#all she can do is posthumously give her peace by murdering her murderer. but would Clara want that?

[sheilaerinniperonista]

it was a small passing comment in the story but when its mentioned Sheila saw her dog get beaten to death when she was a kid and it made her feel like humankind was just like that (+ her sister's murder afterwards cementing that worldview)... augh.

#fugo.txt #like. idk i feel like im repeating myself but i cant stress this shit enough man. she was just a little girl #she was like 10 #damn. #and like by that point she had already very much gone thru a lot of death. her parents were gone and the only family she had was her sister #and the only friend she had was her dog. #and then they both died. and she saw them die. right after the other. and then she was completely alone #idk looking at it thru that lense its not surprising at all that she decided to do all that. she was grieving and she didn't have anyone- #-to guide her in that. and the only logical progression she could fathom is that whoever killed her sister should suffer the same. #and deep down she knows she's doing this for herself because she doesn't KNOW what else to do. and she feels guilty. what would clara even- #think of her? and even if she's all oh illuso is dead and he suffered. so she can rest easy. you can SEE she never got any closure at all. #thats why she froze up when fighting against kocaqi. his sister also died right in front of him. but he did what she couldnt do #he gave her peace of mind. he gave her a dignified death. she died happy. clara didnt. and sheila can NEVER give that to her #all she can do is posthumously give her peace by murdering her murderer. but would Clara want that? #ugh man. its 2:30 am i should be sleeping i have a class to retake at 11:50 #but. man.. #please take the time to think of her tjis december

[that-house]

Viego Rant (villainy and character design and tragedy and all that jazz)

Introduction The more I think about Viego, League of Legends’ newest character, the more enamored I am with him as a villain (unrelated to his general sexiness, though that does tie in with what makes him such a good villain).

I’ve seen a lot of complaints about his design. The Ruined King, one of the greatest threats in Runeterra, the progenitor of the Shadow Isles, the lord of the undead, is finally released as a playable champion and he looks like this:

People were expecting another Mordekaiser (who is similarly an undead king with a ghost army), a lich-tyrant clad in iron, decayed flesh peeling from an aged face. What we got was an angsty anime prettyboy, and it was infinitely better than the alternatives. 

Lore Viego isn’t a conquering king. While his combat abilities are indeed badass, his personality is far from it. He’s a whiny brat and that’s incredible. He isn’t bent on world domination. His character arc revolves around just how human, how fallible he really is. For those unfamiliar with his lore, I’ll paraphrase it here:

Viego was the second son of a great king. Overshadowed by his brother and with no expectations upon him and near-limitless wealth, he wandered around being an idiot fuckboy for the vast majority of his formative years. Disaster struck when his brother died in an accident, and Viego took the throne with no training, no experience, and no desire to be king. He was a shitty king. The worst king. Just all-around apathetic. Gave zero shits. Can you blame him? It’s a lot of responsibility to be thrust upon someone who isn’t much more than a child, and with no preparation. He didn’t care about anything, that is, until he met Isolde. She was a poor seamstress, but he fell in love with her upon their first meeting. Together they ruled the country but it was really just them staring longingly into each others’ eyes. His allies were kinda fucking pissed about that, and one day an assassin came from Viego. The assassin fucked up and stabbed Isolde instead, and the poison on the blade made her fall gravely ill. As she lay in her bed, slowly dying, Viego went mad seeking a cure. He ravaged the land seeking any knowledge that might help, pouring all of his money into finding an antidote. He failed. As a last resort, he brought Isolde’s body to the Blessed Isles, a place rumored to be able to resurrect the dead. It worked, to an extent. Isolde’s wraith, confused, afraid, and angry at being ripped from the peace of death, unthinkingly stabbed Viego in the chest with his own magic sword, creating basically a magic nuke that turned the Blessed Isles into the domain of the undead. Viego resurrected as the king of the Shadow Isles some time later, having totally forgotten that Isolde killed him. He controls a big-ass ghost army, could probably beat up any living thing in a fight, and has evil ghost magic. Now this stupid simp wants his wife back and if he has to kill every living thing on Runeterra, well, anything for his queen. He’s even a tier 3 sub to her Twitch.

Music His musical theme isn’t some heavy metal anthem or intense cinematic piece (unlike the Pentakill song named after his sword, Blade of the Ruined King). It’s mostly sad and slow, almost sinister, with a piano and a music box. It has its loud moments featuring violins and choral bits like any villainous music, but the song is mostly subtle. It is a banger though.

In the comments section of this video, someone pointed out that the music reflects his story from beginning to end:

Everything about this champion is so well done. Riot Games really outdid themselves on this one. Bravo, encore please.

Motivation While the Mordekaiser circlejerkers on r/LeagueofLegends won’t shut the fuck up about how powerful Mordekaiser is, Viego is the better villain. Mordekaiser may be a bigger threat to all life on Runeterra, but Viego is a better character. (There’s a guy on my League discord server who won’t shut up about Mordekaiser so forgive me for being pissed at Morde stans).

Mordekaiser is motivated by a desire for control, to rule the world. Viego is motivated by obsession and misplaced love. There aren’t a lot of Mordekaisers on Earth. Supervillains are rare in real life. But Viego’s motivations are a lot closer to home. People in positions of power that they don’t deserve can do a lot of harm (for example: Trump).

He’s a grieving husband who was never prepared to deal with anything more difficult than choosing what wine to drink with dinner, who is trying to get his wife back because the world had always complied to his every whim. He’s a funky mix between a truly hopeless romantic and a spoiled brat throwing a temper tantrum.

Obsession is scary. It’s a real-world emotional state that’s been the cause of a lot of murders over mankind’s history. In contrast, Mordekaiser’s cartoonish Genghis Khan XXL schtick isn’t something that we encounter often. Of course a superpowered ultradictator would be worse for the world, but if you give ultimate power to a random person, you’re more likely to get someone like Tighten from Megamind. Or, more relevantly, Viego.

Design His design is sexy and stupid, just like him. He wears an open shirt into battle and wields his sword like an idiot (I’ve seen all the rants about how that’s not how that sword is meant to be used) because he was never really a warrior. Even at his most violent, right before the end of his mortal life, he didn’t do much combat himself, leaving his military endeavors to his underlings. Even now that he’s essentially a god, he still has a colossal wraith army that causes far more devastation than he ever could personally.

Despite his slim build (by League of Legends standards), he easily wields his colossal sword because of the strength of his state of undeath. Like his political power when he was alive, his posthumous magical and physical powers were never something he sought out, they were just given to him by circumstance.

The big cool-ass triangle hole in his chest where Isolde stabbed him is the source of the Black Mist, which is evil ghost mist that ebbs and flows from the Shadow Isles, bringing with it hordes of the undead. The sadder Viego is, the more Mist he creates. Poetically, his invasion of the world is inspired by his sorrow at his wife’s death and enabled by his wife’s reluctance to return to him. His story is perfectly reflected by his design.

Isolde Isolde’s spirit took up residence inside a young Senna (who’s another League champion, not particularly important here). This led to some Black Mist-related shenanigans and at least for the time being, Senna uses Isolde’s power to fight off the servants of Viego which threaten all life on Runeterra.

It seems pretty clear that whatever love Isolde felt for Viego is gone by now. Whether or not she ever loved him or was just unable to say no to the king is up for debate, but I’d like to believe there was something there. In my opinion, Viego’s story hits harder if they really were a great couple at first, torn apart by circumstance and obsession.

Much like the Maiden of the Woods in that one comic that circulates around here, to whom the knight gave his heart and she was like “yo what the fuck i literally never asked you to do this,” Viego went a little too far in trying to save her. They may have once been happy, but the Ruined King ruined his own life, too.

Unless Isolde is a lot less morally decent than we’ve been led to believe, I doubt she can forgive all the massacring that her husband’s been doing lately. In the recent cinematic, she was shown to be pretty anti-Viego. Maybe she’ll get a bastardization arc, but it certainly seems unlikely.

All of Season 2021 is based around Viego, Isolde, and the Shadow Isles, so we’ll just have to see what comes next. It’s possible that we’ll get Isolde as a playable champion, which should clear a lot of things up.

Final Thoughts Unlike so many villains, he’s not fueled by rage or hatred, but rather by sorrow. He’s stuck in his past, unable to move on. He regrets the actions of his life but is set on his course now. The sunk-cost fallacy comes into play here; he’s put so much time and effort and blood into bringing back Isolde, that turning away from it would feel to him like an insult, not only to her but to the innocent lives he’s taken in her name.

His tale is a tragedy, a love story gone horrifically wrong. Viego has suffered throughout his thousand-year life. Despite this, he’s undoubtedly the villain. His permanent death would be a net positive for the world. In has rage and grief he’s destroyed multiple civilizations, and will burn down the world to get Isolde back.

His heart may be in the wrong place, but it’s in a very human place. I don’t think he’ll get the ending he’s looking for, but I hope he finds some closure in the end.

#League of Legends #viego #i swear no one's gonna read this #even if you dont care about League i tried to make this interesting #even if you don't like League as a game the lore is pretty fucking solid

[minervacasterly]

MARGARET TUDOR: The Queen Who Thrust Herself into the Political Chessboard

The Spanish Princess is showing Margaret in a broader light than other historical dramas where she is distorted and merged with her younger sister, shown for a brief period of time or is practically non-existent. Margaret’s life was a never ending roller coaster. Unlike what was shown in the first episodes of part 2 of TSP, the real Margaret never broke decorum. She certainly would have never disrespected her husband in front of his lords. However, she did have a strong will and was determined (at all costs) to protect her young.In hindsight, she could have chosen for a better husband – or a better route – to keep her regency or, share power with her surviving son’s distant Stewart cousin.

Her marital problems aside, including her son’s mandate to remain married to her third husband (in spite of his betrayal), the last four years of her life, were spent in safe retreat. She wasn’t actively involved in government, since her son was now of age. But she was nevertheless happy to be there by her son’s side, should he need her advice.

Although Margaret’s death is a stark contrast to the two most controversial of Henry VIII’s queens, his first two wives, Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn; her end by no means was her beginning. Today, mourners can visit the tomb of Katherine of Aragon. Though not a saint, she has become a cult figure. The same goes for Anne Boleyn, who’s treated as the equivalent of the Virgin Mary for bearing the golden savior of England, Queen Elizabeth I. Every year, hundreds of visitors pay their respects to these women’s tombs. One of the most popular tourists spots for Tudor history buffs is Hever Castle, St. Peterborough Cathedral, and Hampton Court Palace. The first is the Boleyn homestead, where Anne, her sister Mary and brother George grew up. The second is the place where Katherine is buried. And the last is Henry VIII’s majestic palace.

Although at the time of their deaths, it was almost taboo to say a good word about Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn – not to mention that since their marriages had been annulled before their deaths, they didn’t receive burials befitting their stations. Yet, as time went on, their popularity grew. This reverence didn’t reach Margaret Tudor. Death for her was truly the end of her journey. Margaret deserves equal admiration as all of Henry VIII’s wives and her younger sister. She was a woman with a will of iron who lived through many tragedies and survived many intrigues – including those of her own doing when these didn’t go as planned. Her last demands indicate that she wished that the last of the bad blood that existed between the King and her second husband, the Earl of Angus would be over. She also asked that her possessions be handed over to her daughter, Lady Margaret Douglas. She never got an answer. She died at Methven Castle on the 18th of October 1541. She was buried at the Carthusian Charterhouse in Perth in Central Scotland. Ironically, despite having enjoyed a good relationship with her son James V and his second wife, Mary of Guise; her son didn’t fulfill her wishes. He chose instead to appropriate himself of all his belongings.

As the religious wars continued to divide Western Europe, Calvinists in Scotland decided to give the biggest middle finger to the Catholic faction by desecrating the tombs of past kings and queens, and saints. Just like their predecessors, over a thousand years before when they burned pagan sites, or their Catholic enemies who burned Maya and other precious historical jewels in the “New World”, in 1559 Calvinists, professing the true faith, opened Margaret’s tomb, destroyed her burial site and burned her body until there was nothing left.

Was it fair? 

No. 

It’s history. It can’t be rewritten or undone. Only reflected upon.  Margaret’s descendants still sit on the English throne. The first Stuart King to sit on the English throne descended from both her children, James V and Lady Margaret Douglas. James VI of Scotland became the I of England and Ireland in March 1603 after Queen Elizabeth I died and her privy councilors chose him as their next ruler. This was in direct violation to her brother, Henry VIII’s instructions which stated that if neither of his offspring, Edward VI, Mary I and Elizabeth I had any legal issue of their own then the next in line would be the heirs of Mary Tudor, Queen Dowager of France and Duchess of Suffolk (Margaret’s younger sister) and Charles Brandon. But at this time, Elizabeth had long shown that she did not care for wills and naming heirs, so it was up to the politicians to name who’d suit them best. While Margaret is a rising star in historical fiction and romance novels, she still remains obscure. She’s largely seen as a side-character or an auxiliary figure when her actions show that she was much more than that. Prior to Flodden, Margaret tried to convince her husband not to ride to Flodden based on a dream where she saw he was murdered. After his death, Katherine of Aragon, feeling genuine sympathy for her sister-in-law, sought to reestablish a peace between their adoptive countries. Margaret was not just a widow but Scotland’s Regent. Ruling in their son and husband’s names respectively, Margaret and Katherine started to work together to seek a resolution. Unfortunately, Henry VIII had other plans. It’s not known how Margaret felt about Katherine following the death of her first husband, or when she and Angus sought asylum in England after their failed coup against John Stewart, the Duke of Albany (who’d been chosen to replace her as her son’s regent). There are no letters that express any ill will between the two women. Yet, her actions speak of a possible resentment. In Alison Weir’s biography of her daughter, Lady Margaret Douglas, The Lost Tudor Princess, she points out that while her youngest sister remained a fervent supporter of Katherine until her death, Margaret chose to side with Anne Boleyn. Margaret’s daughter was in England under her uncle’s care. Though a good friend of Princess Mary, her livelihood was in her uncle’s hands. Margaret probably thought that if she sided with Katherine, Henry VIII would take it out on his niece. Or it could be a case, where with her daughter’s welfare and future in mind, Margaret still felt a little resentment over what happened at Flodden. Either way, Margaret worked endlessly to be the mediator she could not be during the events leading up to Flodden. Like her mother, she possessed a silent strength that is often ignored when studying women of these period. The modern proverb of “silent women don’t make history” isn’t only wrong, it’s a narrow view of history. All kinds of women make history. Sometimes actions speak louder than words. Margaret Tudor’s life is a clear example of that.

Sources:

Fatal Rivalry: Flodden, 1513: Henry VIII and James IV and the Decisive Battle for Renaissance Britain

Tudors vs Stewarts: The Fatal Inheritance of Mary, Queen of Scots by Linda Porter

Tudor. Passion. Murder. Manipulation: The Story of England’s Most Notorious Royal Family by Leanda de Lisle

The Lost Tudor Princess: The Life of Lady Margaret Douglas by Alison Weir

Game of Queens by Sarah Gristwood

Images: Georgie Henley as Queen Margaret Tudor of Scotland in The Spanish Princess Part 2; posthumous sketch of Margaret Tudor, and Methven Castle where Margaret Tudor died.

#Margaret Tudor #The Spanish Princess #History #Scotland #England #Flodden #dailytudors

[datenightfright]

Infamous

This story is dedicated to Oiwa. Thank you for allowing me to share your story, may you one day find peace.

