really does have the most sincere smile. And he always smells faintly of mango’s and coconut. Something in his cologne perhaps? Or an oil for his beard. A richly exotic delightful scent. Always draws stronger when he moved closer.

Iris blushes. Well embarrassed and appraised of how the whole house seemed to be aware of her foolish misfortune. Servants gossip. It’s as certain a fact as the sun rising in the east.

“Your staff are most attentive and kind. Mr. Jomar.” She tells him brightly. She looks pale to his eye. But he supposed she’s had quite an ordeal to undergo.

Her brow is a little dewy and her cheeks warm. Her eyes seem very bright with something. He puts that down to the warmth of her surroundings.

She’s dressed in the only spare ladies clothes they kept hereabouts. A new nightgown and shift. Mrs Jones bumbled her up in a long crushed red velvet gown, the colour of split veins, and gave her a golden tasselled shawl to link about her shoulders too. For extra measure.

“Might I bring you anything, Miss Ashton?” Jomar seeks.

“That will be all. Please serve dinner as soon as cook is ready.” Kylo calls from down the hall.

“Enjoy his royal grumpiness. Miss Ashton.” Jomar cheeks before he bows and steps past her. Shutting the door in his wake with a glass smile.

She looks down the room. Painfully aware that she’s been left all alone with Lord Ren. He stands. Awaiting her. A true gentleman through and through.

She walks to meet him. He examines her as she comes closer. He’s afraid his eyes don’t know which part to settle on first. Her hair is unbound. Glossy and fluffy. Recently soaked and dried by the fire. Still a touch damp he reckons. If he curled his fingers around those long strands, he’d still be able to feel a kiss of damp.

Her hair is thick. He never knew that before. It always being up in a coiffure was difficult to measure. And when she’s lying down it’s tucked behind her head. Here, as it seats down, he can see the volume and body on those walnut-chestnut golden brown curls. It stretched right down her back. Almost to her shoulder blades. She looks divinely pretty and wild. Untamed. Like that very first day he laid eyes on her.

He wants to feel that unbound silk on his palms as he cups her cheeks to kiss her-

He swallows. Now applauding her dress. A gown and those silly little slippered stockings on her feet. No stays or pinching necklines. She looks relaxed and it makes him feel so stirred up to see it.

“How are you feeling?” He steps closer when she finally nears the fire. That dining table was surely the very length of Britain itself.

He can’t sense anything the matter with her. She’s over warm but he blames that on his own overzealous orders to see her warmed through. She looks rosy cheeked and healthy enough. Her energy waning a little but he suspects she’s most likely hungry and tired.

“I am much better. And might I just say, thank you greatly for your assistance. I feel a complete fool.” She blushes redder. Looking ashamed.

“One can not predict the weather in this cursed ever mutable country.” He insists.

“And I rather thank your foolishness. Had it not been so- I might thereafter have been dining alone tonight.” He flatters.

“Please, come and sit. You need rest.” He insists gently.

Moving closer and pressing a hand lightly to the back of her waist. She moves towards the chair opposite to his. Listens to the storm rattle at the windows and howl at the roof. It seemed almost determined to get inside with them. Clawing at Hellford’s outer walls.

She relaxes into the seat. Her gown almost moulds into the same shade of the chair. She sits back and lets the fire warm her. Although she feels overheated.

She supposed it’s cause she was so chilled earlier. She can’t differentiate between the two extremes. Her whole body now feels heavy. Her chest feels too tight even though she isn’t wearing her stays. Just loose cotton. But her ribs feel bruised. Every breath feels too short somehow.

Kylo stays standing and pours her some wine. “I’ve sent a note to your father at Westwell explaining what events unfolded.” He tells her.

She thanks him again as he hands her the wine. “I’m surprised my mother wasn’t kicking down the doors to rescue me safely home.” Iris insists after sipping the drink.

Kylo’s smiling. Settling himself back in his chair. Wine to hand. Legs splayed out comfortably. One bent, one reclining out gently. “Mrs Ashton is my severest critic.” He remarks.

“Believe me. I pay her criticisms little mind.” Iris insists. He smiles wider. Good.

He watches her as she stumbles around asking a question. Not quite knowing where to begin...

“Forgive my impertinence around such a subject. But I see no other way to approach asking it..” She begins. Wetting her lips and meeting his dark eyes. Those rough cut gemstones encloses in shadows.

“About last nights, um- events...” She starts.

“Iris. I’m more sorry than I can say for what you witnessed last night. To see death so violently. I know it was shocking for you. I can see it stunned you. It stuns most people to discover what I truly am.” He offers plainly.

“And your staff... do they, well-know?” She asks in a hush. Whispering.

“The ones I know explicitly do. Jomar and Mrs Jones. The rest may circulate whatever rumours they wish. I haven’t confirmed nor denied it. It would scare a lot of people. If it’s not self absorbent, I believe a great amount of speculation flourishes in my wake.”

“I am more intimate with the staff and tenants at my castle. Back home. I defend my territory from the savage appetites of feral new sires and I loyally protect the people who live on my lands. I however saw no reason to shock whole legions of the local staff I hired when Hellford park was opened here.” He offers.

“New sires?” She asks. Kylo senses she’ll have more questions to ask before the night is out. If she didn’t she was a simpleton and he’d never accuse her of that.

“Vampires are creatures that are made or turned. Little Dove. Not born as mortals are.” He remarks.

“New Sires are as feral as a roaming pack of starving wolves. The hunger when it first comes... there’s no mania of man that can match to it. It’s like death visits you twice. But keeps you sensate for every agonising moment. It’s worse than fever or plague. You’d do anything to feed to chase the hunger away. It rots at your gut. Makes you do horrible things. Vilest of things.” He makes plain.

“You were turned?” She enquires. He hopes she won’t faint. But he sees she’s made of sterner - more curious mettle - He’s rather glad she’s sat down.

He nods calmly. “I was.”

“One thousand and twenty seven years ago.” Comes his casual offering.

Draegans face flutters on his mind for just a second. The pale pierce of his eyes. The silk of his silver hair. The sharp savagery of his silver tongued smile. He blinks his past away. Out of his head.

Her mouth hangs open. “My goodness.” She gasps. “You do look remarkably... uh- well. Considering your age.” She stumbles. He chuckles at her reaction. Trying to wrap her head around it all.

“In my many advancing years. I’ll snatch whatever flattery I can get.” He states warmly. Smirks darkly at her. Almost flirting. She smiles.

“I’ve heard of your kind in folklore. Passed on in tales from ancient civilisations all around the world. Campfire horror stories I’m sure- predictable drama in Gothic Penny novelettes.” She tells. “But I never suspected-“

“Monsters like me truly exist?” He jokes. Laughs a little. She smiles too.

“I don’t think you’re a monster.” She comments in a tiny voice. So honest. So sweet. It touches the vacant pit where his heart should be.

“Little Dove. Every culture and manner of people that there has ever been, has had creatures like me stalking and hunting in the dark of their shadows.” He promises.

“It’s been that way since the dawn of time.” He eluded.

“At the risk of another impertinence; had you a family?” She asks. The honesty as tragedy of his smile gives her the biggest answer.

“Centuries ago I used too. Naturally. There’s only me left. A mother and father, of course. Two little vexing brothers...” He tells. “I stopped mourning all their passings a long time hence.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry. I can only imagine how strange it must be, to be the only relation left.”

Kylo’s smile is pensive. “I still have a family of some kind surrounding me. I have an impertinent butler and a matron of a housekeeper who resolves to mother me as if I were a boy again. Some friends who are, shall we say.... cursed with the same predilection as myself. It is not such a lonesome existence.” He tells.

He did have a lover. Once upon a time. But even his short fuse of a temper eventually took care of that.

He walked away from the greatest love of his life. His seething anger over his turning ate him up. He felt controlled, abused. Suffocated by his control. Their bond was a trap to him. No longer was it the freedom he first thought. Draegan was eclipsing his life. He was fed up of being in his pocket, hailed as his favourite warrior. His fierce one. As he called him.

He was sick of his Norse endearments. Because Draegan was the kind of lover to endear him in his own native Norse tongue. Kylo quickly made up his mind to leave him. After decades of being together. He felt used. Felt like Draegan only turned him to use him as a puppet. His strength and power were commendable - and exploitable.

He took it out on everyone surrounding him, but himself. Turned the pain and rage outward. That night in the snow after battle when he was turned into a vampire, Kylo had been promised the world and he left Draegan to finally go and take what he felt he was owed.

He didn’t regret the parting then. He was glad of it. He severed his ties. Sheared his hair short, and cut off his viking courting braids. Turned his back on his lover and his maker. Took the world for his own as a lone wolf. He regretted it bitterly now. After all these years.

She nods in gentle understanding. If anyone can comprehend an existence devoid of people who love her, and show appreciation openly. It’s certainly her. Posy and Flora only show her affection of they’re after a pair of earrings. Or some bauble or trinket or her slippers for a ball. She doesn’t see her father enough to have a kind word. Though he oft has plenty for her. And her mother? Woe betide she ever hears an encouraging syllable cross her lips.

“Well. I for one feel most sorry for you Lord Ren.” She begins. He looks confused.

“You left your castle in Bavaria for an enticing and relaxing english country excursion, and all you seem to be doing is saving foolish damsels who find themselves in distress.” She offers. “Hardly a peaceful leisurely winter.” She adds over his chuckling.

“I’ve said it before, I will repeat myself gladly. I found a damsel who is infinitely worth saving.” He comments. She feels her blush creep down her neck. She smiles down into her lap. Holding her wine.

She peers into the flames next to them. Draws the shawl tighter around herself. Kylo stands and offers to refill her wine glass. She hands it across and their fingers brush. Static and molten heat fizzle through her blood. He’s still so cold. She’d always thought it a matter of poor circulation perhaps. Now she understands why that might be the state of his skin.

“You must have so many fantastic tales to tell. What with having such a long and varied life...” She looks up at him as he pours her more wine.

“A couple here and there up my sleeve...” He offers with mirth as he returns to his seat.

He could tell her about seeing the magic unfurling of the renaissance in Florence the 1500’s. The art the muses. He could regale to her the true bloody carnage of the crusades in the Middle East the so called ‘Holy Land.’ He could explain to her what Paris and Versailles was like in 1720. The frippery and the aristocracy. The crass callous nature of French royalty. Powered wigs black rotten teeth and beauty spots. He’d lived through all those cosmetic fashionable fads.

“Immortality is useful if one wishes to see the world. I believe there is no corner of it I haven’t glimpsed.” He tells.

“A soldier and a proverbial wanderer.” She adds in wonder. “You’ve seen the whole globe. I’ve only ever been shut into this tiny corner of it.” She tells.

“You regret that?” He asks.

“In some ways. I know not one person who has ever gone to their grave saying that they should have travelled less. I don’t want to be that person. Aching for experiences and a having a sore soul-full of remorse when my time finally does come.” She admits.

“Imminent marriage to the egregious Sergeant Hux suddenly seems abhorrent in more than a few ways?” He seeks.

“In every way.” Iris insists. Drinking her wine. But she couldn’t help it. It was what had to be done. No matter how much she wishes to undo it.

The dining room doors clatter open at the far end. A whole bevy of servants in Hellford’s crimson livery come in. Carrying trays and silver dishes laden with food. Iris can smell the delicious concoctions even from up where she is.