Previous/Next

Pairing: Kayako Saeki x WOC Reader

Warnings: Mentions of blood, stabbing. 

As always, thank you to @mlmdarkfiction and @doodleferp for letting me rant until I figure things out and giving me the best ideas to work with. Your help is indispensable. 

Things were strange nowadays. Somehow, someway, you had become more famous than your husband. When the news of your husband’s strange death hit the media, news crews were outside of your house immediately to bombard you with questions. Did you think it was the work of Kayako? Would his new book be published posthumously? Did you notice anything strange about the house? Did you have any idea who murdered Haru? You did what the police advised you to do. You made a blanket statement to the media at a press conference stating that you hoped your husband’s killer felt remorse and that they would come forward soon, and that you hoped, with time, you’d be able to find happiness once more. You even managed to sound perfectly broken up about the whole matter. 

Some people said you were the one that had done it. Well not, physically, but you’d hired a jealous lover to off him. Thankfully those people were in the minority. The prevailing theory that was some crazy fan had felt slighted by him and decided to end his life the moment he stepped foot outside his house. The theory among his fans though...that was closer to the truth than you’d like to admit. They were adamant that the house had killed him. That the ghost of Kayako had offed him and chucked him out a window. The hole in that theory, however, was why you and your daughter still lived. Didn’t Kayako kill everyone that entered her house?

When you’d told his mother over the phone, the normally stern, composed woman became a wreck of lamentations for her lost son. You helped you father-in-law arrange the funeral, as was your duty, and decided to hold the viewing in their home, since yours had such awful rumors hanging about it. The funeral had been a quick one, but tiring nonetheless. 

Now you were alone in your house, letters and presents from fans stacked about the place, wondering what the hell you were going to do with your life. You had to get a job. Being able to feed yourself and your daughter was of the utmost importance to you. Luckily, it wasn’t such a pressing matter, as Haru left everything he had to you, which was a sizable amount of money, and being his widow meant you got all the royalties from his book. But still, that money would dry up eventually, then where would you be? 

You hum and splash warm water over your daughter. She giggles as you do so. “Clean baby!” You coo, rinsing the soapy water from her feet. “I have a clean baby!” When you’re finished, you pick her up and bring her to your chest, despite her soaked state. She giggles as you place kisses to her cheek. You turn to gather the towel, managing not to yelp when you find Kayako standing directly behind you, towel already in hand. 

You ignore what looks like Kayako wanting to hold your baby, and instead simply take the towel from her. “Thank you,” You say, wrapping your baby up. “Clean baby,” You start to sing again, “I have a clean baby.” You shuffle past Kayako, holding your baby close as you go. 

You continue to sing as you dry Sakura off, dress her, and feed her. Today was going to be a big day. Today you were going to meet with someone that might be able to help you with your problem. You might be able to rid yourself of Kayako once and for all. If not for your sanity, then for the sake of your daughter’s ability to lead a normal life. 

You feel her presence as you put on your shoes. She was always there at the door when you put on your shoes. Her death rattle soon to follow. This time, she grabbed your arm, startling the hell out of you. She was cold, so damnably cold. You look into her eyes. Normally they’re empty pits of black, but now they look...panicked almost. “I’ll be back,” You find yourself saying. “I don’t know when, but I’ll be back.” You give her a shaky smile. She seems to find that an acceptable answer as she lets go of your arm after a moment’s hesitation. Without another word, you slip out the door. 

You try not to rush out of the shadows of the house, but you couldn’t help it. All the time you could get outside of that damnable place was a moment of fresh air and sunshine. Gloom hung eternal around the home, and god dammit you needed to breathe every once in a while. You turn on to the main road, feeling yourself relax more the further away from the house you got. 

You make it to your mother-in-laws house with little problem. Parking on the side of the street, you get out and gather your baby. Before you shut the back door, your mother-in-law is rushing down the drive to greet you. She pulls you into a hug before taking Sakura from your arms. Ever since Haru died she’d been more...tolerable of your presence, sometimes going overboard with affection. It was still awkward for the both of you, but neither of you said anything about it. Perhaps it was because you were the mother of her last connection with her baby boy and she understood that you could take all that away from her. Ironic, really. 

You hurry up the drive behind her as she babbles to the baby about how much fun they were going to have. You both stop in the doorway, you huffing at your slight exertion, and your mother-in-law giving you that infuriating expectant look. Some things never changed. “Here,” You say, shoving the baby bag to her chest, not caring how rude it was. She didn’t have Haru to bitch at any more, thus, you didn’t have a care in the world. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” You say, giving your baby a quick kiss. “You be good for Grandma ok?” You say as she giggles. 

Waving bye to her you enter your car once again, you blow kisses before your line of sight is cut off by a closed door. You were silently thankful for your mother-in-law, even if you still didn’t like her. One night to get this shit figured out, one afternoon meeting. You were hellbent on riding yourself of this curse, or die trying. A momentary skip of your heartbeat as you thought of your baby. Would she go down with you? If you played your cards right, Sakura would at the very least be safe from the curse. 

You try to speed your way to your destination, but find yourself lost in the maze that is Japan. Looking over and over at your list of directions, you were lucky enough to park with more than enough time to make it to your meeting. 

You fix yourself as you hurry towards the building. Professor Ibuki Sato had agreed to meet with you to discuss your current circumstances. Well, alright, he hadn’t agreed to meet you, more like begged. He was a professor of the paranormal at a community college and had been one of your late husband’s most ardent fans. He emailed you days ago, wanting to know what really happened. You didn’t trust him one bit, so you were going to monitor your story as much as you saw fit and gauge his reaction from there. You only wanted help for one thing, and you were going to go to hell and back to get it. 

You easily find your way to the professor’s room. You knock lightly, trying to adjust your outfit again. You couldn’t understand why you were so nervous. The door opens and one girl comes out, looking bored and irritated. There was an aura around her that reminded you of the house. It was so strong, you had to take a few steps back. She looks at you curiously, but says nothing as she walks away. You watch her as she leaves. 

“Mrs. Kubo!” A loud voice interrupts your rude staring. A disheveled man looks brightly at you. “Come in!” He says, holding the door wide open for you. “Thank you,” You mutter, bowing to him and hurrying in. 

“Please, have a seat.” he motions to a chair. You sit, sinking right into its squishiness. It would be comfortable if not for the fact that you were so nervous. Professor Sato sits across from you, a smile flitting across his face. It wasn’t a perverted one at the very least, just a bit awkward. “I’m so sorry about your husband,” he says. You nod, making a non committal noise. “He was a pioneer in the field,” Sato said awkwardly, “I mean he, he-”

“Can we cut to the chase?” You ask gently. The professor looks relieved. “Is the house really haunted?” He asks. “Yes,” You simply say. “But it’s weird.”

“Weird? How? Haven’t you lived in haunted places before.” You snort. “None of them were haunted.” You tell him. Shaking your head, “Not like this anyway. Kayako…” You pause trying to find the right words. “It’s been three months,” You say, exasperated. “Three months and she’s done nothing more than jump scare me by standing behind me when I least expect it.” Sato frowns at your explanation. “She cooks breakfast most mornings, and dinner, she does the dishes. She’s even done the laundry once. She’s always hovering like...like she’s waiting to help or something.” You continue to ramble for nearly ten minutes about all the things she did. Making the bed, arranging shoes neatly by the door, even putting papers in neat, organized piles. Sato listened without interrupting. 

“It sounds like she’s in love,” He says blandly. The statement shocks you so bad you physically jump. “Excuse me?” 

“Think about it,” Sato says, “Making food, cleaning up around the house, it all sounds like she’s trying to take care of someone she’s in love with.” Your brow furrows, your brain somehow not able to puzzle it out. “Who the hell could she possibly be in love with?” You mutter. Your husband was dead, and the last man she was married to killed her so violently she still haunted the mortal realm. Sato looked at you, highly amused. “You,” He says through a chuckle. “That’s absolute bullshit.” You deadpan. This causes him to throw his head back with laughter. “Is it?” 

“Yes!” You say, standing up in indignation, “It is! There’s no way in hell she’s in love with me. She’s dead!” 

“In Japan, the dead are thought to be born from high emotions, to feed off them. Hatred and rage are two of the most powerful, but so is love.” Sato explains, “Here, I want to show you something.” Sato moves towards his desk and you follow him. He brings out a journal and hands it to you. “It’s Kayako’s journal,” He says, pride obvious in his voice. You don’t even want to begin to think about how he’d gotten it. 

You take the journal but don’t open it. “Well?” Sato says, obviously excited. You grimace. “I don’t think it’s right,” You say, putting the book on the desk. Sato looks at you with confusion. “You said it yourself, she’s dead.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to live with her ghost.” you mutter. Sato nods in acquiescence. “The journal describes her life from the time she was eight years old to the moment of her death.” Sato explains, taking to book up again. “It serves as the counterpoint that tipped the balance in her disfavor. It seems as though she was obsessed with someone during her lifetime.”

“Obsessed?” You murmur. Sato nods. “She followed him everywhere. Watched him. His name is written all over the pages of her book.” He holds the object in question in the air. “It’s possible that, by some miracle, her curse has changed from vengeance, to one of unrequited love.”

“You’re damn right it’s unrequited! I want her out of my life! She makes me miserable, I don’t-” You stop, gaining control of yourself. “I don’t want my baby to grow up in that damned place,I want her to survive this stupid curse. But I don’t have many options.” 

Sato presses his lips together. “I’ll have to do some research.” He tells you honestly. “Can I give you a call?” You huff, running your hands through your hair in frustration. “Fine,” You say, “Fine. You know how to get in touch with me.” You turn on your heel to leave but pause. A familiar flash of black moves across a picture frame. Kayako. Shit. She heard everything, of that, you were sure. 

*

You lived in fear. Any day now Kayako would extract her extreme revenge, you just knew it. You wince at a creak sounding off somewhere in the house. Yes, any moment now Kayako was going to come out of hiding and end your life. 

You huff and roll over, hoping she would just do it already. The suspense was making you a nervous wreck. Another creak, another wince. Was it windy outside you wonder? The house is usually as silent as a tomb. Perks of it being haunted you guessed. You groan and flop over on your back. You were getting nowhere. “Kayako?” You called out, for the zillionth time. And for the zillionth time no response. 

Two weeks, it had been two weeks since your fight with Kayako. If you could even call it a fight. After your meeting with Sato, you’d come home to a completely wrecked house. Furniture upturned, papers everywhere, pictures on the walls hung askew. You had tried calling for her, and at first, she hadn’t come out. Not until you reached the master bedroom where she had scared the living daylights out of you. 

You had yelled at her. Fear had given you the push you needed to voice your opinion. She scared you, and no one could really blame you. She was known for her merciless killings. She was toying with you, and you hated that. You wished she would just get it all over with. But spare you baby, please God spare your baby. With your confessions hanging in the air, she disappeared. You hadn’t seen her since, despite trying to get in touch with her. 

Sato seemed unreachable as well. Phones in the house didn’t work, whether it was because of Kayako, you didn’t know. But your computer worked just fine. You’d send him several emails, wondering if he got anywhere, but no response from him. You were worried, but too scared to track him down. What if he died because of your visit? You really didn’t want to find out. 

Just as you were about to drift off into a fitful slumber, Kayako’s death rattle started up. You screamed and flung yourself away from the door, off the bed and to the floor. This is it, you think, she’s going to kill me now. Thank God Sakura was with her grandmother for her weekly visit. The door bursts open and Kayako begins to crawl in, her black hair obscuring her face. “Come on,” You whisper, fear rooting yourself to the spot. “Come on, come on, come on,” Tears begin to run down your face. You’ve accepted your fate long ago. You were ready even if you were scared. 

You let out another screech as the sound of a cat’s cry meets your left ear. You throw yourself against the night stand. Toshio was sitting in his usual position, crouched with his hands on his knees, mouth wide open. He looked...terrified to you. Not like the empty soul he usually looked like. But genuinely scared. A grating sound rips your attention away from him. You look over the bed, Kayako has stopped moving towards you. She was now moving backwards...no...that’s not right...she was being dragged backwards, her nails digging into the wooden floor, leaving claw marks in their wake. She looked to you, her face also screwed into one of terror. “Kayako?” You breathe, wondering what the hell was going on. 

You scream as furniture begins to shake, a great rumbling tears through your home. You’re convinced for one moment that the house is going to rip itself in two. “Kayako?” You yell over the cacophony of it all. Motherly instinct overcomes you, and you drag Toshio to your side, he clings to you as though his life, or lack thereof, depends on it. Kayako continues reaching for you. She’s jerked, once, twice, three times before you spring into action. “Kayako!” You leap over the bed and grab her wrists. 

You now know something is wrong from the way she clings back. You play a strange game of tug of war before you’re jerked forward. Your grip on her is so tight you’re dragged right through the doorway before slamming into the hall’s wall. The shocking force of the hit loosens your grip a fraction and Kayako is pulled from you. “No!” You run for her. 

Down the stairs you go, stopping only when you get to the living room. Why the hell did everything exciting happen in the living room? “What the ever loving hell are you doing?!” You screech. A figure in the middle of the room turns to you. “This is the only way!” They yell, from the sound of it, they were male. “You don’t have to worry anymore!” He continues, “I know how to really get rid of her, once and for all, there will be no more Kayako!” 

“No!” You scream, lunging for him. He easily brushes you off, throwing you to the ground. You watch in horror as the man reaches behind him. Your horror turns to confusion when he brings out what looks to be a small child rather than a weapon. The tiny thing struggles against him, to no avail. “With this sacrifice, Kayako will-” The man doesn’t finish his sentence. Aiming for his knees, you tackle him to the ground. He falls on you with a soft ‘oomph’. Luckily, you were prepared for the inevitable catch and rolled him off with little hardship. You scramble to your feet. Grabbing for the child, you’re met with no resistance as you run off into the house. “Come back here, you bitch!” The man thunders. 

You race back to your room, slamming the door behind you. What the fuck? What are you going to do? Somewhere in your panicked brain you shove the child into the closet, hoping Kayako doesn’t pull one of her nasty tricks and kill the poor thing. They cry out, reaching for you, just as scared. You hush them, “You’re ok,” You say, “You’re ok, I won’t let him hurt you. Hush now, hush.” You shut the door to the closet as they fall silent. 

Your door rattles as the man rages on the other side. “You bitch! I’ll kill you!” He yelled, throwing himself against it. You look around your room for something to defend yourself with. You had a bat, but for the life of you, you couldn’t remember where you put it. You don’t get the chance to search for it before your door bursts open with a terrifying crunch. The man, half crazed in the moonlight, is huffing, staring at you. “You dog,” He hisses, “You will not stand in the way of my revenge.” 

“Why are you in my house?” You cry, legs shaking. “I’m here to kill Kayako!” He yells, “I’m going to end her miserable curse! You aren’t going to stand in my way!” He lunges for you, but misses. Still, he has you cornered in seconds. “I won’t let my daughter’s death be in vain! You won’t stop this!” He grabs for you once more, stumbling over one of Sakura’s toys. This allows you the precious seconds you need to dodge and run back down the stairs. 

He roars with rage, hot on your tail. You’re cornered easily once more in the kitchen. You whirl around to meet your attacker. There’s no way you’re going to get out of this alive, you’re sure of it. Maybe this is how the curse works? You think Kayako drives others to do her dirty work then picks the last one off. No, that wasn’t right, not in this instance. Kayako had been scared, Toshio too. This guy was the real deal. “You’re dead!” The man yells, stumbling forward. 