Mrs Jones directs her busy worker bees. They serve the elegant dinner right down the far end. Near the fire. At Kylo’s insistence. The table groans with food before long. A leg of roasted ham. A roasted saddle of beef. A mound of golden potatoes. A whole terrine of steaming white chicken soup, another of mutton stew. Creamed celery and fried cabbage and sprouts with chestnuts. Buttered asparagus and every fine dish she could ever think.

She sits opposite Kylo as the foot man carved them both chunks off the roasted meats. Along with half a roasted capon each. She likes the indulgence of it. And the meat is well cooked. The beef still drips ichor and the ham is sweetly succulent. Everything is immaculate. The footman pours them more wine and they helped themselves to the banquet of food.

Kylo doesn’t indulge much in the feast. She observed he mostly had the bleeding meats and the wine.

She feels over warm by the time they retire to the fireside once more. Many glasses of wine, aswell as indulging in soup and asparagus and roasted meats of all varieties, the dinner leaves her feeling stuffed full. Her stomach clogged with meat and sloshing with Bordeaux.

She declines another glass when they take to the seats once more. Dabs at her brow. Her headache is pumping furiously behind her temples again. Her throat is cracking dry. Nothing appears to ease it. She’d eaten the sugary sweet peaches and crisp snap apples off the fruit platter set on the table but now her mouth is dry as ash.

“The madness of the weather isn’t persisting, so I see.” She comments as the furious storm rattled the windows forcefully. She would be best to stay the night. As he predicted. He’s loathing the idea of sending her and his staff and driver out accompanying the coach in the severest weather like this.

Kylo peers across at her. Her breath seemed a little short. Her words seemed like enormous effort for her. And she’d seemed reserved at dinner. Eating slowly as if she had no appetite.

“I wager it will pass soon enough. Might see out the night.” He comments. Taking a sip of his own drink. Feeling the scarlet velvet of it sit on his tongue.

Her head is so full of agony. She can barely summon the energy to speak. She pushes herself up out the chair by the arms. Her bones suddenly grate with white-hot pain.

“Please forgive me- I.” She starts. Gasping for breath. She shuts her eyes and Kylo watches her try to compose herself.

“I think I may need to retire to-“ She doesn’t get the opportunity to finish her sentence. She swallows and then she just falls. Crumpled like a wilting flower.

Kylo is there to catch her. He stood the second she started waning. He falls onto his knees and captures her in his arms.

“Dove?” He seeks. Stroking hair out her face. Her neck is stretched back, face pale and dewy with sweat. Eyes ashen grey and bright. Hooded eyes bright with pyrexia. She’s weak. The rain caught her in worse ways than he outwardly supposed.

The chill must’ve settled on her lungs.

He cups his cool fingers to her brow. She’s hot. Terribly hot. A fever. This was grave. Grave indeed.

He turns and yells for Mrs Jones to send for the doctor. He turns back to Iris. Watches the beads of sweat wriggle down her forehead. Her dry lips crack open and she’s trying to apologise again.

He cups the back of her neck. Face tugged into worry. “I’ve still got you.” He promises.

His distress starting to build. Mounting onto his sadness. He never prayed. Gods hold no faith for him anymore. But he prayed in this moment for her.

He truly did. And he prayed so hard his hands shook.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren x oc #vampirelovestory #vampire!kylo #vampire au #adam driver #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes🕊#Draegan vibes 🥀#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #blood #violence #death #illness #swooning #rainstorms

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popculturebuffet · 4 years

Text

Ducktales Reviews: The Lost Harp of Mirvana!

The ducks head under the sea, no accusations just friendly crustacians under the sea.. along with some sorta monster, mer hippies voiced by voice acting legends and della being unable to enjoy any of this because she’s hiding back at the sub. Take a dive under the cut.

I’ll confess this wasn’t one I was even remotely excited about going in: I’ts not that I thought it’d be bad: the series is at it’s peak right now, I figured i’td be entertaining like last week, it just had the misforutne of being right before we finally get Daisy next week, and recent episode solicits for the two afte ronly made it worse: Fenton’s third episode (hopefully he gets two this season), that’s also hueycentric and will hopefully make gyro less dickish, and a wrestling episode because i’m a casual wrestling fan and huey having to play the heel against a norse snake god sounds fucking amazing. SO yeah “Hippie mermaids and Louie being suspcious only to oh no be proven wrong about being suspcious” as I predecited the episode would go sounded boring in comparison. But i’m not afraid to eat crow... metaphorically, literally I don’t want to eat a crow it’d taste miserable and I don’t want to eat this crow because I love him.

But on dreading this ep.. I was blown away. Part of it is low expectations: I had really none other than “it’ll be decent” going in, but that only carries you so far. No this episode was fantastic, adressed a problem i’d had since “Timephoon!”, if not earlier, and had some great guess casting. It was a throughly enjoyable, funny episode. Will it probably end up on my faviorites list like the premire duo might? no, but it’s still damn good. Let’s get into the why shall we Our story this week is fairly simple: The Ducks are headed under the sea to find the lost harp of mirvana, sans Launchpad because he had to go help an ex girlfirend, hang out with darkwing, it was his day off, they had enoguh characters to juggle as is, he got his head stuck in a jar again, I dunno. But refreshingly Beakly is present! Seriously this IS something I wanted since season 1: her coming along with the family more. She rarely does, which makes some small sense given she’s the housekeeper but has made less and less since they have a ghost butler and sh’es family at this point. I get she has to earn her keep and what not, and wants to show up her ghostly rival, but come on. Thankfully they have come on and while i’m not sure if it’ll be a common thing going forward, it IS nice to have her for this one. The story itself is nicely divded once our heroes run into the mirvanans themselves, zen mermaids, our focus ones voiced by hyden walch and greg cripes, who you may know as starfire and beast boy from the teen titans cartoon... andtheotherone... as well as voicing Princess Bublegum and 2k12 Michealangeo respectivley. I Love these two and it was a treat to have them voice mermaid hippies. Our party quicklky splits up into three plots that converge at the end: Louie, being naturally suspcious after nearly being sacrificed by seemingly benevlonet societies 20 something times (and Dewey having 71 according to the tally given this episode that I painstakingly counted. The boy is one braincell starved for attention) is suspcious this is a midsommar type thing and he’s in the middle of some sorta death cult as usual, while webby, a trusting soul, belivies nothing is wrong and the mer people are genuine, with Beakly backing her up despite seemingly going against her nature. Now this plot alone seems stock for any show, but works here since it’s rooted in character; Louie sees all the angles and thus all the cliches adventurers run into. He’s been at this for at LEAST a year, he’s seen just enough to get how a certain story will probably go and being a grifter by nature, he dosen’t trust easy to begin with. In contrast while Webby CAN be suspcious, her being naturally trusting has also been part of her character from the start. She genuinely TRUSTS people and gives them a chance first and unless their a clear enemy of scrooges, will not turn her back on them. This is best shown with her relationship with Lena: even AFTER getting clear evidence Lena was a spy the whole time, and even without the evidence that after a certain point it was a lie, she refused to fully belive Lena had betrayed her... and was rewarded with Lena giving her life for webby. She trusted Violet even after Violet had been hiding her intentions and had a dangerous magical artifact from her arch enemy on her, and was again rewarded this time with Lena coming back and getting another lifelong friend out of the deal in Violet. Webby has a faith in people that pays off more than not..t hough we’ve also seen that faith backfire, mostly in scrooge as scrooge is a flawed man and has serious issues, whether it’s a combination of flu and gaslighting driving him insane, or him lashing out at her at his weakest moment. Her optimisim both fuels her and has made her life better but has sometimes blindsided her to the flaws in people, especially her hero. It’s as bojack horseman put it “When you look at life through rose colored glasses, you miss all the red flags”. What keeps this intresting as the two go into an off limits danger cave to find out what’s inside, Louie to find proof he’s right and Webby to go with him to prove he’s wrong, is Beakly. After saving the two from a monster, Beakly keeps boosting webby..then privatley admits as the audience probably guessed she’s also deeply suspcious and simply dosen’t want to shatter her niece’s worldview until they have evidence. And this is where that thing I wanted comes into play: see last season during “Timephoon!” beakly is directly conrasted as a parent with Della, having raised two children and being wiser. And while she was in that moment.. Beakly isolated her grandchild, and basically kept her in a guilded cage while training her to be a weapon out of fear of loosing what little she had left. LIke with Donald’s smothering parenting, it’s understandable, but it should be adressed.. and this episode does, but thankfully dosen’t make Betina unsympathetic either: Every parent, or in my case uncle, has to lie once in a while, especially now with the Covid-19 pandemic. It’s natural. But Betina has gone overboard to try and protect Webby’s inoccence.. and it’s backfired. Not preparing her for scroog’es worse behavior lead to him outright destroying her during “Last Crash of the Sunchaser” when he temporarliy disowned her. And here it leads to a damn powerful scene with great acting from both Toks and Kate . The trio find the harp, voiced by Rhetta aka Donna from parks and recreation, whose basically the harp from the “raiders of the lost harp” episode of the original, the first episode of said show I ever saw and a classic about a harp that would melodically say “no no no, your fibbing fibbing fibbing” when someone lied, which this harp does, if not every time. She reveals her former owner, the king of mirvana who the hippies build their society after his example, basically ducked repsonsiblity while things fell apart and spent too long underwater (the mirvanans can also walk on land) and became the monster from earlier, and the rest will share his fate if not told

The powerful part comes when Beakly tries to lie.. and the harp keeps shutting her out till she’s forced to admit the truth: you can just.. feel the pain coming from the poor woman, and webby folds into a depressed state. Naturally Louie realizes, once they get back to the rest of the family, more on that in a second, and seeing that the mermaids did NOT realize their king was a monster nor plan to feed them to him, webby was right and tells them to have hope and that the society they built IS valid even if their king was a dipstick, he rebuilds webby and after everythings wrapped up webby and beakly apologize and hug. It’s a damn good plot even if the “Louie realizes he was wrong and wasn’t right abotu them being evil” parts were predictable.. it worked due to the excellent character work, with Louie also realizing being a cynical dick is kind of obonxoious. A damn strong a plot The subplots are also rooted throughly in character while still being entertaining,especially once the a-plot gets heavy towards the end: Della in the c plot stays behind because she’s afraid of fish, only conquering it breifly at the end to help her family and punch a man in the face, but it’s nice to not only see some new bits to her as well as some neruosis of her own. She is donald’s sister: he can’t hog all of it for the two of them. The main subplot though centers on the remaining family trying to earn their way to the harp by doing zen arts and crafts and works due to character: Donald becomes a hilaroius zen master in moments (though earlier he rebuffed a gently pat on the chest by the lady mermaid, though given she’s super pretty and he’s, for now, single and has been for a while.. jsut go for it. You’ll probably get a three way with the other one (who isn’t my type but it’s more the man bun than anything. Loose that and.. yeah i’ll be int hat mer sandwitch), but I digress, Donald finds inner peace, likely because well. he WANTS IT. He wants to be happy and calm, even if the world smacks him in the face and tells no. Granted said peace is disrupted in the most hilarous way possible simply by Huey telling him they think his barbeque is merely okay, but he deserves credit. The boys also quickly find it, Dewey making a mermaid tail with hot rod flames and huey making a woodchuck one but what makes the subplot is that scrooge..c an’t. He hates this society, he hates hippies and he LOATHES self reflection. It’s like this society was magicaly generated to piss him of and i’ts wonderful to watch. And as a quick aside bit before we go Rhetta is awesome as the harp, not the parks cast member I woudl’ve chosen as my first round draft pick for the series but she does greatly and has great timing (especially when Louie talks about selling her) and it was nice to see a bit of my first ducktales experince come back in an intresting new way. Overall this episode was a VERY plesant suprise, and taught me to be more open to an ep in the future even if it dosen’t look like it has a huge personal draw. It was excellent.And now before I go i’ve decided each week, especially now we have a enough, to put the episode in the ranking of each and every episode this season and placing them in comparison of one another. I might do a list ranking the first season and second seasons on their own for fun. But for now here’s season 3 so far, so you can see where the ep stacks comparitvley: 1. Quack Pack! 2. The Challenge of the Senior Junior Woodchucks! 3. The Lost Harp of Mirvana! 4. Double O Duck in You Only Crash Twice. I”ll see you next week for DAISY AT LAST, the return of my boys the cablleros and some suprises and pies of all sizes ashurldy. Until then, courage.

#ducktales #mystery science theater 3000 #the lost harp of mirvana #ducktales spoilers

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jgthirlwell · 4 years

Text

2019 year in review

This year I also invited some friends and colleagues to reflect on 2019

JG Thirlwell

Composer Foetus Xordox Manorexia Steroid Maximus Venture Bros Archer

www.foetus.org

30 Albums of 2019 (although not all of them came out in 2019) Damon Locks & Black Monument Ensemble Where Future Unfolds (International Anthem) Le Grand Sbam Vaisseau Monde (Dur et Doux Caravaggio Caravaggio 2 & Turn Up (La Buissonne) Swans Leaving Meaning (Young God Records) 13 Million Year Old Ghost (Chaykin) Ben Frost Dark Cycles 1 & 2 (Invada) Sote Parallel Persia / Sacred Horror In Design (Diagonal) 33EMYBW Arthropods (SVBKVLT) Anna Meredith Fibs (Moshi Moshi) Kelly Moran Ultraviolet (Warp) Thom Yorke Anima (XL) Hildur Guðnadóttir Joker Soundtrack (Water Tower Music) Lingua Ignota Caligula (Profound Lore) Igorr Savage Synusoid (Metal Blade) Oli XL Rogue intruder Soul Enhancer (Blo-onm) Red Fang Murder The Mountains (Relapse) Michael Kiwanuka Kiwanuka (Polydor) Richard Dawson 2020 (Weird World) Idiot Flesh Fancy / The Nothing Show / Tales Of Instant Knowledge and Sure Death (YouTube) Ikarus Echo / Mosaiasmic (Ronin Rhythm Records) Poil Sus / Mula Poil (Dur et Doux) Orange Goblin A Eulogy For The Damned (Candlelight) Nivhek After its own death / Walking in a spiral towards the house (Yellow Electric) Ni Pantophobie (Due et Doux) Andrew WK You’re Not Alone (Sony) Rustin Man Drift Code (Domino) Kishi Bashi Omoiyari (Joful Noise) Liturgy HAQQ (YLYLCYN) Croatian Amor Isa (Posh Isolation) Schnellertollermeier Rights / X / Zorn einen ehmer üttert stem!! (Cuneiform) Scandinavian Star Solas (Posh Isolation) Synth Sisters Euphoria (EM records) JPEGMAFIA Veteran + All My Heroes Are Cornballs (EQT)

Notable Concerts I went to dozens of concerts and events in 2019. Here are some of the most notable. All in NYC except where noted.

Jan 8 Matt Marks Tribute at Protoype Festival. Roulette Jan 19 Lemon Twigs MHOW Jan 26 Julia Wolfe / NY Philharmonic Fire In My Mouth Lincoln Center Feb 16 Lucretia Dalt Issue Project Room Feb 23 Willliam Basinski Ambient Church Mar 13 Lou Reed Drones St John The Divine Mar 18 This Heat LPR + July 31 at Elsewhere Mar 20 Oran Ambarchi Fridman Gallery Mar 28 Fire! at Zurcher April 11 Aphex Twin Avant Gardner May 4 Zombi El Cortez May 11 Lawrence English Knockdown Center May 13 The Who + Orchestra Madison Square Garedn May 15 Alva Noto Metropolitan Museum June 11 Andrew Cyrille Marathon Roulette June 13 Christeene / Nastie Band Brooklyn Bazaar June 26 Simon Hanes National Sawdust July 27 Nick Zinner 41 Strings Rockefeller Center July 30 Flaming Lips / Lennon Claypool Delirium Capitol Theater Portchester Aug 2-4 Bang On A Can LOUD Festival Mass MOCA Notth Adams Aug 27 Pharmakon St Vitus Sep 5 JD Emmanuel Issue / First Unitarian Church Sep 18 Lingua Ignota St Vitus Set 21 King Crimson Radio City Oct 10 Melvins Warsaw Oct 19 Helm Cafe Oto Nov 1 Marc Almond Brooklyn Bazaar Nov 6 JPEGMAFIA Bowery Ballroom Nov 23 Caterina Barbieri Unsound Fest, Knockdown Center Nov 30 Knower Bowery Ballroom

Film & TV These films were flawed but resonated with me.

Chernobyl Ozark Once Upon A Time In Hollywood Joker Midsommar The Irishman Uncut Gems

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Matt Johnson

The The https://www.thethe.com/

Looking back on 2019 I decided to list a handful of political / alternative news websites rather than films, albums or books. In the UK the corporate media stooped to shocking new lows during our recent General Election campaign. Such dirty tactics are to be expected of conglomerates owned by the likes of Rupert Murdoch and his fellow right wing billionaires but this time around, previously ‘liberal’ outlets such as the BBC and Guardian also fully participated in the outrageous lies, smears and character assassination against the leader of the opposition Labour Party. The British population were now being forced fed the Establishment’s propaganda du jour from every possible direction. Personally I try to gather my information from as many alternative outlets as possible to contrast with the 24 hour corporate brainwashing we’re subjected to these days. I’ve listed just five sites from the dozens I regularly visit and although I certainly don’t agree with everything expressed on these sites I do feel that it essential that in supposed free and democratic societies we are at least exposed to a variety of viewpoints and opinions - rather than being trapped inside social media echo chambers in an Internet that is increasingly controlled and censored by sophisticated algorithms and where politically correct digital lynch mobs accuse anyone with an opinion that contradicts the official narrative of being a Russian agent! Anyway, a Happy New Year to you all and here’s hoping 2020 sets the new decade off in roaring style!

https://www.medialens.org/

https://www.truthdig.com/author/chris_hedges/

https://www.corbettreport.com/

https://thesaker.is/

https://thoughtmaybe.com/about/

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Tristan Perich

Composer www.tristanperich.com

Here is a rather random selection of 10 of my favorite tracks of 2019, mostly courtesy Spotify recommendations over the year...

Full playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6OUSFLqLsAwhRQRF44yxWN?si=r33XRUuGR_iIOZHg4thuyA

Lechuga Zafiro: Para Abajo feat Matmos & Seba TC https://open.spotify.com/track/2xMnSTIBNZ8AT6w6TdZyU9

Kelpe: A Year and a Day https://open.spotify.com/track/4ANoLzEjtGOBl5qCvEiLov

Shida Shahabi: All In Circles https://open.spotify.com/track/5qMnq88JPMJQ81x5szpN3t

The Vernon Spring: Strength of a Young Man https://open.spotify.com/track/0zQUqR1UcXoPRSrTt0WuPs

Dessert: Thunderbird https://open.spotify.com/track/5rAguSvXxyo5zBq9a5RQWd

Yves V w/ Icona Pop: We Got That Cool (Robert Falcon & Jordan Jay Remix) https://open.spotify.com/track/1lEtudJvZNiibWzXc5m4mh

Selena Gomez: Look At Her Now https://open.spotify.com/track/4yI3HpbSFSgFZtJP2kDe5m

Masahiro Sugaya: Umi No Sunatsubu https://open.spotify.com/track/43egCanD1UNNvoCo2K4veC

Konradsen: Baby Hallelujah https://open.spotify.com/track/6TBnYhxTzSiiVmMBjpZ3gH

Slow Magic: Girls (DJ Clap Remix) https://open.spotify.com/track/31Sdj7aF1h4emCJtkxdy1A

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James Ilgenfritz

Composer https://infrequentseams.com/

James Ilgenfritz's favorite witnessed events, by month:

Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future (January, Guggenheim) Anaïs Maviel: who is this ritual for and from? (February, Roulette) Roscoe MItchell, SPACE, Wavefield Ensemble (March, Park Avenue Armory) Blank Forms: Nadah El Shazly (April, Brooklyn Music School) Barre Phillips Solo (May, Zurcher Gallery) Heiner Goebbels: Everything That Happened And Would Happen (June, Park Avenue Armory) Zodiac Saxophone Quartet: Charles Waters, Ras Moshe Burnett, Claire Daly, Lee Odom (July, Scholes St) Tie: Judith Berkson: Partial Memories & Juho Laitinen: Robert Ashley's The Wolfman (August, Ostrava Days, Czech Republic) Zeena Parkins / William Winant / Ikue Mori (September, The Stone) Vinnie Golia / Bobby Bradford Quartet (October, Edgefest in Ann Arbor) LA Philharmonic: Wubbels, Macklay, Sabat, Smith, Perich (Los Angeles, November) Art Ensemble Of Chicago (December, Washington, DC)

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Carl Michael Von Hausswolff

Artist / Composer

https://cmvonhausswolff.net/

10 special artists of 2019 in no specific order: • Hildur Guðnadóttir - her film music • sunn o))) - their Life Metal and Pyroclasts albums • Ilpo Väisänen - his concert in Stockholm • Cindy van Acker - her choreographic work • Jónsi & Alex - their old Riceboy Sleeps album and 2019 tour • Swans - their leaving meaning album • Flowers Must Die - their Där Blommor Dör album • Bigert & Bergström - their climate awareness art • Vanessa Sinclair & Carl Abrahamsson - all their work during 2019 • Hans-Joachim Roedelius and Tim Story - their Lunz 3 album

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Ryan Martin

Label Boss, Dais Records

www.daisrecords.com

Richard Youngs & Raül Refree "All Hands Around the Monument" Sarah Davachi "Pale Bloom" James Hoff "HOBO UFO (v. Chernobyl)" Wojciech Rusin ‎"The Funnel" Caterina Barbieri "Ecstatic Computation" Solange "When I Get Home" Kali Malone "The Sacrificial Code" Deathprod "Occulting Disk" Vatican Shadow "Kuwaiti Airforce" Ben Vida "Reducing The Tempo To Zero" JPEGMAFIA "All My Heroes Are Cornballs" Dean Hurley "Anthology Resource Vol. II: Philosophy of Beyond" Sean McCann "Puck" Oren Ambarchi "Simian Angel" Tyler, The Creator "IGOR" Helm "Chemical Flowers" JAB "Erg Herbe" Emptyset "Blossoms" E-Saggila "My World, My Way" Jacob Kirkegaard "Black Metal Square" Boy Harsher "Careful"

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Weasel Walter

Composer/performer / label head https://weaselwalter.bandcamp.com/

2019 was far from my favorite year. Regardless, I managed to release not one, but two new double albums by The Flying Luttenbachers (as well as two European tours with the unit) in addition to the usual slew of improvised music gigs and releases, and co-ordinating and producing an archival release of vintage NYC weirdness (Ozone). I also rocked Mexico City with Lydia Lunch Retrovirus, played a ridiculous gig with Encenathrakh, and disbanded Cellular Chaos (for now, at least).