His hands wrap around your neck. You flail knocking everything on the counter over. You go down, he goes down on top of you. In the back of your mind, you’re reminded of Haru. Just a few months ago he tried choking you to death too. Kayako had saved you then, she wouldn’t now. A strange sense of calm overcame you, a sense of clarity. This was how you died. Unable to watch your precious daughter grow into a young woman. Unable to watch her fall in love for the first time, to have children of her own…

The man lets you go, slapping you hard. You taste blood in your mouth and spit it out. Your head is still reeling from the smack when his hands close around your neck again. That’s when you see it, a silver glint, a sliver of hope. A terrible rage overcomes you. For months you’ve lived in terror, for months you expected to die, night after night, in the most terrible of ways. You’ve tasted the brink of death more times than you wanted to. You’d had enough quite frankly. Moving automatically, you hand grips the knife, swinging it with all your might you instantly feel the pressure on your neck ease, then disappear altogether. Something warm drips onto your face as the mystery man slumps over, then finally topples off you. You lay there for a moment, taking in deep breaths of precious air. 

You close your eyes for a moment or two, trying to come to terms with what just happened. The rumbling of the house settles, things fall silent once more. You only open your eyes when you feel something brush against your face. This time, when you meet Kayako’s eyes you don’t flinch. She looks concerned, for what? You? You cough, spitting out more blood. Kayako rattles softly, touching your face. “I’m fine,” You croak, “I’m ok.” You sit up gingerly. 

Coldness overtakes you as Kayako presses herself behind you, her hands rest on your shoulders. When you don’t push her away she takes it as an invitation to get closer to you, wrapping you up in her arms, resting her cheek on your shoulder. You smile, running your fingers over her soft skin. You smile, because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive. And baby, it felt good to be alive.

#the grudge #ju-on #kayako imagine #kayako x reader #infamous

[shangyangjunzhu]

Misrepresentation at its finest

This is gonna be long...so I apologize in advance.

I am new to Tumblr but I have been watching historical cdramas for a while now. Serenade of Peaceful joy was a show I was not extremely enthusiastic about but I wanted to watch the story of Empress Cao. Later on, I lost my hope and any amount of joy I had. I have been reading recaps of the last few episodes form @thefeastandthefast  and @drivingsideways33  and I am too horrified to watch the rest. However, the beginning of the show where Empress Dowager Liu was still alive kind of made me curious. So a few days ago, I started doing some research about Empress Cao which inadvertently lead me to read a thesis on Empress Dowager Liu (Zhao Zhen’s adoptive mother). So here is what I learned about them in contrast to the show.

Empress Cao

I must admit the show is very accurate with Danshu’s family background and her reputation. After the deposition of Guo, she was chosen to succeed as the Empress due to her virtuousness and very impressive family. The show was also right about Zhao Zhen’s dislike for her. Initially, even before Guo was made Empress, he wanted a woman of the Zhang clan (not Bihan) to be his Empress which Empress Dowager Liu refused. He later made her a minor consort of his and posthumously honored her as an Empress (yes, real zhao zhen is still a whore). Later, Lady Chen (the adoptive daughter of the Dowager and the daughter of a salt merchant zhao zhen falls in love with the show) was someone he wanted as his empress which was again refused. Danshu, however, was too busy to actually cry over Zhao Zhen’s philandering. She was tasked with raising Zongshi (we saw this cutie in the show) 2 years after she married into the palace. She loved sericulture and gardening and had beautiful handwriting. She is praised to have loved writing in Feibai, a writing script Zhao Zhen himself wrote in. The show depicts the murder attempt on Zhao Zhen and has him act as Danshu’s savior which is quite the opposite in actual history. Zhao Zhen was enamored by Bihan that he actually accused Danshu of attempting to kill him and trying to overtake the throne. He also had Bihan praised for saving his life, which again Danshu did but whatever. Later investigations proved him wrong and shut him up, which meant another attempt to depose her went in vain. She did marry Taotao (her niece) to Zongshi, and it looks as if they had a pretty happy marriage; he had very few consorts, and only one unnamed consort had children. Later after Renzong dies, she becomes Empress Dowager and regent when Zongshi falls sick. However, it only lasts for a year or so and she is sort of forced to give up the regency by our favorite conservative officials. When Zhongzhen (Zongshi and Taotao’s cute son in the show) ascends onto the throne, he elevates her to Grand Empress Dowager and was quite willing to hear her advice occasionally. The most interesting thing about Danshu’s regency is that she is constantly warned with precedents of Empress Dowager Liu, Lu, and Wu, yet she remains quite unfazed and goes with the flow. She is praised particularly for making none of the follies her predecessor did during her regency, which I will get to next.

Empress Dowager Liu

The show does a great job of shitting on her because no one can be more perfect than Renzong (I am gagging). Liu came from a very humble background and came across Prince Xiang (Renzong’s father) who was enamored by her beauty and her charm, but more so her intellect. Though his father and the wet nurse tried very hard to get rid of her, he was totally infatuated by her and brought her into the palace. Many attempts were made by him to elevate her to the position of Empress, all of them were rejected by guess who...our favorite conservative officials who thought a songstress was unfit to be the mother of the world. She and Consort Yang raised Renzong together after a palace maid of the Li clan gave birth to him. She was a good mother to him, though she was strict with his upbringing. Records say she stayed up all night when he was sick and paid great attention to his education. However, Consort Yang pampered him a lot causing the pair to be distant. She wanted the best for him and therefore picked the best lady for him to be his Empress (Empress Guo came from a very good family with a military background). However, Renzong was displeased because she was not his choice. Coming to her rule, she was an excellent ruler and knew what to do. Her only failings would probably be having ambition in a world where women were not allowed to have any and trying to gain power by populating her family in court and other offices. Even Sima Guang (who I absolutely despise) praises her before Empress Cao takes on the regency. He says “Empress Dowager Liu protected the emperor’s body, gave laws to the realm, advanced the worthy, and expelled the disloyal, and pacified core and periphery, in this, she truly made contributions to the house of Zhao”. This coming from Sima Guang is quite a compliment. 

History written by men about women is often unforgiving. However, for a show in the 21st century, the writer could have done a better job of researching these amazing women and depicting them rightfully. Unfortunately, this show did not do both of these women any justice. I will wait for the day when I see an accurate portrayal of these women and their rule instead of demeaning them for having ambition or making them spineless puppets.

#serenade of peaceful joy #wang kai #zhao #cao #dynasty: song dynasty #empress #empress dowager #i hate this #chinese history in cdramas

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

The Sleeping Prince and The Fair Folk Boy

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word Count: 13359

Summary: In a fantasy land, two kingdoms are at odds. Two boys defy their lands hatred, but is it enough to defy a terrible curse? Based on Maleficent AU request.

Read on AO3

AN: Is it plagiarism when you're ripping off yourself? Idk. Yeah, I know the title sounds like The Sailor and The Siren, but it's not the same story, obviously lol. Apologies for the weird time jumps and scene jumping, it's how it worked out in the end. But I hope you like it! :)

———————————————

Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms. One was human, called England, and one was magical, called Watford. The humans feared the magical creatures, for they were large and scary and had great amounts of power. Human knights attacked the magical kingdom, but were always defeated by it’s protector, a fae woman named Natasha. With one beat of her mighty wings she soared miles. Fire flew from her hands with ease, scorching knights until they fled. Natasha was a great hero to her people and a great foe to all those who opposed her.

After decades of fighting, the king of England was growing older. He wished to see the dreaded Natasha fall. Any man who succeeded in defeating her would be granted the princess’ hand in marriage and become the next ruler of England. Many were fearful to even attempt to face such a fearsome foe. But one man stepped forward. Sir David, a commoner who ascended to knighthood through skill alone. All the other knights, all noble born, looked down at him.

“I shall defeat Natasha,” he announced.

The other knights laughed heartily. “Oh really?” One of them said. “Shall you defeat her with a farming plow?”

David scowled at their pompous guffaws. “I shall do it, you will see.”

And so the common knight went to the magical kingdom, intent on defeating Natasha. But he did not do so with might or valour. No, Sir David used tricks. There were darker creatures who were banished to lurk in the woods around Watford. They held no love for it’s protector. David bribed them with his finely made shield, and told the dark creatures to bring Natasha to him and inform him how to kill her. They happily accepted, and told the knight that iron harms fair folk just before they left.

Soon, the great protector of Watford was brought to Sir David, bloodied and weakened. Natasha was hardly a worthy adversary in this state. But Sir David cared not for a fair fight, just the reward he was promised.

“Do not do this,” Natasha said gravely. “It will only end in tragedy for you.”

Sir David did not heed her warning. He drew his iron sword, ready to plunge it through her inhuman heart. But Natasha refused to let the human win. She wrenched her arm free and slammed it to her chest. Her body erupted in flames. But Natasha did not scream. She silently looked the human in the eye as she died. Soon, there was nothing left of the great protector, save for her infamous wings. Sir David scowled, but he refused to award posthumous victory to his sworn foe. He wrapped the wings in black cloth. As he tucked them under his shoulder, he looked to the dark creatures.

“Do not speak of how this was done,” he said. “Or I shall send my armies to slaughter you all.”

The dark creatures agreed. Sir David turned and marched back to England, nary a second thought to how Natasha died.

He returned to the castle. He stood before the king, the court, and all the knights that had mocked him, and threw the wings to the ground. Everyone gasped. They all recognised their enormous span and shining feathers.

“I have defeated Natasha, your majesty,” Sir David announced.

“So it seems,” the old king replied.

“I expect my reward.”

He smiled slightly at his knight. “And so you shall have it.”

Sir David was soon wed to the old king’s daughter, Princess Lucy. The old king passed shortly after. King David ascended to the throne. He made sure to have the grand wings put in a special room, so he may always gaze upon his trophy. He ruled the people of England with an iron fist and strong ideals. He taxed the nobles as harshly as he could, putting their wealth into virtuous ventures. Building schools, improving roads, new lodgings for the poor. Though a good sum went to the crown as well. David justified this as the nobles finally paying their dues to the people. However, many suspected he desired revenge on all the high borns who had mocked and scorned him. The truth most likely sat somewhere in between.

Only three months into his reign, Queen Lucy was with child. She was overjoyed to have a baby, and David desired an heir. Six months later, a healthy baby prince was born. He was christened Simon Snow. Simon for his great grandfather, and Snow for the storm that ravaged the kingdom the day he was born. He was strong and healthy. A perfect heir for England.

The king and queen presented their son to the court and kingdom. Everyone was overjoyed. They presented gifts of great wealth and craftsmanship for the new prince. David was pleased at the offerings. The nobles were honouring their future king as they should. Among the strangest of the guests was Ebb, a goat herd who lived far from the castle.

Ebb ascended the dais, head held high and smile radiant. “Your majesties,” Ebb said with a courteous bow. “I have come bearing the most special of gifts for the young prince. More precious than any gold or silver.”

“And what would those be?” David asked.

“I bring magic, for I am of fair folk and I possess powerful spell casting.”

David’s muscle all locked up. He was wary of magic for many good reasons. “We have no need of magic in this kingdom.”

“I harbour no ill will, your majesty. I wish to show the court that fae and humans can live in peace. I can bestow three magical blessings upon your son.”

“How do we know you will not harm him?”

Ebb looked affronted almost, taken aback by such a thought. “I would never harm an innocent babe, your majesty. I swear on the roots of Watford’s great trees.”

David did not look convinced. The queen, known to be the tempering voice of the throne, leaned towards her husband. “Darling, she wishes to help our Simon. The fae have not attempted harm for awhile. Do not turn her away.”

The king was still uneasy, but he listened to his wife. A ruler sometimes had to attempt peace. David sheathed his blade and sat. “Very well, bestow your blessings.”

Ebb bowed deeply. “As you wish, your majesty.” She walked over to the golden cradle and leaned over the edge. Prince Simon looked back up at her with large blue eyes and a giggling smile. Ebb gave a joyous grin in return.

“Dear, sweet Simon,” she said cheerily. “I first give you the gift of courage. You shall always have strength in the face of any adversity.” David was pleased by this blessing. Ebb tapped her sparkling finger just beneath Simon’s left eye, and a little mole appeared on his skin. The baby burbled and smiled.

“Second, I give you the gift of kindness. Your heart will always be open and caring.” Lucy was very happy about this one. This time, Ebb touched below Simon’s left ear, and two moles appeared this time.

“And for my last gift, I-”

With a loud boom, the doors at the end of the hall flew open and the room went dark. Every noble went silent. The king and queen were frozen in the seats. A terrifying silhouette loomed at the entrance. Horns protruded from its head and large wings spread out, and King David’s heart stopped. He knew of fairies and dark creatures and magic, but he hoped that ghosts were not real as well. But as the silhouette flew closer, it was clear Natasha had not risen from the grave. Though this woman looked similar, she had none of the late protector’s powerful grace, and her black hair sported a shock of white that Natasha never had. Whoever she was, she scared Ebb, making the other fae back into a dark corner.

“Who dares trespass on this sacred day?” Queen Lucy asked.

“Lucy, do not speak to it,” the king hissed.

“I am Fiona of Watford,” the woman announced. “My sister was Natasha, protector of our fair lands. She was killed a year ago.”

David stood, a hand on his sword handle. “I see not what this has to do with your presence in our court.”

Fiona scowled and pointed a finger at the king’s face. “I learned that you were the one who killed Natasha, taking the wings from her corpse as a trophy. This desecration of my sister’s name and body shall not stand. You will be punished for your crime of murder!”

David inhaled sharply. He silently feared what punishment a fae could bring, but he could not reveal his deceit to his court, even to avoid whatever magical retribution this Fiona would bring. “You have no standing in this court, and no right to dole out punishment as you see fit.”

“Silence!” Fiona waved her hand and the roof exploded in green flames. Nobles screamed and held each other. “You use my sister’s death to further your own standing! I have every right to exact my vengeance!”

The king drew his sword and pointed it the fae’s face. “If you wish to duel, I am more than happy to face you. You shall fall just like your sister.”

Fiona sneered at the blade, obviously unimpressed at the king’s weapon. “I will not waste my strength on fighting you, pitiful man. No, I wish to give to you what you gave me. Or rather what you took.”

The fae looked down at the golden cradle. Queen Lucy gasped, a hand pressed to her chest. “No, please! Have mercy!” she shouted.

“Did your husband have mercy when he killed my sister!?” Fiona roared. “When he murdered our land’s protector in cold blood, broke her husband’s heart, and left her young child motherless?!” She looked the king in his quivering blue eyes. “No, and I shall have no mercy either.”

David yelled and tried to rush the fae, but with one flick of green fire from her fingers, he was kept back. One more flick and the rest of the court was kept at bay. No one could approach her. And no one could save Simon.

Fiona looked down at the little prince. He was only a year younger than Fiona’s own nephew. The nephew that was now living with no mother or father, because a human wanted a crown.

“Listen well, humans,” Fiona boomed, “the prince shall grow up charming and handsome, beloved by all who meet him.”

Her grey eyes slid over to a gift from the kingdom of Umbria, who were famous for their fine textiles. It was a gold plated spinning wheel. The needle glinted in the sunlight.