When I become obsessed (or re-obsessed with something), it usually leads to a ton of proselytizing Facebook status posts. Combing my 2019 posts, it seems that my musical obsessions this year weren't very highbrow. Ha ha ha. Yes, I'm super into Xenakis, Cecil Taylor and whatever else, but dumber music can supply great creature comfort, and I guess I needed that in large amounts, so that's what it was. Sometimes badass modernists have to take time out to stay in bed all day and read comics because it's a hard cold world out there.

Weasel Walter top 10 musical obsessions of 2019 1. Kid Creole and the Coconuts (1980-1985 era) 2. Redd Kross 3. The Saints "I'm Stranded" 4. Jane Aire and the Belvederes 5. Miles Davis 1972-1975 6. Khanate "Things Viral 7. Mandy Zone & Ozone "Live at Max's Kansas City 1981" 8. Mayhem "Grand Declaration of War" 9. Comedy Bang Bang Episode #554 w/ Middleditch, Sanz 10. Weezer "Pinkerton"

Weasel Walter worst thing about 2019

1. Windows 10

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C.Spencer Yeh

Composer / Performer https://twitter.com/cspenceryeh?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor

Ten live music highlights of 2019 - The Brandon Lopez Trio (Lopez/Steve Baczkowski/Gerald Cleaver) at Fridman Gallery, June 18 - DeForrest Brown Jr., Pennies From Heaven series at CONTROL, January 15 - Charmaine Lee, Nothing Changes at Saint Vitus, January 30 - Bloodyminded at Apartment 202, December 14 - Longmont Potion Castle live QnA, Spectacle Theater, March 23 - Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society, Roulette, July 1 - Helm, Elsewhere, September 21 - Korn, Radiohead, Red Light District, October 26 - Mdou Moctar, Max Fish, September 1 - Mayo Thompson plays "Corky's Debt to His Father," Le Poisson Rouge, December 8

Speed round – five various still on the mind at the end of 2019 - Charlotte Moorman / Nam June Paik long sleeve t-shirt, Boot Boyz - Acacia leaf omelet and shrimp in sour curry, Jitlada, Los Angeles - Lynnée Denise, presentation for Omniaudience (Side Two) presented by Triple Canopy/Nikita Gale/Hammer Museum at Coaxial Arts, May 4 - PARASITE (2019) - ANIARA (2018)

Also, Spectacle Theater turns ten in 2020 and you should really come visit us.

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DJ Food

Artist / composer / DJ / curator

www.djfood.org

Music / podcasts: Pye Corner Audio - Hollow Earth LP (Ghost Box) Various - Corroded Circuits EP 12" (Downfall Recordings) Chris Moss Acid - Heavy Machine 12" (Balkan Vinyl) King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard - Fishing For Fishes LP (Flightless) Pictogram - Trace Elements cassette (Miracle Pond) Vanishing Twin - The Age of Immunology LP (Fire Records) Big Mouth podcast (various) (Acast) Beans - Triptych LP (Gamma Proforma) Roisin Murphy - Incapable single (Skint) Ebony Steel Band - Pan Machine LP (Om Swagger) People Like Us - The Mirror LP (Discrepant) Coastal County - Coastal County LP (Lomas) Adam Buxton podcast (various) (Acast) Ghost Funk Orchestra - A Song For Paul LP (Karma Chief) Jon Brooks - Emotional Freedom Techniques LP (Cafe Kaput) King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard - Organ Farmer (from Infest the Rat's Nest LP) (Flightless) Jane Weaver - Fenella LP (Fire Records) Polypores - Brainflowers cassette (Miracle Pond)

Design / packaging: Pepe Deluxé - The Surrealist Woman lathe cut 7" (Catskills) Various - Science & Technology ERR Rec Library Vol.2 (ERR Records) DJ Pierre presents ACID 88 vol. III LP (Afro Acid) Mark Ayres plays Wendy Carlos - Kubrick 7" (Silva Screen) Tomorrow Syndicate - Citizen Input 10" (Polytechnic Youth) The Utopia Strong - S/T LP (Rocket Recordings) Jarvis - Sunday Service LP (ACE records) Andy Votel - Histoire D'Horreur cassette (Hypocrite?) Sculpture - Projected Music 5" zoetrope picture disc (Psyché Tropes) Lapalux - Amnioverse LP (Brainfeeder) Hieroglyphic Being - Synth Expressionism / Rhythmic Cubism LP (On The Corner Records)

Film / TV: Sculpture - Meeting Our Associates (Plastic Infinite) This Time with Alan Partridge (BBC) Avengers: Endgame (Disney/Marvel) Imaginary Landscapes - Sam Campbell (Vinyl Factory) What We Do In The Shadows (BBC2) The Mandalorian (Disney+)

Books / Comics / Magazines: Beastie Boys Book - Mike Diamond & Adam Horowitz (Spiegel & Grau) Cosmic Comics - A Kevin O'Neill Miscellany (Hibernia Books) Electronic Sound magazine (Pam Com. Ltd) Moebius - 40 Days In The Desert (expanded edition) (Moebius Productions) Rock Graphic Originals - Peter Golding w. Barry Miles (Thames & Hudson) 2000AD / Judge Dredd Megazine (Rebellion) Silver Surfer Black - Donny Cates/Tradd Moore (Marvel) Help - Simon Amstell (Square Peg) The Scarfolk Annual - Richard Littler (William Collins) Wrappers Delight - Jonny Trunk (Fuel)

Gigs / Events: Vanishing Twin @ Prince of Wales Pub, Brighton Stereolab @ Concorde 2, Brighton People's Vote March 23rd March, London Wobbly Sounds book launch @ Spiritland, London Confidence Man @ The Electric, Brixton, London Mostly Jazz Funk & Soul Festival, Moseley, Birmingham Bluedot Festival, Jodrell Bank, Manchester HaHa Sounds Collective play David Axelrod's Earth Rot @ Tate Exchange, London School of Hypnosis play In C @ Cafe Oto, London Palace Electrics, Antenna Studios, London The Delaware Road, New Zealand Farm, Salisbury Breaking Convention closing party, Greenwich, London Jonny Trunk & Martin Green's Hidden Library @ Spiritland, Southbank, London Negativland / People Like Us @ Cafe Oto, London HaHa Sound Collective plays the David Axelrod songbook @ The Church of Sound, London, Sculpture, Janek Schaefer, Mariam Rezaei + the 26 turntable ensemble @ The Old Baths, Hackney, London Vanishing Twin & Jane Weaver's Fenella @ Studio 9294, Hackney Wick, London

Exhibitions: Sister Corita Kent @ House of Illustration, London, Augustinbe Kofie @ Stolen Space, London, Victor Vasarely @ Pompidou Centre, Paris, Mary Quant @ V&A Museum, London, Stanley Kubrick @ The Design Museum, London, Tim Hunkin's Novelty Automation Museum, London, Keith Haring retrospective @Tate, Liverpool, Nam June Paik, Tate Modern, London, Takis @ Tate Modern, London, Shepard Fairy @ Stolen Space, London, Damien Hirst 'Mandalas' at the White Cube, London, Bridget Riley @ The Hayward, London, Museum of Neo-liberalism, Lewisham, London.

#playlist #DJ Food #JG Thirlwell #C.Spencer Yeh #Weasel Walter #Ryan Martin #dais records #Carl Michael Von Hausswolff #James Ilgenfritz #Matt Johnson #The THe #Tristan Perich #2019 year in review

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dcxdpdabbles · 8 months

Text

Master Post

All the dabbles I have posted on my DC x DP account. Under a read more due to how long it is. Broken into three categories:

Multi-parts - Dabbles that have more than one part written.

One-shots- Dabbles with only one part written.

Requests- Dabbles written for the requests of readers. (Note: If a request is for a continuation of the other two categories, they will be filed in Milti-parts)

(Updated as of 02/10/2024: Master Post 2 has latest)

Multi-Parts

The Royal Consort: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

The Bakery is a Front!...right?: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Child Support: Part 1, Part 2

Alfred's Boy: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

The Adoptive Son: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Phantom's Number 1 fan: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 Part 4

Passion for Fashion: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Danny and The Fan Blog: Part 1, part 2, Part 3

Congratulations! It's Triplets!: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Ghost King Summon dare: Part 1 , Part 2

The Dauntless Matchmaker: Part 1 Part 2

One-Shots

The Assistant: Part 1

The Ghost Trio's Food Trip: Part 1

Legal Compensation: Part 1

Love Among Fans: Part 1

Lex Luther's Youngest: Part 1

Misplace Baby: Part 1

The Infinite Realms Hobby Store: Part 1

Obsession Runs in the Family: Part 1

Farm Hand: Part 1

Vague Threats: Part 1

Game of Deadly Love: Part 1

Retired-Rouge: Part 1

The Real Blood Son: Part 1

The Kid of Candles: Part 1

Magic Older Brother: Part 1

Keep The God Kid Busy!: Part 1

Dog walker: Part 1

Clockwork's Cookbook: Part 1

Respawn and Relive: Part 1

The Summoning Conditions of the Ghost King: Part 1

Finders Keeper: Part 1

What's the rule again?: Part 1

The Contact, the Butler and the Sly Time Lord: Part 1

Big Fish in Gotham Pond: Part 1

Immunity system: part 1

Wrong Number: Part 1

Timeline Prevention Squad: Part 1

Requests

The Masters are Aliens: Part 1

Ghost Zone Read: Part 1

Red Hood's Snow: Part 1

Jason Sees Dead People: Part 1

Ghost Dad: Part 1

Wayne Manor Ghost: Part 1

The Siren of Iceberg Lounge: Part 1

Single Dad: Part 1

The Orginal: Part 1

The Ghost King's Fibs: Part 1

Red ParentHood: Part 1

Woo thy Butler My Lord: Part 1

Jason's Doll: Part 1

Double Vision: Part 1

Dealeyed Soulmates: Part 1

Rescue Mission: Part 1

Danny's Online Persona: Part 1

Practice makes perfect: Part 1

Alley Boyfriends: Part 1

Demon and Angel Brat: Part 1

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #mun speaks #Master post

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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years

Text

If the summer of lives could just come again, ch16

A03 link

Over the Wall

Several moons into that year, Rowan stills in the middle of a sentence, and quietly says,

“I think we have a visitor.”

The visitor, causing Jon’s heart to leap into his throat with joy, turns out to be Ghost. Ghost, dragging a dead doe at that. Ygritte attacks the dead animal with a knife and gusto, and they all eat terribly well for several days, Jon scratching Ghost under the muzzle and feeding him the best bits.

And Ghost is excellent for making the caves warmer at night. Sometimes, he even lets them use him as a pillow.

He even allows Ygritte to do it. She pets his head idly.

One night, when Jon is resting his head on the opposite side of him she is, Ygritte quietly asks him.

“I suppose it would never have worked out. We’re just too different.”

Jon doesn’t respond, but it doesn’t really feel like a question.

“I wanted to see over the wall. I’d wanted that since I was a little girl. We saw it together. But it wasn’t enough. You still left me for them.”

“I did swear a vow.”

Ygritte exhales loudly.

“How long were you a crow?”

Jon thinks back, remembering when he took his vow, and the start of the great ranging.

“A little over a year.”

“Do you think any of them are still looking for you?”

Jon feels his insides twist. Sam, Sam would never quit, but he could be overcome. Commander Mormont, he would never willingly leave a man behind. Pyp and Grenn…

“Maybe a few...but I suppose most of them must think I’m dead.”

Ygritte’s silent for a long time, and eventually it’s Jon who breaks it again.

“Once whatever this is is done, I can take you over the wall again. I can show you the south.”

Ygritte sounds half asleep when she responds with,

“That better be a promise.”

Gilly and the other women spend the days up and about, marking on bits of parchment.

“None of us learned to read,” Gilly tells him, “But Rowan wants us to help her map the caves down here, and I can draw well enough.”

Mapping the caves is just one of the things Rowan does. Her and the others occasionally disappear for half a day, gathering something or another.

In the early days, she led him to the heart of the cave, where the corpse of the old weirwood lay, and where Rowan had planted the bulb of a new seedling.

“This was what I was traveling further south for, to find this little babe of a tree,” she tells them, gently petting the turned earth where it will reach upward for the sun.

Jon reaches into his jumbled memories of his last night with the others.

“My brother...he said the three-eyed Raven taught him to see through the weirwoods.”

Rowan nods.

“We fed him from the seeds of the weirwoods, and that allowed him to see through their wood. It was a poor choice.”

Jon tries to imagine Bran, who seems so small, so young, in his memory.

“You said because he was a child.”

Rowan shakes her head softly.

“Not just that. He was a human, and humans cannot carry the weight of the power these centuries old trunks bear. Even the humans gifted with what you call greensight are often afflicted with illness by it.”

Jon watches Rowan stand, and touch the dead roots.

“My name is not truly Rowan. The common tongue has no word so specific for the sound a rowan tree makes when caught in a summer storm. But our language does. We call it the True Tongue. This is the tongue shared by the children of the forest, the plants and animals and the soil of the earth.”

She looks at Jon, gently, like a grandmother might.

“The only human who is said to have ever understood the True Tongue was your ancestor Bran the Builder. He knew how to listen. This is what makes you special Jon Snow, you can speak, and you cal listen. I’m not going to teach you to see through the weirwoods, I’m going to teach you to talk to them.”

King’s Landing

It’s just a normal, clear, sunny-but-cold day when Sansa touches Lady on the neck and slips into her skin.

She creeps through the Red Keep, quiet as a septa, neat as a maid, not even drawing the attention of a mouse.

Not even when she winds up outside the Small Council chambers. She doesn’t linger, doesn’t want to jinx this whole thing. Stannis and Renly have both lingered, seemingly lacking will to leave their brother’s side, even as their feuds rear their heads every other day.

It really does incense Sansa sometimes. Was this was raising her and Arya had been like, she wondered. Did Father and Mother fear that they would still be quarreling well into womanhood?

“It makes me sad,” Shireen had told her one day, out in the garden, The flowers had been dusted with snow, their petals beginning to wilt.

“Do you like living with your uncle?” Sansa had asked.

Shireen nods,

“He doesn’t pay a ton of attention to me, but he’s always light-hearted and up for a laugh. Father always went on and on about how irresponsible he was, but he’s always made sure I ate and went to my lessons…”

The younger girl trails off. Sansa had seen her speak kindly with Renly, and seemed happy spending time under Brienne’s guard, but she also saw the whisper of homesickness in her.

She recognizes it with ease, having gone through plenty.

It is Shireen she thinks of while Lady watches Renly attempt to defend his current lack of heirs.

It isn’t fair, not really, Sansa thinks to herself. She remembers the first day at court, when she’d caught a glimpse of Renly holding Loras Tyrell’s elbow that the truth had struck her like a lightning bolt.

Even Shireen had seen it, it seemed.

“I don’t think he likes ladies, well not like other men do,” Shireen had told her in confidence, “He was always quite kind to Lady Brienne, and many men can’t even muster that.”

But still, it was his house duty, she thought. And Stannis, on the other hand, could always be counted on to do his duty. Which must be why he’s here tending to his brother, even as he’s shouted and raged at on the regular.

She’s seen no sign of the red woman, to her relief.

She pulls herself out of Lady, when she hears someone call her name.

The voice turns out to be that of Lady Margaery, flanked behind by many of her own ladies. She is in the garden again, and Margaery is extending her hand to her.

“My apologies, my lady,” Sansa tells her, moving to lift her skirts and stand, “I’m afraid I was somewhere else for a bit there.”

“No offense taken, Lady Sansa,” Margaery replies, her smile seeming natural, though somehow still somehow painted on. “I was merely hoping to invite you to have tea with my grandmother and I.”

Sansa smiles, and allows herself to be lead.

She would be lying if she said she hadn’t been looking forward to see the old Queen of Thorns again. As the years had gone by, her appreciation of the acid tongue matriarch had only increased, along with her confusion as to her motives.

“Lady Tyrell,” she says, “It’s an honor.”

“Oh, dispense with the arse-kissing if you would, I feel I’ve had more than my share being back in this city.”

Yes, that was the Olenna Tyrell that Sansa remembered. She offers her wine and cheese, and she takes lightly of both.

“So,” Sansa starts, finishing a bit of soft goat cheese, licking her thumb, “is this just for pleasure, or did the two of you want something from me?”

The older woman nodded to herself, though it was her granddaughter who spoke up first.

“Well, you have lived here in the Red Keep for far longer than we have been at court. I imagine you’ve noticed my courtship of Prince Joffrey-”

As if anyone could miss it. Margaery was not subtle when she wanted people to notice her. As she called it ‘her courtship’, which she couldn’t imagine most proper ladies doing.

“-and I was hoping you might tell me about him. He has seemed gracious and gallant to me, but I imagine you know as I do, that men have the same carefully constructed masks we women do.”

“And we would like some insight,” Olenna interrupts, “Into why you, a lovely young maid yourself, seem to have no interest in him yourself.”

Sansa snorts softly, then meters her voice very carefully.

“Because he’s a jackarse that’s why. Met him years ago back home in Winterfell, first thing he did was insult my little sister.”

Her voice is casual, light.

“He likes to slap around his younger brother and sister too. I’ve seen him leave nasty bruises on both. “

Only a small fib. Myrcella had once confessed to Sansa that Joffrey hadn’t hit her since she had learned to stop reacting.

“Both of his uncles give him hell about it. I saw Lord Tyrion slap him once for a comment he made about my crippled younger brother. I’m rather fond of all of them, so I take their words over his. You have siblings, my lady, you must understand.”

At some point, Lady has quietly padded her way into the gardens, and sits by Sansa’s side. She pets the wolf on her head.

“And I am very thankful that Lady here hasn’t even caught his eye, if what poor Tommen said happened to his cat wasn’t just a tantrum.”

If he had ever tried it, Sansa thought, she’s not sure she would have stopped Lady from tearing his throat out this time.

Olenna snorts in response to her words though.

“If you’re assessment of the prince is accurate, than I wonder why wouldn’t tried to dissuade us.”

Sansa shrugs carefully, before meeting Margaery’s eye.

“If you think you can handle it, then who am I to tell you what to do? But you should be aware of what you’re getting into. Not just the prince, the Queen is a whole hornet’s nest herself.”

Sansa feels vaguely trapped inside. This whole game, the politics and the alliances. She had grown good at it, she knows, but she’s become so disdainful of it.

After she finishes her cup of sweet wine, she spies Tyrion walking into the garden and sitting at one of the tables they often played cyvasse on.

“If you’ll excuse my early exit, “ she tells Lady Olenna, standing and brushing off her dress, “Lord Tyrion beat me at cyvasse three days ago, and I believe I am owed a rematch.”

When she approaches the table, she notes Tyrion watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Tired already of more quality company than me?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Tired of being used as an unwitting informant.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. He has the cyvasse pieces out, and is playing with them idly, though not setting them up properly.

“Seeking advice for the courtship of my dear nephew?”

Sansa smiles wryly. She glances back over at where Margaery sits, with her immaculate hair and gown. Tyrion interrupts her gaze.

“Seemed there was a time you would have wanted the exact place she is in now.”

Sansa laughs bitterly.

“I did. And that wish got me nothing but heartache, abuse and suffering. I was stupid. A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who learned too slowly to even protect herself from her own mistakes.“

Thinking of her younger self, how blind and easily led she had been, nearly makes her want to retch. She shakes the memory off, as she moves to set the cyvasse pieces up. They play nearly in silence until the sun is no longer high in the sky.

“Is it so awful though?” Sansa asks, breaking the silence, in an unusually small voice, “To want to be loved, to want it so much that you let yourself be blinded?”

“No,” Tyrion replies, fiercely, “I don’t think it’s awful at all. Everyone wants to be loved, even if no one admits it. And in my experience, it’s made a great many men and women commit very foolish acts.”

She won’t say to him, won’t admit even to herself, that she’s even sure she would know love anymore. That if it weren’t for her sister, she wouldn’t even be sure if she believed in it anymore.

There’s a flush over their conversation, and Sansa feels a strange warmth bloom in her chest. One she might recognize, if she reached far enough back in her memory.

It’s interrupted, when her father approaches, telling her it’s time for supper.

It’s a simple potato and leek soup tonight, rich with cream and brightened bacon. Over it, Sansa hopes her father won’t bring up the subject she’s been avoiding since they arrived here nearly three years ago.

“You seem quite fond of Lord Tyrion,” he begins, “Any particular reason why?”

Sansa nods softly. She no longer thinks there’s a point in hiding this.

“He was my first husband.”

Ned stares, seeming not to know which word to latch onto. Sansa chuckles. It’s really ridiculous in hindsight.

“It was Tywin Lannister’s handiwork, meant to keep control of the North. We both objected loudly, but didn’t have a leg to stand on to refuse, but we tried to be kind to each other at least.”

She swallows, bitterly.

“I was fourteen, and in retrospect, our complete farce of a marriage was the closest thing to a reprieve I had while I was stuck here, and then…” she trails off, still unsure how to explain the next part, “I didn’t see him for nearly four years, but when we saw each other again, it was the strangest thing...it was almost like we were friends.”

Ned finally cuts her off, with a question.

“You said he was your first-”

Sansa ducks her head, so he will not see her face.

“My second was Ramsey Bolton. He was...not kind.

Ned’s expression of horror is all she needs. She shakes her head roughly again, changing the subject as fast as she can before more questions come.

“Anything new with the council today?”

“Stannis got a raven from the Wall,”

That gets Sansa’s complete attention.

“Who’s in charge now?”

“Alliser Thorne,”

She groans internally. Jon’s words on the man had not been kind. Not that Jon was even there now.

“He’s asking for more men, because wildlings have been attacking the outposts regularly. They sent them to all the Lords.”

Sansa rubs her forehead.

“And of course, Stannis is the only one to take the request seriously.”

Sansa wishes Shireen’s death wasn’t such a black mark on Stannis’s life. That his willingness to follow Melisandre so fanatically hadn’t besmirched him so. He was one of the only men in Westeros who truly seemed to consider the needs of the Realm.