The fae woman stood straight, facing the king and queen. The green fire roared from her hand, curling and twisting around the throne room. “But before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday, he will prick his finger on a spinning wheel, and fall into a sleep like death from which he will never awaken!”

“Fiona, no!” Ebb shouted, walking forward with saky steps. Being a fae, she could push back against Fiona’s magic. But no one could truly break it.

Fiona was beyond shocked to see Ebb, for she knew the woman. Ages ago, Ebb had lived in Watford with her twin brother Nicodemus. Fiona had loved Ebb more than the sprawling trees loved the sun. But one fateful day, when Nicodemus and Fiona were wandering in the twisted woods, Nico was torn apart by dark creatures. Even Fiona with all her power could not save him. Ebb was shattered, too grief stricken to stay within Watford. When she left, Fiona was shattered too.

“You are in no place to demand things of me,” Fiona sneered.

“He is but a child, Fi,” Ebb said. “An innocent, undeserving of such a horrible, inescapable fate.”

Fiona considered her words. Deep down in her heart, she knew her old love was right. But she needed to avenge her sister. She only contemplated for a moment, and knew she had an answered.

“Very well,” Fiona said. “The prince can be awakened, but only by, true love’s kiss.”

Ebb gaped at her former lover. Of course she remembered those words. When Ebb stood at the edge of Watford, Fiona had asked her if true love was real. But Ebb was young, grieving, a deep dark part of herself blaming Fiona for not being able to save her brother’s life. So with tears in her eyes and heart lodged deep in her throat, Ebb had simply walked away. And now Fiona was using those words once more.

Fiona looked over the whole court with her head held high. “This curse will last until the end of time. No power on Earth can change it.”

The green fire roared to a fever pitch, and flooded the entire room. Nobles were knocked off their gilded feet as they screamed to the high heavens. Fiona gave one last furious look to the royal couple as well as to Ebb, then soared out the door. Ebb looked over the cradle. She saw three new moles on Simon’s rosy right cheek. And that was how the prince came to be cursed.

Drastic measures had to be taken to ensure the young prince’s safety. King David ordered every spinning wheel in England to be broken and burned, the blackened remnants locked away in a dark dungeon. To protect his heir, he entrusted Simon to the magic of Ebb, no matter how much his queen protested. She was to keep him to hidden and safe for eighteen years and a day. He sent his armies to hunt down the dread Fiona. But she had already created tall, thick walls of thorns together. So Watford should never suffer the tainted touch of humans again.

Ebb took the infant prince to her cottage in the middle of the woods where none may find them. Though she knew not exactly how to be a mother, she did her very best for him. She did not use magic, fearing any sort of thing that would attract attention to the hidden prince.

Simon grew from a babe to a child in that cottage with Ebb. He played among the trees, rolled in the moss, and cuddled Ebb’s beloved goats, all far away from the castle he remembered not. Ebb told Simon that his blood parents had passed away so she had adopted him. Simon knew of no reason to distrust her.

The blessings Ebb had given to Simon did come true. He was unafraid in the face of adversity or danger. Which was a wonderful thing, even if it did lead to more than a few scrapes and bruises for the young boy. Ebb tried to keep him out of harm’s way, but it was a difficult task when Simon feared so little. Simon was also unbelievably kind. He thought all deserved love and care until proven otherwise.

One day when he was eight, Simon brought a baby bird with a broken wing home. He held it up to Ebb with big teary blue eyes.

“Please, Auntie,” Simon pleaded. “Please we have to save it!”

“We will do our best darling, darling,” she cooed.

Ebb helped Simon wrap it’s leg in bandages and give it food. He stroked the little bird’s head all the way through. And that night, he insisted they put it in a basket next to his bed so he could sleep beside it. In the morning, when the poor creature passed from it’s injuries, Simon sniffled and cried all day. He cared not that he had only known it for a few hours. Only that it was a living thing who had died in pain. He felt that pain himself, because his heart was so big it could encompass the whole kingdom.

As the years went on, Simon’s curly bronze hair became wild like vines, his blues sparkled, and his mole and freckle covered cheeks dimpled with his smile. He made every room brighter with his presence. Ebb watched as he grew into a charming and handsome young boy, just as Fiona said he would. She tried to forget what other things Fiona had put in his future.

A week after his eleventh name day, Simon was running through the woods, playing with his new puppy, when he spotted something strange in the darkness. A flash of raven black and glitter of silver. Simon stopped in his tracks and gazed among the trees.

“Is anyone there?” he asked. There was a rustle of leaves. Simon caught sight of a grey eye between the branches. “I see you! You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” a quiet voice replied. He sounded young, barely older than Simon himself.

“Then come out and say hello.”

“If I do, then you’ll be afraid.”

Simon puffed out his relatively small chest. “I’m never afraid.”

The strange boy stayed away for a long moment, the only sound around them a whistling in the leaves. Slowly, he stepped towards Simon and into the light. Simon had been right. The boy was young, but he was very strange. He dressed in only a white tunic and brown pants, his feet bare on the dirty forest floor. Even more bizarre, a pair of magnificent black and silver feathered wings protruded from his back and curled around his sides. From beneath his thick, wavy raven hair, two small dark grey stubs pointed upwards. They matched the shade of grey in his eyes. When Simon finally saw his whole face, it was sharp and wore more signs of age than him, but was still that of a child.

“Hello,” Simon chirped like a bird.

“Hello,” the boy replied, voice far more serious.

Simon’s head tilted to the side, bronze hair spilling down like a waterfall. “Are you one of the fair folk? My auntie tells me stories of them.”

"Yes, I am." His wings fluttered slightly, like an uncomfortable bird ruffling.

"Oh." Simon bared a grin brighter than sunshine. "That's wonderful." He stuck his dirty, calloused hand out insistently. "My name is Simon."

The fae’s eyes went round with shock. "Have you no sense? You're never supposed to give a fae your name."

Simon frowned, lips almost forming a pout. “But my auntie says it’s always polite to give people your name. Why wouldn’t I be polite to you just because you’re a fae?”

He thrusted his hand out more insistently towards the other boy. The fae looked at the limb like a snake winding in the grass, ready to bite him. But Simon was not deterred. He kept his hand there. For he was very brave, and very kind. And very slowly, the fae boy finally accepted Simon’s friendly hand.

“Hello, Simon,” he said.

Simon shook the boy’s rough hand vigorously, his grin stretching to his ears. “Hello. Do you have a name? Do faes have names?”

The fae rolled his stormy eyes very expertly for someone so young. “Yes, I have a name.”

“May I hear it?”

He looked apprehensive, his hand slowly falling from Simon’s. His long arms hid beneath his wings. Simon stepped towards him, still grinning. It was a smile with not a single hint of malice or deceit. No power on Earth could resist.

“My name is Baz,” he said.

Simon’s grin miraculously became even brighter. “Hello, Baz. Would you like to play?”

Baz looked down at the leaf covered ground. “I shouldn’t.”

“Oh. Are you okay?” Simon stepped closer and looked over Baz for any injuries. When he stepped closer, the fae jolted like he had been struck by lightning. “Sorry! Are you hurt?”

“I am not harmed. It’s just...your necklace...”

Simon looked down. It was a cross Ebb had given him for his ninth birthday, made from twisting dark metal. “What’s wrong with my necklace?”

Baz looked at it not with disgust or even fear, mostly with discomfort. “It’s iron. Iron burns faes.”

“Oh! Sorry!” Simon lifted the cross above his head and threw it as far as his arm could manage. It soared into the distance, gone forever. He once more turned Baz with his bright grin. “Can we play now?”

Baz looked beyond shocked at Simon. Simon couldn’t understand why. The necklace was hurting him, so it had to go. Someone mattered far more than something.

“I-I could,” Baz started. “But I-”

“Then let’s go!” Simon jumped like an eager bunny. “C’mon c’mon, let’s have fun!”

Baz looked up once more. And finally, he smiled as well. “Okay. We can have fun.”

Simon jumped a few more times, then he took Baz by the wrist. “Let’s go!”

And so the two boys ran through the woods together. Their feet crunched on leaves and broke fallen branches, letting their presence mark the world. Simon showed Baz how to toss a stick for his dog, Goldie. He encouraged Baz to scratch behind her furry golden ear and let her lay across his lap. Baz demonstrated his dominion over nature, making pretty flowers instantly bloom in in the soil. He told a rapt Simon the proper names of all the wonderful flora. Simon plucked a bright violet from the ground and offered it to Baz, and the fae graciously tucked it behind his pointed ear. The boys raced each other to reach the top of a tree, but Baz won on account of his large wings. His prize was a ripe plum Simon carried in his pocket. Baz silently gave half to Simon, the kindness going unacknowledged save for a small quirk of Baz’s lips.

The two boys sat together on top of the tree. The twilight sun set the sky on fire, illuminating everything in scarlet and orange. Simon sat close to Baz but Baz would not allow them to touch.

"Simon!" A distant voice called out. "Simon, it's time to come home!"

"That's my auntie," Simon spoke through his last bite of plum.

"You should go to her," Baz said.

"Yeah. Wanna play again soon?"

Baz looked over at the smiling Simon. His hair glowed gold in the dying sunlight. Baz gave a tiny smile back.

“Okay.”

“Hooray!” He leaned forward, the light of his grin reflecting off Baz’s face. “Shall I find you in the woods again?”

Baz let little puffs of air from his nose. “Come to the woods, and I shall find you.”

Simon nodded so hard his curls bounced. “Alright.” Suddenly, he threw his arms around Baz’s shoulders in a squeezing hug. The fae’s muscles locked up in shock. “Bye, Baz.”

“Goodbye, Simon.”

And so Simon swung down the tree. When he was about halfway down, Baz leaned over the side, looking down upon him.

“Simon,” he yelled, “do not tell anyone about me, please?”

“Not even my aunt?” Simon asked with a confused frown.

“No, not even her. Faes aren’t supposed to be out of our lands. If anyone finds out I’m in the human kingdom, I may very well be hurt.”

That made Simon’s eyes go wide and heart hammer painfully. He wished to never see anyone hurt, especially his new friend. “Okay, I won’t tell anyone. This will be our secret.”

Baz nodded, strands of black falling in front of his face. “Yes, our secret.”

Simon descended the last half of the tree. Goldie barked and jumped until Simon scooped her up in his arms. He looked up to the tree again. Baz was silhouetted by the sun. It made him appear even more majestic. Simon waved with his entire arm. Baz waved subtly back. And he watched as Simon dashed away.

Simon met with Baz in the forest the next day, and the next, and the next. They saw each other on every day they could, and through the turns of the seasons, Simon and Baz never tired of one another. Sometimes they would run through the woods, their giggles ringing through nature. Other times they would play in the leaves or the snow depending in the season. On occasion, when they tired of running and playing, the boys simply wandered as they pleased, speaking of things they saw or did.

“And this plant is called the willow tree,” Baz said, brushing his hand through the hanging little leaves. Simon listened as he walked along the edge of the cliff. Baz looked concerned with his every step, but Simon was a child of this land. He knew how to walk upon it.

“Why do the branches hang so low?” Simon asked. He cared little for the answer honestly. He mostly enjoyed hearing Baz speak. He had a nice voice. It had started to deepen recently, for Baz was already 14 years of age. It was strange to Simon that such an incredible magical creature was only a year older than himself.

“I was always told the willow was created when a fae lost her child. The tears she cried hit the soil, which made the first tree grow. So now the branches hang low and weep just as she did.”

“Hm, interesting.”

Simon spun around with his arms out, just as a large gust of wind blew against him. His balance was completely thrown. He stumbled and wavered, and then his feet were no longer on solid ground. Simon was in such a state of shock that everything moved slowly. He watched the cliff fall away from him and become smaller and smaller. He silently wondered if his aunt and Goldie would be okay when he was gone, and if his parents would great him when he reached the heavens.

As Simon contemplated his grisly fate, he felt something stop his fall. The air was knocked from his lungs, making him cough. When he looked up, Baz’s face stared down at him, haloed in the fall sunlight. His stormy eyes were wider than should be possible.

“Did I not say you should be careful?!” Baz said, anger and fear blending together in his voice.

Simon shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I thought I would be safe.”

“Obviously you were not.”

“But I was.” Simon put his arms over Baz’s bony shoulders. “You were here to catch me, were you not?”

Baz narrowed his eyes, but his arms tightened around Simon’s back. “You were lucky I was.”

“Can I not always count on you being here to save me?”

Baz did not answer. He simply sighed and shook his head. Then he flew them back to the ground, this time far away from the edge. He stayed close to Simon’s side. Simon did not mind. He preferred Baz close to him.

“Shall we make a pile of leaves and jump in it?” Baz asked.

Simon grinned. “I’d certainly like that.”

They did just so, the worries of Simon’s near death faded to a background thought.

As the seasons turned, Simon started to grow as well. His voice deepened like Baz’s, his chest became broader, and soon he towered over his aunt, who he used to have to strain his neck to look up at. However, Baz remained taller than him. It seemed when Simon gained any sort of height, Baz willed himself to outgrow him. Baz had more unique changes too. His wings became so large they dragged on the ground behind him. And the little grey stubs on his head grew up and up, twisting into true grey bone horns.

“Do all the fae have wings?” Simon asked as they sat upon a hill, gazing at the sparkling night sky.

“Most do,” Baz replied.

Simon’s head lolled to the side, eyes roaming over Baz’s profile. While Simon had grown more outwards, Baz had stretched and elongated. Everything about him was long and graceful. His nose and cheekbones were sharper than swords’ edges. He was incredibly handsome. That was an objective fact. Simon very rarely saw himself, save for a reflection in the pond, and he wondered if Baz thought he was handsome too.

“Do they all have horns?”

“No. Only people from my family do.”

“May I touch yours?”

Baz recoiled at first. His eyes slowly slid to the side. Once he saw there was no malice in Simon’s words, he nodded. Simon reached forward. He slowly traced every swirled ridge of of the grey bone, learning it’s pattern with one finger, while Baz sat incredibly still. Simon soon reached the top, and accidentally touched the very tip.

“Ouch!” he said, immediately putting the finger to his lips.

“Careful,” Baz hissed. “They’re sharp, you idiot.”

“Well, I’m aware of that now!”

Baz shook his head, raven hair falling in his face in a lazy wave. “Give me your finger, Simon.”

Simon held his hand out. Baz placed his own over it. He closed his eyes, lips moving so minutely it could hardly be see. Silver fire twisted from his skin and onto Simon’s. The human felt the smallest of stings, and then it was simply a pleasant warmth, like sitting next to the stove. As the fire pulled back, so did Baz. Simon looked down at his skin. It was now unmarred once again. There was no sign of any scratch whatsoever.

“Wow,” Simon gasped. “You are incredible.”

“I am of the fair folk, it’s normal,” Baz said.

Simon grinned and pressed his arm to Baz’s. ‘Well, then all fair folk must be incredible, if you’re the standard.”

Baz let out a small laughing breath. “I suppose that’s a reasonable conclusion. That opinion may change if you met other fae.”

Simon looked up at him, chin resting on his still bony shoulder. “I’ve yet to meet any others.”

Simon knew it was a loaded statement. He knew what he truly wanted to say. Ever since he had met, he imagined the place someone as as incredible as him came from. Baz looked distressed for a moment. But the expression was so fleeting Simon barely had time to acknowledge its existence. Baz quickly turned to him with a slightly strained smile.