Even before that, she muses, he also killed his own brother, so maybe she was being too generous.

Stannis’s actions end up being overshadowed anyhow.

It’s the middle of the year when Balon Greyjoy dies.

Sansa groans deeply when she learns. This is going to be a mess. She doubts Yara will be able to gather any sort of support without Theon to back her up, so somehow she thinks Euron will end up in charge again. She sends a raven, one of Bran’s that she’s been letting rest on a perch in her chambers and rest, back to Winterfell to try and see if Theon had said anything on the matter at all.

Theon had kept Balon in line, but she doubts Euron has any sort of similar loyalty.

It distracts her though, and she blames that distraction for why she lets someone sneak up on her early the next morning, when she’s down at the training yard.

Thankfully, it’s just Brienne.

“Didn’t take you for an archer, my lady.”

Sansa shrugs her off,

“It’s just for fun. Daughter of one of my father’s friends was a great archer. I thought she looked so elegant doing it. So I asked her to teach me.”

Elegant is pushing it. Sansa might describe Meera in her element as having a sort of wild grace, but she’s not sure she would ever call it elegance. But she is a young woman, with thoughts only of gowns and games, and so she admires elegance.

“For fun? Pulling a longbow takes nearly a hundred pounds of force.”

Sansa laughs, trying to sound blithe. She looses her arrow, and hits the target she has set up. It hits close to the edge, but it’s set further away than she’s set them before.

“You’re assigned to guard Lady Shireen, right? Is she about already?”

Brienne shakes her head.

“The girl is a bit of a late sleeper, and I felt the need for some early morning air before resuming my duties.”

Sansa sets down her bow and sits on one of the brick columns that line the ends of the walkway.

“How is she? I remember when I came here for the first time, I felt so alone.”

“She is..coping. Like she always has. She didn’t have many other young people for friends in Storm’s End, or from her stories, before either.”

Brienne frowns as she continues speaking.

“I fear she may always feel out of place just because of how she looks. I feel coming here, with all the power and attention may only make it worse.”

“This city isn’t a very good place for anyone,” Sansa ruminates, playing with the feather on the end of her bow.

What about you? She thinks, but doesn’t say. Here, Brienne looks the role of a knight, even if she will still insist she is not. She spends her days guarding a defenseless girl for no personal gain, and she will still deny it.

And she has no idea who she would have become.

Joffrey and Margaery announce their engagement halfway through the year. Ned spends the back half of the year with his head between his hands trying to get a grasp on the plans.

“Robert’s not going to make it to the end of the year,” he admits one day during supper.

Sansa purses her lips as she sips her soup.

“I didn’t think so. He looks awful.” Robert’s whole body has become swollen, and despite his famous appetite, he rarely eats anymore.

“I can’t help but feel that planning a lavish wedding while his father dies is in poor taste.”

“He will be king,” Sansa considers, “maybe he wants his reign to start with a celebration. Or maybe Robert wants to see his eldest wed before he passes.”

Ned shakes his head.

“I still can’t wrap my head around Joffrey being king. He doesn’t pay a lick of attention in small council meetings, and on the occasion he does, he lashes out and suggests violence for nearly every issue.”

“He will be an awful king,” Sansa agrees, “But I don’t expect he will be king long.

He probably won’t be murdered at his wedding this time, she thinks, or at least if he is, Sansa doesn’t think she will be the tool of poison. She hasn’t received any unexpected gifts anyway. The Iron Islands are in flux, something tells her Stannis still has his doubts about Joffrey’s parentage, and Littlefinger is still manipulating things (his own wedding to Lysa has just been announced).

And, barring all of that, Varys spoke quietly to her once about the songs of his birds from overseas. The thought of Joffrey being eaten by a dragon does give her a certain sense of satisfaction.

‘You don’t imagine Joffrey will want to keep you as his Hand though do you?” she asks out of the blue.

Ned’s words are rough,

“I can’t imagine. The boy dislikes me, his mother dislikes me more, and they’ve both been vocal about it.”

“Perhaps, once his graces passes, then we’ll be able to go home.”

It’s the only hope they have to hold on to, as the wedding draws near.

Sansa’s not in a good mood the day before. Aside from her general distaste for weddings, she has also just got the raven telling her that she was going to miss Arya’s...again.

Ned is at least as upset about that as she is.

“At least there are still four more of you.”

Sansa is quiet for a long time, then suddenly interjects,

“Robb was married. No one was there but Mother. I don’t even remember his wife’s name. She was from Volantis, I think. None of us got to meet her. The three of them all died the same day.”

Ned reaches out and touches the back of her neck. The gown she’s dressed in for the wedding is a light gray, with long sleeves and a full skirt. She’s tall enough at seventeen that she can now look him straight in the eye.

She stands beside him during the ceremony, and he watches her eyes drift over most of the room.

Joffrey and Margaery say their words, and Ned and Sansa try their best not to roll their eyes.

There are performers after, but scanning the crowd, Sansa lets out a sigh of relief, seeing only one dwarf. The pigeon pie doesn’t choke anyone.

Sansa quietly sips at her wine, and watches.

At one point in the evening, she sees Ned take a sip from Robert’s goblet, and wince. Pycelle is accompanying the King, who is barely holding himself upright. He has not eaten or drank anything at all during the festivities.

“I’ve never tasted anything that strong, I’m almost frightened where he found it,” Ned comments, off hand. Sansa wonders at his words.

Time comes for the bedding. Sansa notices Shireen looking a bit apprehensive, and so grabs her hands and the two of them linger at the back of the mob of women.

“Trust me, you don’t want a hand or eyeful of any of that,” she assures the girl.

The dancers and celebrators still linger in the hall. Sansa notices Cersei still at the high table, seemingly quite drunk. That’s a mess she wants no part of either.

Her and Shireen sit alone, sipping lightly from one cup of wine.

"Do you like it here at all?" Sansa finally asks her.

Shireen shrugs.

"I like meeting other people. I like seeing things happen even if I can't be involved. Renly told me when he was helping me get my gown and everything for the ball last year that it was a shame a girl like me had been kept from the world for so long."

"Aren't people sometimes mean to you though?"

"Of course they are, but they don't matter. Maybe in this life I'll be alone, but that's why I like my books and stories. That's I think what I'd like to do with my life. I want to write stories, whether they're real or not."

Sansa sees in her eyes a touch of resentment, she figures for her parents having kept her trapped for so long.

And slowly, and very quietly, she asks her.

"If I told you a story, a very complicated one, could you keep it to yourself, whether you believed it or not?"

Shireen looks at her oddly.

"I wouldn't tell a soul."

And just like that, Sansa has another confidant.

It feels like things should change all at once, but it still somehow happens slowly.

It’s a few days after the wedding, while guests are beginning to leave. Sansa is wandering the halls, again in Lady, when she comes upon Cersei leaving the royal apartments, with an empty bottle.

Sansa-in-Lady takes a moment to heel behind a statue in the hall, when Littlefinger comes in her direction.

He barely even stops upon encountering Cersei, he merely nods in her direction.

“Such a shame it is,” he says, eyes on the bottle, “For a man to be leveled by something he loved so much.”

And Sansa finds herself slipping out of Lady’s head, a heavy sensation causing her stomach to sink.

Of course it wouldn’t be hard, the way Robert drank, to spike his cups even more heavily. Even if someone were drinking first from his cups, they wouldn’t likely notice.

A death he may have brought on himself, hastened by someone who desperately wanted him gone.

A death that comes barely a moon after his eldest son’s wedding.

“I have to make funeral arrangements,” Ned tells her that evening, when the are sitting and talking, “And arrange for Joffrey’s coronation.”

“And after that?”

Ned sighs. It seems to be his primary vocalization now.

“After...we’ll find out.”

Sansa stares out the window in her chambers that night. It’s a deep, dark, clear night, and the raven for winter flies through.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #gendrya #sanrion #jongritte #time travel fix it #fic

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madamwyrd · 5 years

Text

Beowulf, as Written by Dr. Seuss

By Sean Wyrd

Inspired by Overly Sarcastic Productions

A parody of How The Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss

Every Dane down in Denmark liked partying a lot, But Grendel, who lived just south of Denmark, did not. Grendel hated partying! Parties and booze! Now, as to why, well, we still have no clues. It could be it woke him from his hundred year sleep, It could be, perhaps, that his wounds were too deep. But I think that the most likely reason of all, May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

But whatever the reason, his heart or his pains, He stood there that evening just hating the Danes. Staring out from his swamp with a sour Grendel frown, At the warm lights of Heorot away by the town. For he knew every Dane down in Denmark was there, Getting so blackout drunk they forgot how to care.

“And they’ve hired a bard!” he muttered with spite, “Tomorrow they’ll be partying the whole goddamn night!” Then he shouted, while his fists he would pound and he’d flail, “I must find a way to stop this free flow of ale!” For tonight, he knew, all the Danes and their king Would party all night, and not stop for a thing. And then! Oh the noise! Oh the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! Then the Danes, young and old, would sit down to a feast. And they’d feast! And they’d feast! And they’d feast! Feast! Feast! Feast! They would feast on wild boar, and whatever big beast, Which is something Grendel couldn’t stand in the least! And then, they’d do something he hated the most, Every Dane down in Denmark, alive or a ghost, Would stand down in Heorot, with bards still all playing, They’d go find some monsters, and then they’d all start their slaying! And they’d slay! And they’d slay! And they’d slay! Slay! Slay! Slay! And the more Grendel thought of this partying shtick, The more Grendel thought, “Why, it all makes me sick! For three hundred years I was peacefully napping, I need to stop this!” He said, finally snapping.

Then he got an idea! An awful idea! Grendel got a wonderful, awful idea! “I’ve got a plan,” Grendel said with a chuckle, As he made some brass knuckles with his belt and its buckle, And he laughed and he sneered, “Ah, I’m smart to my core, With this helpful tool, I could break down their door! All I need is a weapon…” Grendel surveyed the land, But, he was no warrior, and had no weapons at hand. Did that stop old Grendel? No! Grendel simply told, “If I can’t find a weapon, I won’t use one. My, I'm quite bold!”

So he wandered out of his cave, and across to the lake, To go tell his mother why he was awake. And he told her his plan, and she said it was alright, As long as he did it all that very night. So he went down to Heorot, and he found all was quiet Which is strange, since party was most of their diet All the windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air. All the Danes were dreaming their dreams without care. When he broke down the door, he found nobody there

“This place is awful quiet,” Grendel said with a shrug As he tiptoed across to the first room by the rug. Then he opened the door, the hinges did squeal, But the Danes inside kept sleeping off their last meal. Then he stuck his head through the door slightly ajar, “These Danes will be first! Shame, they must have traveled quite far.” Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile most unpleasant, Around the whole room, and he killed every peasant! Merchants! And Weapon smiths! Shepherds! Farmers! Noblemen! Poor men! Rich men! Armorers! And he tore them apart, and at about three-thirty, Grendel left the room, with the floors still quite dirty.

Then he slunk to the mead hall. He took the Dane’s ale!He took all the roasts! Beast, boar, and quail! He cleaned out the mead hall, quick as a flash Why, that Grendel took all of their potato mash! Then he ran out the door with a smile so wide, “And tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll tan that king’s hide!” And he grabbed that old door, and he broke it in two Then he heard a small sound like a dove’s quiet coo.

He turned around fast, and he saw a small Dane, Little Unferth the Dane, who was quiet and sane. Grendel had been caught by this Danish barbarian, Who’d gotten up to get some new tables to carry in. He stared at Grendel and whispered “Why? Why are you covered in blood, Grendel, why?” But you know, old Grendel was so smart and so slick, He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick! “Why my great Danish warrior,” Grendel lied with a sneer, You had eaten the boar and all of the deer! So I caught a new boar, and I slaughtered it for you, So tomorrow, you’ll eat, and won’t have to feel blue.”

And his fib fooled the Dane, or so he thought, For the Dane didn’t fight him! No he did not! Then Unferth went back to his snug little bed, With dreams of great riches dancing around in his head The last thing he did, was he took the great mead-pot (Though he burned himself on it; it was still very hot.) And he left the great hall which the king called Heorot. And the one speck of food that he left in the hall, Was a crumb that, for a mouse, it was even too small. Then he did the same thing to the king’s other mead-houses, Leaving crumbs much too small for the king’s other small mouses!

It was a quarter to dawn, the Danes still fast asleep. All the Danes still a-bed while he stole all their sheep. He ran off with their mead! Their boar! Their hare! Their tables! Their door! All that was there! A thousand feet down! To the side of the lake, He ran to the edge with every last steak! “Goodbye to the Danes!” He was maniacally humming, “They’re finding out now that no party is coming! They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do! Their mouths will hang open a minute or two, Then the Danes down in Heorot will all cry BooHoo!"

“That’s a noise,” grinned Grendel, “I simply must hear!” So he paused, and Grendel put his hand to his ear. And he did hear a sound rising over the snow. It started in low. Then it started to grow. But the sound wasn't sad! Why, this sound sounded merry! It couldn't be so! But it WAS merry! VERY! He stared down at Heorot! Grendel popped his eyes! Then he shook! What he saw was a shocking surprise! Every Dane down in Heorot, the tall and the small, Was partying! Without any booze at all! He HADN'T stopped the party from coming! IT CAME! Somehow or other, it came just the same!

And then Grendel, with his Grendel-feet cold in the snow, Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so? It came without mead! It came without meat! It came without anything at all to eat! And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore. Then Grendel thought of something he hadn't before! "Maybe," he thought, "I should kill even more. Maybe partying… perhaps... won’t stop till I’m sore!"

And what happened then? Well...in Denmark they say, A great warrior, Beowulf, killed him that day! And the minute his heart stopped its malevolent beating, Beowulf and the Danes all started their eating. And he brought back the booze! And the food for the feast! And he, HE HIMSELF! Grendel WAS the roast beast!

#writing #writers #dr seuss #beowulf #poetry #poem #satire #overly sarcastic productions #parody

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twiststreet · 5 years

Text

I don’t think this is really a story about Tom King.

UPDATED HERE. SEE RESPONSE HERE.

I. TRAINED TO BE GHOSTS

So, the other day, DC Comics announced a new publishing initiative called DC Rebirth.

(The other day was 2016).

And when DC Rebirth was announced, DC also announced that the new writer of one of the Batman comics would be a fellow named Tom King.

What struck me as a little daffy at that time about the DC Rebirth hype was that it wasn't trumpeting King as a wordsmith with a track record of praised books under his belt. King had a respectable reputation at that point, books received with some polite applause, a critical mass that they could've focused on.

But instead of focusing on any of that, the announcement was instead that “King will be using his experience in counter-terrorism to bring new threats to Gotham.”

Counter-terrorism was the centerpiece for how King’s Batman work was promoted. For example, Newsarama published an article entitled "REBIRTH BATMAN Writer TOM KING On His Own 'Rebirth' From C.I.A. To Comic Books," where King explained that he was

"... supposed to go into law school and then 9/11 happened and I did this CIA thing. [...] I was big into counter-terrorism, loved going overseas and that’s a very good job and very rewarding, but I had a kid and to be really good at that job, you have to be around 15 hours a day. With the counter-terrorism you have to be able to go 24/7. So those were the options I was looking at."

The interviewer was awed by King's counter-terrorism credentials, asking some perfectly lovely questions like "Were you at headquarters in Langley" and "given your past as a C.I.A. operative, the stress level has to be somewhat lesser than that, right?"

In other words, rather than ask King about his plans for Batman, comic interviewers were asking him to judge the job of writing The Batman on a scale of 1 to CIA counter-terrorism.

This is “a thing”, now. I remember seeing a lot of fans excited about how Charles Soule was an Actual Lawyer. Fans similarly seemed overly-excited that Gerard Way was formerly in some ska band. Or if I understand recent comics news correctly, a lot of fans are thrilled that comic books about talking toads are being created by a Real Life Cryptofascist. Fans suddenly want comic creators to have impressive resumes outside of comics now-- perhaps a logical consequence of an era of aggressive comic creator self-branding.

And so King mentioned his CIA credentials often. It was part of his whole sales pitch to comic fans -- it was why he was qualified to write about their favorite heroes.

But as I was reading all this hype about how Tom King's past in the CIA had prepared him to write Batman comics, I found myself asking myself a pretty simple question:

Did I really believe that Tom King was an actual CIA agent?

II. RED LIGHT! GREEN LIGHT!

By 2016, I'd spent some time writing a kind of schlocky psuedo-commentary on comic news.

None of this writing was very impressive or interesting, according to Very Serious Comic Fans on the internet. If you missed it, you suffered no great loss. But I had wanted to explore the following premise: that maybe there was a toxic stew around the North American comic book industry of dishonesty, male insecurity, neediness, relentless careerism, selfishness, and silence, that (a) encouraged and excused bad conduct and (b) was therefore ultimately more significant in understanding why so many comics are terrible than anything one could learn reviewing some inconsequential issue of the Discourteous Avengers.

And it had turned out that there was plenty to write about. Constant sex scandals-- the grodiest kind, frequently overlooked by the same comics creators who lectured fans online day after day. Intellectual property theft, that comic creators happily participated in. People claiming they were at the vanguard of creator rights, who had ripped off their co-creators. Creepy "male allies" and other curious, charmless do-gooders.

Dumb scams. Lazy writing. Bad apologies.

It all grew very tiresome. I’d rather review some issue of the Discourteous Avengers now, please and thank you.

But did I believe Tom King was a CIA agent?

*Could* I believe that after what I'd written about?

...But of course, what did it matter what I believed?

Did it matter if I found it all a little odd, that some funny-book writer would super-casually volunteer that he had a history of being a CIA counter-terrorism agent just to sell Batman comics?

Of course, it didn’t matter.

After all, it's not like I could write a letter to the CIA, asking them if Tom King was a spook!

...

I'm not a Republic serial villain.

I wrote to the CIA nearly three years ago.

III. THE LIST IS IN THE OPEN

I prepared a letter, and I faxed it into the CIA. I did it for the only reason really worth doing anything-- I thought it'd make for a good goof for my prestigious tumblr blog. Here's my letter:

And perhaps you'll notice something in my letter-- something that I had noticed when researching the topic:

People do this!

People make up being in the CIA for personal benefit. And they don't just do it in small ways-- they go on FOX NEWS-- they lie big-- they lie that they're ex-CIA in spectacular ways, and at a spectacular cost. It's kooky, but this is a thing that happens.

It happens so often that it has its own name: "Stealing Valor."

And if this is a thing that happens, I guess that means you can't just take people at their word when they say they've been in the CIA. I guess...?

So, that evening, I sent my paranoid little letter off to the CIA. Then, I had dinner, and then I went to sleep, not expecting anything.

Heck, I probably forgot that I'd even sent it-- it was just a moment of tumblr-spurred mirth, after all. I had the notion that the CIA won't actually tell you who its Secret Agents are. If you've ever wondered if Tom King was fibbing about his CIA career, you probably didn't take that extra step of writing the CIA because (a) you have that same notion, that being a Secret Agent is, uh, a secret, and (b) unlike me, you tragically don't have a sufficiently prestigious tumblr blog that you needed goofs for.

But I needed that goof-fuel, darling.

I certainly didn't expect the CIA to write back!

...

Then, the CIA wrote back:

First, let me note that it's an extremely odd feeling to get a letter in the mail from the CIA. I always assumed the CIA didn't communicate with people by ordinary mail. Based on a lifetime of bad movies, I just assumed that if I ever spoke with the CIA, they'd have a man in a black trenchcoat meet me in a park. Or I’m brown, so maybe I assumed that I would meet with the CIA under more “caged” circumstances.

I never imagined the closest my life would come to a spy novel would be “I got a form letter about a Batman writer”.

You kind of do a little "am I on camera? Is this a Jamie Kennedy experiment?" move before opening an envelope that has “The CIA” on it, too, which is great fun. All in all, I recommend having the experience.

Also an “extremely odd feeling”?

"We do not have a record of the individual."

.... what?

But wait. Wait-- wait!

There had been news articles. News articles about how he was in the CIA! Actual journalists had looked at this-- not just schlocky commentariat that the Very Serious Comic Fans on the internet frowned upon. Real, entertainment journalists-- the kind that write recaps of TV shows!

Entertainment journalism-- that's a proper thing, right? Isn’t that a thing?

This was an e-mail exchange I had in April 2016 with a journalist for a general-audience internet publication-- not a writer for a comics-focused website. Let me type out the interesting bit, in case that’s a little fuzzy for you:

He and Geoff Johns mentioned that he’d worked for the CIA during the creators announcement at WonderCon. From that, I did an interview with Tom at the convention. It was a quick turnaround. All of it was taken at his word and supported by DC. There have been comic press articles in the past mentioning that background, though it wasn’t the main focus. If you have reasons to believe his claims aren’t true, I’d be interested in hearing.

Oh dear, "entertainment journalism" might not actually be a thing, you guys!

This was an e-mail to someone who had written an article with the word “CIA” literally in its headline, essentially asking me (a random person e-mailing them) if perhaps *I had any information* about whether Tom King was really in the CIA.

Is that how journalism is supposed to work? I suppose that I don’t know. What the hell do I know about journalism? I just know what you know-- that if you have lunch with Bari Weiss, apparently the thrilling taste of a shrimp salad sandwich and the pleasure of her company will somehow magically make you forget how completely noxious and toxic her contribution to public life is.

But maaaaaaybe, instead of “entertainment journalism,” all we really have are clickbait farms that are so desperate for "content" that they put a minimal effort into any kind of fact-checking, in order to more quickly churn out articles. In which case, we can't rely on any of the shit that gets published as actually having journalistic merit, as having been checked or double-checked, as having been vetted or verified-- especially when it comes to a "who really gives a shit?" industry like comics, since the point of the articles is just to generate clicks from a historically disrespected audience, not to challenge them.

And maaaaaaybe that's a situation getting infinitely worse since even talking about the wrong guy could get you sued, including where comics are concerned.

But wait, wait, wait, wait-- look, there's DC Comics. The entertainment journalist I had contacted said DC supported King’s story-- Geoff Johns himself had vouched for that story. It’s not like DC would do all that without checking-- right? It's not like DC Comics would allow one of its star writers to steal valor-- right???