“We’ll see,” he said softly.

“Okay,” Simon sighed. He started to doze against Baz as they looked out at the stars. For Simon felt calm with Baz next to him, always had, always will.

A few more seasons passed, and as the snow melted to spring again, Simon was rapidly approaching his eighteenth name day. He was nearly a man of age. An adult who was meant to be independent. He was thinking of leaving home to find wonders abroad. Simon thought it was a marvelous idea. Baz was not so enthusiastic.

“What can there be abroad that you cannot find here?” he asked.

“Lots of things!” Simon replied. He tossed a cherry in his mouth just as Goldie returned with her stick. “There could be so many things beyond the woods. New people, new experiences, new foods.”

Baz rolled his eyes as he threw the stick for Goldie. It went much further than when Simon tossed before. “You can make your own new foods here.”

“I disagree. I’ve used every ingredient I can.” Simon shoved both his hands in his trouser pockets, and kicked at some dirt. “I just wish to see something new and possibly exciting, Baz. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” Baz sighed. “I suppose not.”

They continued playing with Goldie, throwing sticks, petting and scratching to her little heart’s content. But unfortunately, the sky decided to open up above them in a mighty crash of thunder. The rain hit them with a hard pitter patter. Simon put his hand up to uselessly protect himself. But hen Baz lifted his wing above Simon’s head, he no longer needed to.

“I should get home,” Simon said, looping the rope leash around Goldie’s neck.

“Yes, you could.” Baz’s thin lips twisted for an unknown reason. “But I know if somewhere it won’t be raining.”

Simon’s eyes were wide. “Really?”

“Yes, if you would like to go.” Baz offered his hand out.

Simon grabbed it without any hesitation. “Absolutely.”

Baz’s grip tightened. He smiled as he pulled Simon deeper into the woods. And Simon followed with incredibly eager steps.

Eventually, the men reached a terrifying site. Massive thorns of towering height, twisting together in an impenetrable thicket. Simon was both fascinated and scared of it. He instinctively recoiled. Goldie whimpered, pawing at her face.

“What is this?” Simon asked.

“It’s meant to protect the fae from humans,” Baz replied.

“Do the fae need protection?”

“Sometimes.” Baz made an arc with his hand, silver flames trailing from his fingertips. A small part of the thicket winded away and pulled into the ground. “Come along, Simon.”

Simon and his loyal hound followed Baz in. As they walked, the rain lessened and lessened until there was none at all. They ducked under the last thorny vine, and finally entered Watford. Suddenly, all breath left Simon’s lungs.

There were no words to describe Watford. It was a place beyond simple spoken ideas. Everything was made of wondrous magic. Glowing flowers, twisting waterfalls over crystal cliffs, flickering multicoloured lights, and trees that bared perfectly shaped fruit. Simon walked forward, and ground glowed softly under him. He gasped at the sheer fantastical nature of it. No wonder Baz was so marvelous. He came from somewhere beyond anyone’s imagination. It certainly went past anything Simon dreamt of.

“By all the gods,” Simon whispered.

One of the colourful lights came close to Simon’s face. And it wasn’t a simple light at all. It was the smallest little pixie, with large glowing eyes and translucent butterfly wings. They smiled at Simon for a brief second then fluttered away. Simon giggled as he watched them fly away.

“Do you plan to stand there all night?” Baz asked with a teasing lilt.

Simon scoffed, but it was with a grin. “Do you plan to show me more?”

Baz tilted his head, almost point with his horns in a way. “Follow me, Simon.”

And so he did. Simon and Goldie followed Baz deeper into Watford. There were more creatures than the little pixies. A giant made from mossy roots stood guard by a cliff. Fish women swam beneath the glittering waves. Little trolls ran up to Simon and Baz. One held out a red flower towards Simon. He kneeled, and graciously took the tiny bloom.

“Thank you,” he said.

The troll seemed to blush, though Simon wasn’t sure how trolls blushed. They ran off back towards their friends. The whole group of them ran towards a mud pit and started splashing about. Simon felt before he saw Goldie tug on her leash. She whined and whined pathetically. Simon looked at Baz for assurance.

“It should be fine,” Baz said. “It’s just mud.”

“That suggests anything here is normal,” Simon chuckled.

“It’s normal for me.”

Simon smiled, affection burning in his gaze. “But nothing about you is normal, Baz.”

Baz scoffed and looked away, but a dusting of rose colour appeared on his cheeks. Simon wondered how he could be embarrassed by something so true.

Simon slipped the leash off Goldie. She happily bounded towards the mud. As she splashed, the trolls squealed with delight. They happily rolled and tossed in the dirty pool. It looked so fun. How could Simon resist? Baz tried to call after him, but it was too late. Simon was already throwing himself into the mud. The trolls splashed him, and he joyfully splashed back. He was still the rough and tumble kid at heart. It wasn’t something Simon would never be ashamed of.

In their little filthy kerfuffle, a stray comet of mud flew towards Baz. And it hit the fae man square on the cheek, creating a small splatter. The trolls immediately froze. All wore an expression of terror. Simon didn’t know what they had to fear. It was only Baz. He almost immediately started snorting with laughter, throwing his head back in giggles. Simon was so caught up in his amusement he didn’t see Baz flick his fingers. A large amount of mud splattered across Simon’s entire face. Simon stopped laughing using both hands to wipe the dirt from his eyes. When he could see once more, he saw Baz grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear.

And Simon smiled back.

When Simon and Goldie were done with their dirty escapade, Baz lead them to more places in Watford. Like the floating mountain tops, singing moss, and dancing vines. He pointedly kept Simon away from one side of the kingdom. Simon thought it must be dreadfully boring over there. They came across a tree whose branches twisted like smoke from a fireplace. Simon left a mud covered Goldie to sleep at the bottom. Then he swung up to the top, and Baz flew to follow him, just as they did all those years ago.

Simon sat and surveyed the majesty of Watford. It was dreams made real. He somehow felt happier here. Maybe it was because Watford was so incredible. Maybe it was because Baz came from here, and Simon liked anything associated with Baz.

“This is wonderful,” Simon said wistfully. “I love it here.”

“What if you stayed?” Baz asked. Simon whipped his head around to face him. The fae’s face was serious. There was not a hint of humour. He meant it.

“Really?”

Baz nodded slowly. “Yes. You could stay in Watford with my allowance. That is, only if you want to...”

“Yes, yes!” Simon threw his arms around Baz’s shoulder, face eagerly pressing into the side of his neck. “I would happily stay forever.”

“You can, Simon.” Baz smiled, softer than Simon had ever seen before. “And you will. You’ll be safe and have unlimited excitement here for your entire life.”

Simon’s grin was so wide it was painful. His heart felt full enough to burst. “Thank you, Baz, thank you so much.”

Baz’s face fell for but a second. He placed a hand on Simon’s arm. “You’re more than welcome, Simon.”

As he imagined what life could be like in this wonderful word, that small voice in Simon’s head reminded him of something. Or rather, someone, who right now was probably up late wondering where her darling ward was. Simon’s arms drooped slightly around Baz.

“My aunt,” Simon said. “I have to tell her before I go. I can’t just leave her without a word.”

Baz’s face fell for longer this time. But he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. You should talk to her.”

Simon nodded as well, but his arms stayed around his friend. “After we watch the sunrise though, okay?”

Baz squeezed his forearm and leaned his head on top Simon’s, silky hair brushing the human’s scalp. “Yes, let’s.”

The two young men sat together while the sun crested over the horizon. It was a strange, lovely reversal of the day they first met. That was one sort of beginning, and now this would be another. Simon desperately looked forward it.

Eventually, they had to descend. Baz helped Simon keep his balance all the way down. Goldie was still a bit tired but awake enough to walk. All three walked back to the wall of thorns. Baz parted it and led Simon through once more. They took a moment just outside the border.

“I’ll be back very soon,” Simon said.

“I await your return,” Baz replied.

They parted with one more hug. Baz watched until Simon could not be seen through the thick trees. Simon didn’t look back. That was good. He did not see the terrified look on Baz’s face.

Simon ran through the woods. It didn’t take him long to know where he was again. These were his woods after all. When he came upon his cottage, Ebb was dozing off in her rocking chair. She had obviously been waiting for Simon all night long. Simon carefully walked up towards her.

“Auntie?” Simon whispered, placing a light hand upon her shoulder. Ebb startled awake with wide eyes. “It’s alright, Auntie, it’s just me.”

Ebb let out a long sigh, hand to her chest. “Oh Simon, love, you gave me such a scare. Where have you been all night, darling? Why are you filthy?”

Simon looked down at himself and Goldie. Both were still a lovely shade of muddy brown. “Um, Goldie and I were having fun by the river. We both got so tired, we just passed out next to a tree.”

“Hm, I see.” Ebb stood, using her staff to help herself up. “Come along, you should get cleaned up for your birthday breakfast.”

Simon’s mind reeled for a moment. He had forgotten that it was his birthday, far too caught up in the wonders he saw last night. He was eighteen today, finally an adult. And an adult was meant to strike out on his own.

“Auntie,” he said, wiping dried dirt away with a rag, “I have something to tell you.”

Ebb was chopping up cherries at the counter. “Oh? What is it, love?”

Simon took several deep breaths. Every pull of air calmed his burning worries. Until he was finally able to say it. “I’m leaving home. Today.”

Ebb dropped the knife. It clattered on the wood. Her back was straighter than a tree trunk. She slowly turned to look at Simon. Simon expected shock, but Ebb looked scared.

“What?” she said, voice small and shaky.

“I-I’m leaving, Auntie. I’ve got somewhere to go. It’s not too far, but it’s interesting. And I promise I’ll come visit. I’ll-”

“No, no, no.” Ebb leaned her head in her hand, glassy eyes flitting around. “No, you can’t go. It’s too early, you need to stay here, you need to stay hidden. I have to bring you back to your parents I-

“Wait,” Simon said sharply, stepping towards Ebb with utter shock in his gaze. “Did...did you just say I have to go back to my parents? You told me they were dead.”

Ebb looked over Simon’s confused face but a few times before she sighed, head hanging low. She patted his hand kindly, just like she had his whole life. “Simon, I think you need to sit down. There’s much I have to tell you.”

Simon sat, and Ebb spun her tale. She tried to be as concise and kind as possible. But Simon still ran out of the cottage with tears in his eyes, too distressed to look at his aunt, and angry enough that he had someone else to see. He ran through the woods, until reached the terrifying wall of thorns.

“Baz!” he yelled. “Baz! Come out!”

“I’m here.”

Simon jolted like he had been struck by lightning. He spun around to see Baz behind him, in all his tall winged glory. Simon was breathing heavily as he looked at his old friend.

“Did you know?” Simon accused. “Did you know that I-I was cursed? That I have been since I was a baby?” Baz didn’t answer, but Simon kept babbling. “My aunt, she said a bad fae did it. I-I can’t remember her name, it was like-”

“Fiona,” Baz said with no inflection.

Simon’s head lifted up. Baz looked calm, save for a slight tension in his lips. Simon’s mouth hung open. “Do you know her?”

Baz nodded, but so incredibly slowly, it was like he barely moved at all. “Yes.”

“How?!”

Baz laced his long fingers together in front of him. “Fiona is my aunt.”

Simon felt like he had been punched square in the stomach. He stumbled back, fists clenched incredibly tight. “You’re...you’re aunt? Have you known I was cursed this entire time?!” Baz nodded once again. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I wasn’t allowed,” Baz said, voice strained.

“Allowed?”

Baz looked down at the ground, as if looking at Simon pained him. “When I was twelve, my aunt sent me out to keep an eye on you. She wanted to me to make sure you stayed alive, so the curse could...come to fruition.”

Simon stumbled even further away, a hand pressed to his face. His whole world was crashing down and shattering into a million miniature pieces on the forest floor. “So that’s why you approached me? Because I was your target? And what, you pretended to be my friend so I would stay close?”

“I never pretended.”

Simon shoved his face in Baz’s, snarling like Goldie when she was angered. “Real friends don’t lie for seven years, Baz!”

“I never lied!” Baz yelled. His voice was bordering on desperate.

“No, you just withheld the truth.” Simon wrapped his shaking around himself. “Which is so much worse. Because you let me think you cared, like an idiot.”

“I do care!” Baz stepped closer. His calm facade was starting to crack like ice in the spring. “I care so much, Simon, even though I was not meant to.”

He offered his hand out, silently requesting for Simon to close the distance. But Simon backed away, shaking his head vigorously. “If you truly cared,” he choked out, “you would have told me.”

Baz opened his mouth to say more, but Simon turned and ran. He couldn’t bear to look at Baz, his oldest and only friend. Or so he thought.

Simon ran without thought. He just wished to escape his feelings, to not think of all the good memories that were now tainted. His feet brought him through the trees and brush. Until he eventually reached the stables, where Ebb kept her horse. Simon’s impulsive mind immediately supplied an idea. He looked to the distance, where the castle sat atop a high hill.

He mounted the horse with nary a second thought.

The castle was a long ride, but Simon was not deterred. He kept going until he reached the castle gates. The guards would not let him pass, no matter how much he yelled that he truly was the prince. Eventually, he annoyed them into bringing him inside. They lead him by a rough grip on his arm, through towering hallways with fantastical carvings. It was incredible, but in a far darker way than Watford.

They eventually reached a spacious room, with stain glass windows overlooking the town below. Tall men all stood around a table with their backs turned. One bore a golden crown upon his brunette head.

“Your majesty,” the guard said, “this urchin came to the gates. He claims to be the prince.”

The crowned man stood straight backed and slowly turned. His blue eyes were wide and his brown mustache was turning grey. He surely had to be the king, and therefore surely had to be Simon’s father.

“Father!” he shouted, wrenching himself from the guard and running to him. He threw his arms around the armoured man with no shame. “It’s me, Simon. I’ve come home!”

The king looked upon his son in utter shock. He barely recognised the man his boy had become. Yet it was all to familiar in such a painful way.

“You look just like your mother,” David said, holding back any emotion from his voice.

Simon smiled brightly, but his father would not return the affection. His face stayed like stone. Simon was confused. This was the first time he had met someone so immune to his sunny disposition. And he never thought it would be his own father.

“That damn fairy,” David growled. “She brought you back too soon.” He looked over Simon’s head. “Take him to his room. Lock him in, don’t let him out until after the sun sets.”

“What?!” Two guards grabbed both of Simon’s arms and hauled him backwards. Simon struggled but it was no use, they would not let go. “Father! Father!” he called.

But David turned back to his war council without another word.

Simon was dragged through stone corridors again. He kept fighting the guards to no avail. “Where are you taking me? What’s going on? I want to speak to my father!”

“King David is busy,” a guard replied mechanically.

“With what?!”

“A final attack on Watford. To destroy the fairy threat once and for all.”

Simon gasped and started flailing even more. “No! No, he can’t, that’s wrong!”

“They cursed you, your highness,” the other guard said. “That was wrong. They forced the king to send you away and break the queen’s heart, may God rest her soul.”

Simon immediately stopped struggling. His lips hung open in shock. It shouldn’t be so painful. Simon had been raised believing his parents were dead for eighteen years. Yet, knowing it was really true, it was like an ice cold blade through his heart.

The guards opened a small door and shoved Simon inside. Then they quickly locked it behind him. Simon rushed and pounded on the door.

“Let me out!” he yelled. “You can’t destroy Watford! It was one fae who did this, not all of them!”

No one answered, because no one was listening. Simon’s hits slowed to low thumps, and then he slowly fell to the ground. He couldn’t get out. The father he had just met was about to destroy the place he had just fallen in love with. And he didn’t even fully understand why. Ebb had said he was a prince who was cursed as a baby, but Simon had fled before she explained what the curse even was. The simple word “curse” itself was enough to send him running in tears. Now he wished he had stayed to hear. He wished he wasn’t alone right now. As angry as he was at him, Simon desperately missed Baz.

Simon sat with his back against the door, the setting sun glowing through the gauzy curtain. He softly scratched on his index finger without thinking. Why did it itch so much?

Far off from the castle, there was a different fight brewing. Baz was standing before his aunt, rage burning his heart and voice.

“This is ridiculous, Fiona!” he roared. “You created the curse, you can remove it!”

“It is not so simple, Basil!” she yelled in reply. “I created that curse to last until the end of time and so no power on Earth could change it. I put that in the bloody spell! I can’t alter it even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to!”

“It’s not right!”

Fiona shoved her face in Baz’s. Though he was taller than her now, she was still more intimidating. “Natasha’s death was not right! That bastard king took her away from you, and her death killed your father with a broken heart. The king deserves to be punished!”

“Yes, the king does, not Simon.” He clenched his fist and squeezed his eyes shut, willing back his tears. “He’s not like that man, Fiona. He’s not cruel or greedy. He cares without hesitation for everyone and everything. He doesn't deserve such a horrible fate.”

Fiona looked upon her nephew’s desperate face, and was thrown back to standing at Watford’s borders, watching Ebb walk away. “It doesn’t matter now, Baz,” she muttered. “The curse was placed years ago. It can’t be changed now.”

Baz let out a shaky breath. He tried to calm the storm in his mind but as the sun fell further and further it only became worse.

As the sun set, Simon paced around his room. The itch in his finger had graduated to intense pain. He squeezed and poked and scratched but nothing relieved it. And he swore he saw something green under his skin. His head was getting foggier. Simon could barely hold onto his thoughts. They floated away like dust on the wind. All that remained was the desperate urge to escape.

Simon started to run his hands against the wall, searching for any exit. His fingers caressed a tapestry and he felt the edge of something hard. He scrambled to lift the cloth and pull at the the lip. A small door opened to a winding staircase. Simon swore he could hear whispers in the dark. They beckoned him forward. Simon could not resist. His feet walked forward before his mind could catch up.

He went down the stairs at the same time Baz was following his aunt, even as she attempted to storm away.

“You told me there was a way to break it, Fiona!” he yelled. “When I was little, you said there was one way.”

“And that it was impossible,” Fiona hissed.

“Yes, but I must know!”

Fion spun on her heels, scowling deeply at her nephew. “True love, Basil!”

Baz’s eyes went wide. “True love? That is all?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s so simple.”

“No, it isn’t.” Fiona turned back and stretched out her wings. “True love doesn’t exist.”

She flew off into the sky, and Baz still followed.

All the while, Simon was making his way through the castle he barely knew. He did as the whispers told him. Turned every corner, walked down every hallway. Deeper and deeper he went, until there was no more dying sunlight, only darkness.

He walked down a very narrow hall. A large oak door stood at the very end. Simon tried to go in, but the infernal thing was locked. That is, until a wisp of green fire worked into the mechanism, and forced the door to open. Simon walked inside.

“Please Fiona, there must be some possible way!” Baz shouted.

Simon came face to face with a miles high twisted pile of wood and metal. An unknown force pulled him forward. It was the same force that took a mess of broken pieces and pulled them together into a mismatched spinning wheel. It’s silver spindle glinted, even though there was no natural light.

“There isn’t!” Fiona replied over the raging winds in their ears.

The feeling in Simon’s finger was beyond maddening. And the spindle was right there, the glint making it oh so tempting. Somehow he knew it could relieve the pain. One touch and it would vanish. That’s all he needed, one touch. So Simon walked forward.

“It cannot be so hopeless!” Baz felt like a child, but he was utterly desperate.

Green fire curled from both the spindle and Simon’s. Pulling together, drawing Simon closer. The strange whispers told him he had to. That it was the only thing he was meant to do.

“Everything is hopeless sometimes, Basil!”

The flames burned brighter. Simon reached out.

“Not this. This is the one thing that can’t be!”

Simon’s finger pressed against the needle, and a single drop of blood welled on his tawny skin. Green fire exploded outwards as the prince fell to the ground, entering a sleep indistinguishable from death.

Fiona inhaled sharply and froze in the air. Baz very nearly crashed into her.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong.”

“It’s more than hopeless now,” she said simply. “It’s pointless.”

Baz’s stomach felt like it was falling to the ground miles below. “You don’t mean...”

“It’s done, Basil. The curse has been fulfilled.”

Baz looked to the west, where the sun was setting beneath the horizon. Simon’s eighteenth birthday was just ending. And Baz had not been able to keep him safe. He felt tears roll down his sharp cheek. Baz did not even acknowledge them, let alone wipe them away.

“He’s gone,” Baz choked out.

Fion stared at her nephew in disbelief. Cynical and jaded as she was, she assumed that Baz thought of the prince like most fae thought of humans, just a brief distraction in his endless life. But Fiona recognised the broken pain in her nephew’s face. She knew it well. It had sat in her from the day Natasha died and onwards, maybe even since Ebb left. It was from the loss of someone you loved.

“Baz...” Fiona reached towards him. But he backed away from her.

“No,” Baz hissed. “Don’t touch me.”

He turned and flew off into the distance, towards the human castle.

Simon was found by a servant. He was brought to a bed of ivory and gold in highest room of the tallest tower. David ordered both the guards who were supposed to be watching him to be imprisoned and later executed. The king spent far too long standing over his son. He watched the deep, slow rises of Simon’s chest. It truly looked like he was merely sleeping. But he would sleep forevermore, never to take the throne in David’s place.

David looked at his generals, standing in a line on the other side of the bed. “Ready the troops,” he said. “We set off for Watford in the morning.”

They nodded once. Together the men marched out, leaving the sleeping prince alone in his gilded room. Once the door was closed, the window slowly pushed open. Baz clambered inside. His wings had trouble fitting but no mere glass covered hole would stop him.

Baz stood over him, just as David had. But unlike the king, he was not stone faced. He looked upon him with sorrow, lips and eyes trembling at the sight. Ever since he and Baz met, Simon had been such a being of endless energy. Now, he was so quiet and still, and it felt so wrong. Simon should not be sleeping for eternity in this golden bed. He should be running in fields and climbing trees and throwing mud. He should be alive.

Slowly, cautiously, Baz stepped closer. The words bubbled up from his throat before he could stop them.

“I’m so sorry, Simon,” he whispered. “This never should have happened. My aunt told me she cursed you because you deserved to suffer for your father’s crime of killing my mother. She said you were the evil in the world. But from the day I met you, I realised that couldn’t be true. How could someone so kind hearted be evil?”

He delicately placed his hand on Simon’s arm. His skin was still hot, but far cooler than ever before. “I should have told you about the curse and why I met you much sooner. But I was afraid. I knew that if you found out the truth, you would rightfully run away. Call me selfish, but I couldn’t bear that. You’ve always been the best part of my life. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Without thinking, Baz reached forward, brushing stray curls from Simon’s face. “Fiona says true love isn’t real. I don’t know if she’s right or wrong. All I know is that my life felt so colourless and empty before you. The whole world is so much brighter when you’re in it. You are-...were, the sun. And I’ve been helplessly crashing into you since we were children.”

Tears flowed freely from Baz’s eyes. He cupped Simon’s cheek. “I know you can’t hear me, but I have to say this.” He leaned down, brushing their noses together. “I love you, Simon. I believe I have loved you almost since we met. I’m not sure if this love is true, or how this curse is meant to be broken. Maybe it’s truly hopeless. I just wish I could see your smile one last time.”

Baz slowly raised his head. He knew it was incredibly unlikely, but he was still disappointed that Simon remained asleep, peaceful and beautiful. Maybe Fiona was right. Maybe true love wasn’t real. Or maybe what Baz felt for Simon just wasn’t enough. He tried to will the tears away, but they kept flowing.

He knew this was truly goodbye, the one he never wished to have. If only Simon had stayed in Watford last night. If only he did not care for his aunt so much he had to go. If only Baz had been able to remove the curse before all this had even happened. None of that mattered that now. It was too late.

Before he turned to leave, Baz wished to do one more thing. He focused on that one mole on Simon’s cheek. He had thought about kissing it since he was twelve. This was to be his last time seeing his human. So Baz leaned down once more, and gently brushed his lips on the side of Simon’s face.

“Sweet dreams, Simon,” he whispered.

Baz quickly stood and turned away. He could no longer bear to look at his eternally sleeping love. He would fly away and forget him. Live for as long as possible until the pain went away. But it felt so burning, he feared it would never leave. He would mourn for Simon for the rest of his very long life. Baz wished he could tear his heart from his chest.

“Hello, Baz,” a familiar, beautiful voice said. Baz gasped. His body froze in place while his mind processed the shock. He had already accepted that he would hear that voice again, let alone with so much kindness in it. Slowly, Baz turned, and was met with blue eyes, bronze curls, and a smile like sunshine on a summer’s day.

“Hello, Simon,” he said shakily.

“I was having the most wonderful dream,” he sighed. “We were sitting on our tree, watching the sunset. I couldn’t stay a word, but you were saying such sweet things.” His head raised off the pillow slightly, tilting a bit to the side. “I dreamt you told me you loved me. Was that part of the dream, Baz?”

Baz’s shaky legs finally gave out, collapsing next to bed. He kneeled beside Simon, hands on top of his. “No, Simon, that was real. Everything I said was real.”

Simon kept smiling. He reached out and curled his fingers into Baz’s silky black hair. “Good. Because I love you too.”

Baz did not know how life could from so dark to so light in such a short time. He let out a breathy laugh like a summer breeze. Tears kept falling, but they were from joy now.

“Simon...” he said, the only word that mattered.

And then Simon kissed him.

It was soft, simple, a mere press of lips. But Baz still felt like he was in heaven. He melted against Simon’s mouth. Baz ran his hand up Simon’s strong arm. Simon pulled slightly on Baz’s hair as he did some wonderful thing with his chin. It was glorious. All the sadness and fear vanished in an instant. Simon was warm and alive. Baz would never let him go again.

When they separated, they did not go too far. Their foreheads stayed pressed together. Simon and Baz’s tears mixed together and their smiles matched.

“I’m sorry Simon,” Baz whispered.

“I heard it all, Baz,” he replied. “Don’t worry, I forgive you. You were scared, I understand. And the curse wasn’t even your fault, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t know my father killed your mother, I’m so so sorry.”

Baz shook his head frantically against Simon’s. “There’s no need for an apology, love, you bear no your fault either.”

Simon just had to kiss Baz again. He had never considered kissing as even a mere concept before, but kissing Baz felt so unbelievably right. It was perfect. It was all he ever wanted for the rest of his life. But he knew he couldn’t have it here.

He reluctantly pulled off Baz’s incredible mouth. “We have to go,” he said.

Baz nodded. He took Simon’s hand tightly. “Let’s go to Watford. Just like we planned.”

Simon nodded vigorously with his bright grin. “Yes, let’s.”

Though Baz was strong, he would not being able to carry Simon’s weight to the ground so far below. So the men went through a dark and twisting servant’s tunnel. Their hands never let go of each other. Soon, they exited into the grand throne room, where a large balcony was off to the side. It was low enough. Baz tugged Simon forth. As they ran through the grand room, the sound of metal scraping against metal rang through the hall.

Simon looked around in confusion. “What-”

“Simon, look out!”

Baz shoved Simon out of the way with a burst of silver flames, just in time for a large iron net to fall upon Baz. He howled in anguish. The iron net turned orange with heat, burning the fae’s sensitive skin.

“Baz!” Simon screamed.

“We have the fairy bastard!” A foreign voice said. “Get him!”

Men in thick, heavy armour poured in from every side. One bore a helmet covered in golden paint. Simon recognised his blue eyes, for they were the same as his own.

“Please don’t hurt him, Father!” Simon yelled.

King David glared at his through his helmet. “He is the son of the enemy. He will fall just as his mother did.”

“No, please!” Simons struggled but the guards kept dragging him away.

Baz felt weaker with every passing second. The pain was making him delirious. He faintly heard Simon’s pleas. His care was endearing in it’s own morbid way. Through his agony blurred vision, Baz saw the human king kneel down next to him. His eyes were near sadistic in their fury.

“You thought my knights would not notice a fae entering my kingdom?” he growled. “I first assumed it was your filthy aunt coming here to finish Simon off. But you’ll do. No matter what, I shall have revenge for the curse you put upon my son.”

“I...didn’t do that,” Baz forced out. “I was only...a baby, when my aunt...cursed him. And I just, saved him!”

The king scoffed with utter disgust. “Mostly likely an accident. None of your family would ever care about mine.”

Baz stared piercing deep sea coloured daggers at David. “You, you sent your own son away. How much...do you care?”

Fire raged in the king’s eyes. He stood straight as he drew his sword. Just from looking at it, Baz knew it was pure iron. It could kill him in one blow. And he knew Simon would know too.

“Father, please,” Simon sobbed. “I love him, and he loves me!”

David looked on his son with disappointment. “Don’t be a fool, son. These creatures are not capable of love. He was probably going to use you in some way after you escaped. Once he’s gone, you’ll understand.”

The king raised his sword high above his head. Simon tried as hard as he could to escape but could not break free. Baz met his eyes from under the chains. He gave a weak smile to him. It’s okay, he told Simon with no words, I love you. Simon wanted to look away, but he stayed steady, to show Baz he wouldn’t be alone.

“No!” a far off voice joined in. “You shall not hurt him!”

Everyone looked to the right just before a blast of white hot fire hit the king in the side. His armour protected him from the burn, but not from the impact. He soared over them in an terrifying yet impressive arc. The knights rushed to aid their king, completely forgetting about their young prince. Simon ran to Baz immediately.

“Get this thing off,” Baz said, very strained.

“I am, don’t worry,” Simon replied frantically.

Simon hauled the heavy net off with great heaves. When Baz was finally free, he immediately scrambled in to Simon’s arms. Their hands digged into each other for a moment, desperate to hang on.

“So,” their saviour sighed, standing over them, “he was where you ran off to all the time, Simon?”

Simon looked up, and let out a soft, childish laugh. “Yeah. Baz said I couldn’t tell anyone about him, sorry.”

Ebb smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling up. “Oh, I’m not mad. I’m just glad someone could break the curse.”

Simon went to his feet and threw his arms around his beloved aunt. She laughed and hugged him back. “Thank you, Auntie.”

“You’re very welcome, my darling. I’m glad I got here when I did.” She pulled back to give Simon the same look she did when he broke a pot. “I would have been here sooner if someone had not stolen my horse.”

“Sorry, Auntie.”

Ebb held both sides of his face tight with affection. “All is forgiven, love. Let’s get out of here.”

Simon nodded. He held Baz’s hand again. Ebb and Baz, the two most important people in Simon’s life, looked at one another for a brief moment. Ebb knew immediately who he was, of course, but she cared little. They exchanged a smile and nod. That was all that needed to be said.