Sure, we could say DC Comics has an imperfect history when it comes to "women" or "treating women like human beings" or "looking the other way for years and years after getting complaints that its employees mistreat women" or "hey they never fired any of the high-level executives who looked the other way for years and years while one of their editors preyed upon women, even though those high-level executives had thereby created an unwritten company policy to tolerate and thus ratify sexual misconduct, irreversibly damaging the culture around comics".

Heck, we'd all say that they’re terrible people enabled by cowards, where that topic is concerned. All of us. Every single one of us. No hesitation.

But who is saying that DC Comics has a history of not catching that one of its writers was lying about having served his country?

...Oh, except True Believers might remember: DC Comics tooooootally has a history of failing to catch that one of its writers had lied about having served his country!

Back in about 2004, there was a comic called Stormwatch, and the writer of that comic claimed to have liberated Panama while working for the Army Rangers. All of which was true, except (whoopsie-doozy!) for the part about a comic book writer having liberated Panama while working for the Army Rangers, because duuuuuhhhh of course that wasn't true-- were you dopers all stoned on grass??? He was some frumpy comic nerd; that was obvious bullshit; he got caught (though not by DC, who did not give a shit, not enough to check); it was remarkably embarrassing.

But this is completely different than that.

This isn't some comic guy ridiculously claiming to have liberated Panama while being an Army Ranger.

This is a comic guy claiming to have liberated Iraq while being a CIA Counter-terrorism agent.

Completely different!

But wait a second, Tom King also wrote for Marvel Comics. And it's not like Marvel comics has a history of letting writers lie about who they are...

...except for when Marvel's editor-in-chief lied about who he was, when bizarrely impersonating an Asian man, astonishingly without there being any real consequence for having done that, whatsoever.

So...

...

... what?

IV. RELAX YOUR CRACK, FOGHORN

Anyways, after I got this letter from the CIA, nearly three year passed.

(Let's just say if your question as you read this is "why didn't you do better comics journalism", the very most I am able to answer that question at the moment is to just wave my hand vaguely at those three years and then kind of shrug confusedly. The reasons for that will presently have to remain as secret as the truth about the CIA’s contact with UFO’s).

Three years is enough time to take a deep breath.

Is this letter I received from the CIA three years ago evidence of... anything, really?

The answer is obviously no.

After all, the CIA also checked a box that says "A release was not provided from the individual. Please provide his/her authorization and resubmit the request."

Because my letter didn't attach some kind of release from Tom King authorizing the release of his personal information, perhaps the CIA was not in a position to really answer my question. Maybe they have to say they don’t know an employee if the employee hasn’t provided a release. Who knows? I don't know how the CIA works. What do I know about the CIA??? I just know what you know-- that George HW Bush had them invent AIDS.

Obviously, some form letter plus me fussing about comics history are alone not sufficient evidence to conclude anything. Not really.

Or when the CIA suggests that it doesn’t know anyone named “Tom King” -- heck, maybe he didn't use the name Tom King while he worked for the CIA. Maybe he had a cool spy name, like spies have in the James Bond movies. Maybe the CIA knows Tom King only by his Official Spy Name of Patty Myvagina or Vani LlaNipples. Or maybe Tom King is just his pen name, and his real name is Tommy Godemperor-- maybe Tom King is his more humble pen name.

Or maybe the CIA forgot who Tom King was-- maybe the CIA was just really hammered while he worked for them. Bitch, you don't know the CIA's life-- you don't get to judge us!

Or after that Stormwatch fracas, maybe DC Comics actually learned a lesson and put in place some kind of system (any kind!) to make sure none of its writers were possibly engaged in stealing valor before supporting and vouching for their service, rather than just trusting in the “moral character of comic book writers.” Maybe that's a no-brainer that they should have such a policy given their history of dealing with some rather scummy-sounding individuals. And therefore, maybe it'd be extremely unusual if they were unable to answer (a) whether such a policy existed or (b) how Tom King's claims about being in the CIA were checked on by them (if at all). Maybe that’s what this story would actually be about, in an ideal world!

(Put me down as being hypothetically curious about that, if anybody wants to ask, as I would sure expect that DC would be extremely cooperative with promptly answering such reasonable questions!)

If you stop and think, there's a million reasons why some CIA form letter is potentially meaningless-- a million ways I could be made to look offensively stupid, in short order. Pay stubs! Medals and certificates! Employee ID! Friends from the service! Or maybe the CIA already has said something contrary to their form letter, that I somehow missed, or Tom King put some evidence out already that I’m blissfully unaware of. All in all, Tom King and/or his super-fans can most probably make me look very small and very foolish, very easily.

So am I saying you should not believe Tom King’s story or “official” biography? No, I am unable to say that, and am definitively not saying that, at this time. You are urged to continue to believe whatever it is you may have believed heretofore.

(Based upon the foregoing, and in order to make the foregoing again 100% clear, here is a little DISCLAIMER, affirming that I am neither stating nor implying that I have any substantive knowledge of any unique kind as to Tom King's affiliations with the CIA or the veracity of his representations relating thereto, or DC Comics's actions with respect to that subject, or the knowledge of any party in relation therewith. At best, I am offering only mere opinions on this topic (which I understand to be a matter of public interest) and in fact, my ultimate opinion on this topic is that any documents attached hereto are unreliable. Such documents and opinions are presented herein purely for entertainment purposes, and not to be relied on beyond the purposes presented herein, within these United States or elsewhere, from now until the end of time. I am further adding that though I have quite disliked the one or two Tom King comics I have read at present date and may have said so in an animated fashion for entertainment purposes, I have no personal malice towards Mr. King and in fact, wish him the best, in all of his future endeavors. Nothing contained herein shall be deemed as a waiver of any of my rights at law or in equity, all of which are hereby expressly reserved).

V. A RADAR TOWER IN ALASKA

And so once this gets properly snope-d, (*if* that should happen... shrugs confusedly), it’s more likely than not that

the CIA's form letter will be proven to be an innocent mix-up;

my suspicions will be proven paranoid, disgraceful, dull;

DC will be happy to explain all the things they did to properly investigate Tom King's claims before vouching for them in the media;

I'll somehow be made to look even more buffoonish than ever before-- which is no small feat.

It will be a great day for everybody -- except terrorists, who would have to continue to fear the writer of The Batman, day and night.

(And I guess I'll have made an enemy of a counter-terrorism specialist-- Jack Bauer might take a break writing about the Penguin to set up a perimeter around my one-bedroom apartment. That might suck, but wheeeee, life's an adventure!)

But regardless of what happens next, regardless of what embarrassment may be coming my way, I will say this: watching Tom King for the last three years, and getting to ask "But What if He Weren't" has been delightful. Just getting to ask that question has been a gift.

“There used to be a bounty on my head from the fucking Taliban-- I can deal with a few Twitter followers.”

These quotes have been weirdly entertaining for me, in a very dark kind of way, difficult to verbalize. I've gotten to see these (possibly innocuous) statements as fun clues to a Mystery that other people weren't even trying to solve. Does this sound like a real-life CIA Agent to the rest of you?? How am I the only person going “W-w-wait a second” here??? But maybe that is what a CIA agent sounds like-- probably that’s what we ultimately learn from all this! After everything, why would I expect the Deep State would sound any better than that??? Wheee!

It has been a singular experience for which I am enormously grateful to the CIA and Mr. King. It’s been a real crack-up.

The part that I actually keeping coming back to, though, the part that's been the most interesting part for me hasn't been what job some guy had before writing Batman. No, the part I keep coming back to is the part we started at:

Why do comic fans want Batman to be written by a CIA agent?

Why is that a selling point?

"What does it take to be good at writing? Oh, a career in counter-terrorism." -- Charles Dickens.

Wait, wait, he never said that because that's not a thing people go around saying!

And yet comic fans seem to believe it. Why?

Counter-terrorism experience has very little to do with the job of crafting characters, believable dialogue, solid plotting, interesting page layouts, etc. I don’t read his comics, but I’m not sure I understand how dreaming up “What if Batman got engaged to Catwoman?” ever necessarily required a jaunt to Mahmoudiyah, how one informs the other. It just seems to be a non-sequitur.

During those same nearly-three years, some left-leaning guy was fired from writing GI Joe, allegedly because he clumsily expressed some (very dumb sounding) 9/11 sentiment online (though IDW disputed that). And Marvel Comics during that same time tried to publish a team-up comic with military contractor Northrup Grumman, that it had to cancel after a backlash.

Maybe for comics fans, having a leftist write G.I. Joe wasn't America enough, the Northrup Grumman comic book was too-America in ways that it's uncomfortable to think about, while the guy who writes Batman being a CTU agent is just America-enough, in some kind of psycho Goldilocks scenario.

I subscribe to a certain level of "Support the Troops", at least as I define that phrase for myself. I don't know how positively I feel about the CIA's history generally or in Iraq specifically (some of that torture stuff sounded pretty uncool!)-- I don’t know what I make of our foreign policies generally. But I had a Midwestern upbringing and as such, I suppose that I do believe to some extent in certain old-fashioned ideas about sacrifice and there being a respect owed that. At least, I had a friend who didn’t quite survive Iraq, not really, so I feel a certain way about that. And perhaps that’s a feeling or an experience shared by many comics fans.

But my gut's saying that's not the whole story, though, about why fans would get so turned on by the idea of a CIA Batman writer.

Comics-- you pick up sometimes on a lot of messy relationships with the concept of masculinity. People might not remember, but comics used to have these utterly grotesque message boards where comic people would yell "LOOK AT ME, I LOVE WHISKEY" at each other, night after night, role-playing He-Man at each other. And it certainly bleeds into the contents-- it's a lot of characters solving problems through fight scenes; a lot of orphans who never knew their dads because OH EXQUISITE PAIN; a lot of women who have to die because they don't understand how hard it is to Man. Ahhhh, to Man-- so difficult!

You pick up on this being a hobby particularly beloved by people with damaged relationships with their father figures.

Maybe a story about the writer of Batman being a CIA agent gives those fans some feeling of being macho-adjacent, that fills some hole for them, that satisfies some fantasy, for reasons maybe too dark to really talk about much.

VI. THIS TAPE WILL SELF-DESTRUCT

But I don’t think this is really a story about Tom King.

When you look at the whole structure of things, when you look at How the World Is, with comics, with anything...

How much do you see a system that can be easily gamed?

Put another way: do you believe you live in a world where people have it in them to be dishonest? Do you live in an ecosystem that gives people a motive to lie?

And if so, do you believe you live in a world where our systems work, and our institutions work, a world where dishonest people will be caught and not allowed to promulgate falsehoods without being stopped? Do you believe you live in a world with journalism in it and not just hot takes? Do you believe you live in a world where anyone's checking the hype, besides creeps on tumblr who Very Serious Comic Fans all gave up on eons ago?

Do you believe you live in a world where the truth matters to anyone?

And if not, if your answer to any of these questions is no, then who do you trust? Who can you trust if you fear that you live in a world where dishonesty is a winning strategy? Why trust anyone? Why trust anything?

I'm not a comics journalist (generally)-- comics journalism probably just gets you sued. And to the extent I might have liked for actual "comics journalism" to have been done here, (waves hands at three years and shrugs confusedly).

But maybe we can both at least marvel at what's possible, how much might be possible, in these confused times, among these sometimes-troubling people. All the bizarre and uncanny possibilities, in this strange place where we hope we are awake.

UPDATED HERE. SEE RESPONSE HERE.

#Worst Hobby or Worstest Hobby?#Nerd Business.

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