“Gah!” Ebb screamed. Her back arched as she fell to the ground. Simon and Baz froze in their tracks. King David stood behind them, an iron chain hanging from his hand. It dragged along the floor with grating screech. No one could see his face, but they all knew the king was scowling.

He whipped his chain again, aiming for Baz. But the fae extended his wings and flew back just in time, taking Simon with him. Simon clung to Baz for dear life. However, his leg hung looser than the rest of him. So David threw the chain towards his son. It wrapped around his ankle twice. Simon looked up at Baz, utterly terrified.

“Baz-”

David tugged, and Simon was pulled forward. Baz held his arms so Simon would not be torn away from him. Simon felt he was being ripped in half, but he would not let go. Neither he or Baz wanted to lose each other again. But David was just as stubborn in his hatred.

“What’s that?” a knight shouted.

“Get down!” Another added.

A enormous crash blasted through the room. Shattered glass flew in and rained up the knights like falling stars. A giant, gaping hole stood where a window once was. And through the whole came a terrifying beast, with large bat like wings, a black scaly body, and twisting grey horns.

“A dragon!” one of knights screamed. “Run!”

The dragon roared so loud the stone walls rattle. It took a deep breath, then let out a huge stream of green flames. It spread out over the entire floor. Every knight smartly turned tail as the fire licked right at their heels. The two thrones caught flame, burning like green funeral pyres in the dark. David was in such shock that he let the chain go slack. Simon frantically unwrapped himself. Baz dived down to pick up a still barely conscious Ebb, then flew the three of them further away. They all prayed this dragon wasn’t after them as well.

David drew his sword, his stance strong and defiant. The dragon approached, baring its long fangs. The king screamed and brought his blade down, but the dragon simply batted it away with one massive claw. Though there was a slight burn on it’s scales. David went for his chain. The dragon simply breathed more fire at his hand. He howled in pain then dropped it with a clatter. David scrambled backwards until he was pressed against the wall. The beast pressed its talons to his chest. Baz looked more closely at the creature. He gasped, for the dragon had deep sea grey eyes.

Slowly, the dragon started to shrink down. Soon it was the size of an adult woman. The black scales melted down into a loose robe the touched the ground. The wings became feathered, and along with the horns, became small enough for a person. Fiona rolled her neck as her face finally became normal once more. She ripped the king’s helmet away in spite of the burn the iron caused, for she wanted to see the king’s terrified face.

“Hello, David,” she growled. “It’s been a long time.”

“Fiona,” he whispered in shock. “What are you doing here?!”

“I came to save my nephew initially. If he did truly break the curse like I assumed, I knew you wouldn’t let him leave. Imagine my horror to see you play tug of war with your own son. I knew you were horrible to fae, but I didn’t think you would harm your own blood so quickly.”

“I was trying to save him!”

“No!” Fiona shoved her face into his. “No, you weren’t. You’re not the hero here, and neither am I. Stopping you from killing your son wasn’t a noble act. It’s the start of my long overdue penance for cursing an innocent baby.” She looked over and up at Baz, Simon, and Ebb, all staring at her with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, to all of you. What I did was wrong. I don’t ask for forgiveness. I only wish you to have happiness.” She squeezed harder on David’s throat. “Which means this is over, Davy.”

David growled like a caged dog. “He is my heir, your nephew is the enemy!”

“No!” Simon shouted. Baz slowly lowered them all to the ground. Simon stomped up to his father, scowling in his face. “Baz is not the enemy. He’s the one who saved me, who loves me, not you. You sent me away and it killed my mother. Then you nearly killed both Baz and Ebb today. I don’t want you in my life. Not now, not ever.”

The king tried to speak again, but Fiona choked him even more, his voice turning into a gasp. “Silence,” she hissed. “I know the idea of such love is unbelievable to you. Your heart has been consumed by darkness for years. Mine has been too. But Simon and Baz’s are not. They have a love strong enough to defeat my magic. As long as I live, which is a very long time, I won’t let them be hurt anymore. Especially not by either of us.”

Fiona finally dropped David, letting him clatter to the ground in a heaving heep of iron. She turned her back on him with ease. She felt disgust at him, but not anymore than she felt at herself. Fiona looked at Simon. He took her hand before she even opened her mouth.

“It’s alright,” he said. “No more apologies. There have been enough today. It’s all done now.”

Simon smiled at her, but Fiona did not feel absolved. She knew she would have to live with the guilt forever. It was the least she deserved. She nodded to Simon, and he nodded back. Baz ran up and fiercely hugged his aunt. He held on tight, for he still loved her. And she was relieved.

“We should go,” Ebb said from behind them all. She looked to Fiona, and have a small smile. Fiona smiled back. They had saved each other’s nephews. Though all may not be fully forgiven, they were at least grateful to one another. It was the start of healing.

The group walked away, towards the balcony, one low enough for Baz and Fiona to fly them down. Baz put his arm around Simon’s waist, wing protecting his side. Simon leaned against him like a strong oak tree. They stepped out into the open air. He looked out at the night sky. The stars were glowing beautifully tonight. Right now, Simon was sure he and Baz could shine among them.

In all the carnage, one decorative fire bowl remained. And in the shield’s shiny bronze surface, Simon saw the deranged face of his father rampaging towards them, sword held high.

“Baz, watch out!” Simon screamed. He violently shoved him out of the way, right into Fiona and Ebb. It all felt like it was happening so slowly. David charged through the open space with no sign of stopping. His crazed eyes met Simon’s for a single brief moment, before he tumbled over the edge. Falling to his death by his own design.

All four sat there in shock for a long stretched moment. Simon and Baz stared at each other with mouths hanging open. Simon slowly went to his feet. His steps were shaky as he leaned over the stone edge. There on the distant ground laid the limp corpse of the king. Red pooled around his head. Simon could not see, but he knew his father’s eyes would be distant and vacant, empty of his soul.

One arm went around his shoulder. Another held his waist. Baz and Ebb held him up while he processed all that had happened.

“Why?” Simon whispered.

“He could not admit defeat,” Baz said.

“He never would have let me go.” Simon turned to Ebb with tears in his eyes. “Would he?”

Ebb slowly shook her head. Simon sighed. He was some complicated mix of relieved and grief stricken. His father was a horrible man. But was still his father in the end. At least in his stubborn, arrogant death, he gave Simon safety.

“I suppose England needs a new king,” Simon said, trying to supress the heaviness in his heart with a simple truth.

Baz’s hand gripped Simon’s shoulder. “Do you need help?”

Simon turned to his love. Baz smiled softly, nothing but kindness and caring in his eyes. Simon reached up and cupped his face. “Thank you.”

The mean leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. Their breaths mingled and their smiles matched. “Always, my love.”

And so, once the dust settled and the treacherous late king was buried, the details were sorted. The council of lords would control the throne until Simon was of age. Simon agreed to take his place as king on one condition, that Baz be allowed to rule by his side. The council was hesitant but decided it was better to have one fae king than no ruler at all.

In three years time, after many meetings and readings and arrangements, Prince Simon and Baz were declared Kings of England together, united in crown and marriage, equals in every way. For the first time in its long history, one of the fair folk sat on the throne of England. And two warring peoples were finally brought to peace.

On that same day, Fiona brought down her walls of thorns. Watford no longer needed to be protected from humans. But Fiona did not stay there. She went to the royal castle along with Ebb, for they both were new advisors to the kings. After years of apologies and crying and contemplation apart, Fiona and Ebb had found love together once again. They were not exactly as they were before. But they were happy.

Simon and Baz ruled together with fairness and compassion. They helped all people, promoted peace, and brought in an age of prosperity. The citizens of Watford and England adored them, and they cared for them. But Simon and Baz adored each other more than anything else. Their love was nothing but true and never wavered, not once. Simon stood by Baz when the occasional ignorant human proclaimed a fae didn’t belong on the English throne. Baz let the years take him, sacrificing his fae immortality so he could grow old along with Simon. Even as the years passed, as their hair became grey, Goldie passed after loving them all her life, and their adopted children grew to adults, they still looked at each other they were the only people in the universe

After many decades passed, Simon and Baz defied yet another tradition. The kings did not rule until they died. Rather, they abdicated the throne to their daughter at age sixty. Both wished to live their final days in Watford, among its wonders and serenity. They were happy there for a long time, spending quiet days together among the twisting trees and glittering waterfalls.

Eventually, as all living things do, King Simon and King Baz passed away. Fiona and Ebb, still unaging together, found their nephews forever asleep on a bed of magical moss, hand in hand and smiling. Simon and Baz’s aunts were first to weep over their deaths. And when the news spread, both lands mourned the passing of their beloved kings. Ebb, Fiona, the royal children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren held a private funeral in the woods where Simon and Baz grew up. The great kings were buried together under the first tree they raced to climb, back when they were mere boys who played in the forest. It’s said their childish giggles can be heard in the wind whistling through those branches.

And that is the tale of the Sleeping Prince and the Fair Folk Boy.

———————————————

AN: No lie, I cried a bit when I wrote the ending. I get emotional over people being together forever even after death okay?! So yeah I'm a crybaby. I hope you all liked it! I hope it all made sense too. It took awhile to figure out how to fit the elements of Carry On into Maleficent, and I still feel like everything isn't 100% good or totally in character, and it sucks I couldn't find a way to work in Penny or Agatha. But hey if I didn't post something until I totally liked it, I wouldn't post anything. (I have anxiety, is it obvious yet?) I do mostly like how this turned out though. It was challenging but fun, and a good start to the 2019 requests! Feel free to send me a request on my tumblr, but I've currently got ten other requests in my inbox, so it may take awhile, sorry. Anyhow, hope you all liked it (you already said that stfu Theo jfc) and I'll see you peeps again soon :D

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #the mage #ebb petty #fiona pitch #maleficient au #fantasy au #fairytale #fluff #angst #mysnowbazfic

[douxreviews]

Arrow - ‘Living Proof’ Review

“Need some help?”

It’s an interesting choice to have your main protagonist spend the season’s penultimate episode undergoing an existential crisis.  For me, and I suspect many other long-time fans, they hit it out of the park.  And just for the record, last week, when I mentioned that Oliver’s predicament reminded me of Tommy I did not see that coming...

Tommy is the perfect choice for the manifestation of Ollie’s conscience.  For all of their faults, Oliver and Tommy’s friendship represents the best of both of them.  It was based on a loyalty and love untarnished by their parents’ many transgressions.  This is why it was ultimately Tommy’s death and not his father’s that set Oliver on his hero’s journey.  Robert’s legacy amounted to a violent guilt trip whereas Tommy’s was an inspiration to be something better than a vigilante.

Here, Tommy represents a literal wake up call.  As with Tommy’s last posthumous appearance, Oliver is faced with a life-defining choice.  Will he revert to the death-dealing vigilante and kill his sister or break his family’s cycle of lies and violence and finally live up to his promise?  Oliver’s tunnel vision regarding Emiko makes it a hard sell.

In Oliver’s view, Tommy is a figment of his imagination sent to test him.  After years of believing the best of his parents only to be proven wrong time and again, Oliver believes giving Emiko the benefit of the doubt is a mark of weakness.  The fact that a belief in his father’s innocence led to Tommy’s untimely death is further proof. Being trapped in the building that Emiko had hoped would kill Oliver cements his opinion.  Emiko has made her choice and now must suffer the consequences.

Tommy argues that both he and Oliver are trapped in their personalized versions of Daddy Issues Hell.  Tommy continually put his faith in his father despite mounting evidence of his father’s villainy.  Oliver perpetuates a cycle of violence and lies spawned by fear.

Fear for his reputation led Robert to cover up the death of a councilman which led to his alliance with Merlyn which led to the destruction of the Queen’s Gambit.  Fear of Moira’s reprisals led to him disowning his daughter, which led to Emiko’s refusal to save Robert when she had the chance.  Now the fear of what Emiko could do to Oliver’s wife and children is leading him down the same path.

Tommy knows Oliver’s intention to kill Emiko just as he knows it would break the vow Oliver made when he died. There is a cost to Oliver justifying his actions to Tommy’s face that would not be paid were it anyone else.  Tommy also has a lifetime of shared history at his disposal.  So when he points out Oliver’s stubborn belief he is the only answer to every problem, that he knows the best way to escape a deteriorating building, that he has to get out to save his team, that he knows killing Emiko is the only way to keep his family safe, it gives Oliver pause but it does not change his mind.

So Tommy takes another tack.  Oliver’s vow to be as ruthless to her as she was to their father frees him from the building, but only to show him that his need to end Emiko may only bring about the destruction of Team Arrow.  It takes the image of his team lying dead at his feet shown to him by the embodiment of his best friend to finally break through.

Roy is going through his own crucible.   In many ways, Roy is what Oliver aspires to, rage issues aside.  His first impulse is to protect where Oliver’s is to punish and Roy believes in accountability where Oliver suffers from a sense of entitlement.   Roy committed a heinous act and his conscience demands atonement.  Whether that be admitting his deeds to the police, or sacrificing himself to save the team, amends must be made.  However, the line between doing the right thing and taking the easy way out can be remarkably thin.  And Dinah pushes past her own frustration and anger to remind Roy that dying is easy, redemption is harder.

Like Oliver, Felicity has a decision to make.  Her choices led her to marry the man of her dreams and gave her the opportunity to use her many gifts to help people but it is as she’s put it “deeply dangerous.”  In one evening, she nearly lost her husband in a collapsed warehouse full of deadly chemicals, she resisted arrest and is now a wanted criminal, and her life was threatened by her sister-in-law.   Her calculus has changed.  She may be willing to risk her life but not the lives of her children.

Felicity of the future hasn’t changed much.  She still puts the safety of her children above all else.  Unfortunately, neither of her children realize it.  As Mia gained an understanding of the danger of standing on the sidelines, she has made her peace with her mother’s decisions.  William never had qualms about his parents’ desire to save the city.  He views Felicity’s efforts to keep him safe through the lens of abandonment.  This is another attempt to push him out of her life.  As an adult, he has the option of taking matters into his own hands.

This leads us to danger all around.  William and Rene captured in Keven Dale’s office.  The Canaries’ remaining hideout compromised.  And in the present Team Arrow wanted for murder and surrounded by the SCPD.  It must be finale time!

4.5 out of 5 Plan Bs

Parting Thoughts:

The other emblem of Oliver’s state of mind is his bow. Merlyn broke it in the first season when Oliver had lost faith in his ability to save the city. Tommy points out that Oliver’s bow has been destroyed when Oliver rejects his relationship with Emiko.

If there were any doubts about Alena’s role in Galaxy One’s possession of Archer we now have confirmation.

Quotes:

Alena: “What the hell was that?” Felicity: “Oh,it’s part of my new security system, a remote-detonated nonelectric pulse that I built into the ceiling.” Alena: “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Tommy: “You have Oliver Angry Face on right now. Just saying.”

Tommy: “It is insane that we both had secret half sisters.” Oliver: “Well, yours didn’t try to kill you, did she?” Tommy: “You should give Thea some credit. I died before she had the chance to try.”

Tommy: “What about Emiko? What kind of solution are you planning for her?” Oliver: “The one she deserves.”

Mia: “Looks like your mystery contact is as good at covering their tracks as you are.” Felicity: “I know, which is why she’s so dangerous. And annoying.”

William: “And after everything that happened, you still stayed away. Like – like I wasn’t even part of this family.” Mia: “Oh, and I thought we had problems. I’m just going to go... do anything else.”

Dinah: “It’s better one of us takes the fall than the rest of us spends our lives as fugitives.”

Felicity: “Flammable chemicals plus sparks equals really big boom.”

Tommy: “Again, I would like to point out how structurally unsound this building appears to be, so maybe upping the payload is not the best idea.”

Oliver: “After this I’m out of options.” Tommy: “Are you, or is this just typical Oliver.”

Alena: “I don’t know how you ever breathe on this job.” Felicity: “I don’t.”

Oliver: “To stop Emiko, if I need to be as ruthless to her as she was to my father, so be it.”

Alena: “Are you OK?” Felicity: “Almost dying? Nothing I haven’t done a hundred times before. Am I right?”

William: “I didn’t need her money, Mia. I needed a mother.”

Mia: “So you’re the fool who’s responsible for all this whole Archer mess.” Alena: “You’re the kid Felicity when into hiding for.”

Tommy: “You are living proof that people can change, and you’ve got to find a way to see that in her, too.”

Shari loves sci-fi, fantasy, supernatural, and anything with a cape.

#Arrow #Green Arrow #Oliver Queen #Felicity Smoak #John Diggle #DC Comics #Arrowverse #Arrow Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

[darkicedragon]

Got to halfway through 111 in The Magnus Archives, because wow that’s a long episode, ahaha. Basically 900 words, haha.

"But instead, I felt it settle next to me, the meat of it sinking into the spaces left by my position. It was pressing up against me, and let out the most contented sound I have ever heard from a pig. The message could not have been clearer: ‘Friend’." Awwwww!

EHEHEHEHE JOHN JUST USING HIS COMPULSION POWER. MAKES GETTING INFO SOOOO MUCH EASIER AHAHA.

HE'S BLACKMAILING WITH HIS POWER AHAHAHAHAHH. THIS IS GREAT. XD

YES, THIS POWER IS VERY GOOD AND CONVENIENT.

Pfft of course Daisy will at least look after Basira.

Wait wait wait wait Tim doesn't know about the Unknowing yet? XD;;;;

Oooooooo does Tim have a circus story?

EEEEEEE TIM MAKING A STATEMEEENT.

*muse* Tim's giving a lot of information in his statement. I guess because he knows how much info to give rather than short sentences, but hm. I’m still pondering John spreading compulsion powers to his assistants.

Eeeeeee Robert Smirkeeeee.

“Well, I am now! I don’t care about the rest of it, if anyone’s going to find that Circus, I’m coming too. You’re not going to stop me!" EEEEHEHEHEHEHEHH

Wonder when we'll get Martin's backstory, hmmm.

“All right, hit me with your X-ray eyes then, boss. What do you see?" SCREEEEAM. YES THIS SARCASM. 8) 8)

EEEHEEHEH I like HOT HEAD REVEEENGE and actually wanting to do shit, but I also appreciate ‘Adult pls think about this first and you're not going to be acting rationally and will probably fuck up shit.’

“Well, Elias made a good choice." Eeeeeeeeeeeeee

Very glad for the transcriptions now with the Chinese translations.

Oooooh big space monster! 8D 8D

'So how have you been occupying your time?' planning on how to kill you

OOOOOO Elias can read minds and put knowledge there! 8D

Hmmmm, Melanie still cares for Georgie though, so that’s still a connection she has.

Ivy meadows? There was that care ho - ooooh maaaaaan. Was he there during the time of that statement?

Hnnnnng, John's being affected by something. ... Oooooh, does this count as leaving the institute without warning?

Should John really be doing a statement when he feels like crap? XD;;;

OMGGGGG, HE'S ADDICTED TO RECORDING STATEMENTS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Eeeeheheheh John wants to go back and be helpful for the others.

Eheheh John NOT being recognised pfft. That’s new.

'Soooo. Kidnapped. AGAIN.' AW, JOHN XD XD

OOOOH SERIAL KILLER DAUGHTER

HAS SHE BEEN KILLING AS WELL, OOOOOO

VAMPIRE KILLER STILL ISN'T DEAD, HUH.

And is this the pair that were at the ivy home hmmm.

The actor episode is very much up his own ass, pfft.

'I'VE - I'VE GOT A //KNIFE//' MARTIN BAAABBBYYYYY. HE’S DOING HIS BEST.

'And - and sometimes the murder?' MAAARRRTTTIIIIN

'It's a legacy I've learned to be proud of' HNGGGGGG 83 EHEHEHEHE GERARD ISN'T FULLY DEAD.

YES YES YES ANATOMY CLASS PPL ARE BAAAAACK

Ehehehe big pupils

Julia and Trevor and great together ahaha

'But are you sure of what's listening in?' HNNNNNG.

Hnnnng, did the Director find John's childhood book?

Brandon's gonna get eaten for reeeeal.

'avoided digital' MMMHHMMMM

'Can - I - get - you - a cup of...tea?' 'So she told you then?' SO MUCH LAUGHTER 'Statement taken posthumously from subject' PFFFFFFFFFT

Booooo, through a book

I feel like the lighter’s going to be very important later. John’s been carrying it around for a while, and its got the web design on it.

BUT ALSO!! He got that package in like, the height of his paranoia!! And he just STARTS USING IT???

'Was it peaceful?' '...No' 'Good. Don’t think she would have wanted that' Pfffft

'I’m a BOOK' PFFFT. I do love how they can still have lighthearted/funny moments amongst all the Save The World stuff 8')

Listening again to episode 62 while trying to find the episode where John found Gertrude’s stash. 'And there's no way I'm going to let Elias know how much I'm actually aware of.' WHILE HE'S TALKING DIRECTLY INTO THE RECORDER. GAAAAWD. XDD;

"Sometimes. If she was getting shaky. They perked her up, I think. Feeding the Eye, you know?" YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

So not feeding knowledge/statements to the Eye means the Eye starts eating them instead?

Muse muse. Wonder if Elias liking doing his orderly stuff every week is him feeding the Eye in his way.

It's kinda funny because they're sort of opposites - Gertrude resisted feeding the Eye as much as possible, but fed her assistants to the monsters, while John feeds the Eye as much as possible, and he protects his assistants. I mean, Leitner's first assistant lasted like, two weeks? John's has lived largely whole and sane for two years.

Aside from Sasha >_>;; But still. That's only one death and he hadn't had a deliberate hand in that.

But yeah, he seems to just be going with it. Could explain why he's more powerful than Gertrude already.

Whiiiich means he's also tumbling faster towards non-humanness? 83<

Ooooooh so Fairchild's are all about the lonely spaces, I see I see. I got that, but didn't realise that was an actual Thing.

Every 'what happened?' I now just assume is a compulsion. Which it IS, and John's probably forgot again, but it's so much like a trigger phrase now, ahah.

Awww Gerard's relationship with his mum :(

Flamsteed? *squint*

#d liveblogs the magnus archives

[stonedlennon]

I've read this somewhere and i can't help but think about it a lot: do you think that the relationship of john-yoko and paul-linda are very similar, albeit manifested and viewed differently because of the people involved? like they're the inseparable, co-dependent type? and what do you think, if ever, does this say about the relationship of j/p? minimum 700 words, doubled space, 1 inch margin on all sides lol jk luv u

so this is literally one million years old and i apologize so much for that. honestly i’ve been trying to think of a way to frame my answer, because (as you all know by now) i try to give as balanced a point of view as i possibly can; in the interests of fairness i want to highlight anything that could be relevant. also, don’t joke about the double spacing. i’d probably do it, lmao!

here’s the thing. i don’t really think so. and the reason i say that is because you have to break down those respective relationships in two ways: 1. the way they manifested; and 2. the way they have been perceived. these are, whilst not diametric opposites, still intrinsic to way you can hope to analyse something like a personal relationship without falling into wild assumptions. i’ll use your two points of reference - inseparable and co-dependent - as a framework for this discussion.

on the first point: manifestation. john and yoko’s relationship was by definition public, and i don’t necessarily mean only in their new york existence with bed peace, et al., but their fight for kyoko, their constantly traveling around the world, gibraltar, and so on. paul and linda, by comparison, were relatively private, mainly towards the late 60s and the breakdown of the beatles and paul’s sadness beard and all that. john and yoko had reported drug dependence, they went to court. and yes paul was stuck for possession as well, but the narrative has been framed somewhat differently. not to get on too much of a tangent. but john reacted almost consistently with belligerence and - dare i say it - entitlement when it came to certain situations. paul was the diplomat, the one with the smooth cold smile and a degree of boyish candor that played very differently to wild john lennon who went off with an artist and had all these adventures. the way their relationships manifested was as much perpetuated by the media then as it has been in subsequent years - hence my second point: perception. 

john, even when he was a beatle, was the “clever” one, the tricky one, the bloke who always had a plain-speaking attitude to him that somewhat fascinated the media, who were more used to performers like paul. keep in mind i’m only talking about them from an outsider’s perspective - we know that paul could be canny and cruel just as much as john. but the difference is that when john/yoko and paul/linda manifest, the media already built boxes for them to fit into. their rivalry took on something of a mythology. an extension of that logic is that yoko represented an underdog (and i do think this is true): diminutive, artistic, strange, somewhat unearthly, steadfast by the troublesome john lennon. linda: the professional, an attractive white woman, divorced (but not scandalously so), american (not so great), a mother (bonus points: heather had a very public role in the paul/linda relationship whereas kyoko was somewhat mysterious [not least because she was busy being kidnapped]). on the same note, you cannot remove the aspect of race from this equation. yoko suffered horrendous racial slurs that continue to this day. there is an aspect of orientalism to the idea that yoko, “the bad one”, “lured” john away from the beatles. like.. she’s a woman, not an evil fairytale figure. i absolutely contend that the discussion/situation would be different were she a white woman. 

SO with all that in mind, that jumble of thoughts, i don’t think their relationships were similar. when you say co-dependent, do you mean linda’s presence in paul’s life to the point of joining the band? or the fact that they rarely spent a day apart? keep in mind that all of this is just me theorizing. but inasmuch as yoko was supportive of john, she also isolated him, they encouraged and enabled each other to take drugs, and they made a concentrated effort to remove themselves from society - they also, with some rare exceptions, did not have a child to look after; they were one unit. paul and linda, on the other hand, went to scotland in order to escape, however i don’t believe they refused to see people or to go down to london occasionally. they were also raising heather, who required a stable home life on account of being a child in need of support. there is also the question of energy. i do not deny that yoko was what john needed at a point in his life - i made a post a while ago defending her, because i do genuinely think yoko has been treated abysmally by the fandom and the public.

by energy i am circling back to the idea of media perception. linda and paul’s relationship has been framed by picturesque photographs of them in the countryside (and note what the countryside implies: fresh air, health, happiness, tradition - especially in the pastoral british mind). john and yoko were city dwellers, standing outside court, yoko a tiny little dark figure hovering by john as he sounds off about something or another, them in new york - america! what does that represent to the british mind? modernism, isolationism, the avant-garde. john and yoko were perceived as “other”: edgy, stylish, strange, artistic. paul and linda are tradition: white, happy, country-dwelling, supportive of each other. 

it’s impossible to know the realities of their relationships. we have fragments, and we can guess, but you really can’t detract the power the media and the beatle mythology has played into the framing of these two relationships. there is also the fact that posthumous recollection plays a powerful role. linda’s death, as a woman, a mother, a wife, is very different to john, martyred, murdered, genius. yoko is the grieving widow who has “sunk her claws” into “john’s estate” to “better herself”. paul is the grieving widower who had a very slow and public mourning period, but who did “move on” eventually. to this day people imply that yoko didn’t mourn john “enough” - not to mention the damaging fact that she shacked up with sam havadtoy very soon after. paul however appeared “genuine” in his grief. sex and gender play strongly in these two situations, as they have throughout the john/yoko and paul/linda dichotomy. they are presented as binary opposites: “good” and “bad”. the connection to the beatles also means that it can be revealing who you side with: the artistic yoko; or the independent linda. it’s akin to the “which beatle are you” magazine quizzes back in the 60s. it’s somewhat perverse.

i feel like i’ve said so much and yet nothing at all. i would like to discuss john/paul in perhaps another post? if you’re interested, let me know? but with regards to the john/yoko and paul/linda situation, i think they were presented as fundamentally different right from the beginning. right from the beginning. so we are only ever able to receive information that has been pre-filtered. we will never know the truth from the evidence we have. but by turning the evidence around, we can know that the way linda/yoko were portrayed says a lot about the culture of the 60s-80s; the media portrayal of women in relation to musicians; the role these women played in the break up of one of the world’s biggest bands; and the role they played in subsequent constructions of john and paul’s respective public identities and images. identities and images, it must be said, that were strong enough to resonate even through to today, to the point where we, in 2017, are debating the issue. that is some powerful media spin.

#mclennon #yoko ono #linda eastman #mclennon discussion #* #answered #under a readmore because it's long as ballllllllsssssss #Anonymous

[junker-town]

The State of Louisiana vs. Cardell Hayes

The State of Louisiana vs. Cardell Hayes

The city of New Orleans claimed two men the moment Will Smith was killed

by Tyler Tynes | Mar. 1, 2017

In the middle of Dixon Hall at Tulane University, on a dark stage, New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu sighs before a tired crowd.

He’s done this so many times. So have they. There’s always a speech to give about the violence in this city.

New Orleans is sick, drunk on violence. If that was never understood before, it was clear on April 9, 2016 at 11:31 p.m. when Cardell Hayes tore open Will Smith’s body with eight hollow point bullets, seven to the back. And 18 days later, the day before Hayes would be indicted, Landrieu laments that this disease ravaging the Big Easy often prevents folks from remembering that there are two sides to every shooting.

“His death leaves a wife alone, his children without a father, his teammates in shock and a hole in the heart of a hurting city,” Landrieu said about Smith. “It has been rightly said about all these murders that tragedy is on both sides of the gun. In this case, on the other side of the gun is Cardell Hayes. He’s in jail. But he has a family, too. And a 5-year-old son.”

There is silence in the hall.

Will Smith was a football deity in a city starved for hope. He anchored a defense that delivered a Super Bowl on the heels of Hurricane Katrina. Smith is a symbol for a team that accomplished the impossible when good never felt like a reality in New Orleans. He was a football phenom that mattered to this football-fevered city.

He was beloved by politicians. He befriended cops. He was a philanthropist. When a man of his stature gets killed, people rush to his defense and to his story.

But here’s the reality of that night in April: Two men, two outsized New Orleans personalities, had a bad night that escalated in the worst possible way. People aren’t made in absolutist terms. No man is really a saint. Those killed aren’t rendered wholly good by death just as those who take a life aren’t necessarily in a perpetual state of evil. That’s not human nature.

When you live in Louisiana, where nearly half of the households in the state own guns and gun homicide rates are three times higher than the national average, you can’t expect that those carrying won’t fire when provoked. That’s not human nature either.

Not for Will Smith, the man painted as an immortal, and not for Cardell Hayes, the man rendered a ruthless vigilante.

That telling is only half the story.

“One life lost, many more lives changed forever, swallowed by a cycle of violence that came and went so fast it was almost a dream or in this case a nightmare,” Landrieu said, disrupting the peace in the auditorium.

“And a city is left to wonder why.”

Joe W. Brown Memorial Park holds Victory Field where Cardell Hayes and the Crescent City Kings played football in New Orleans. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The man who shot Will Smith to death was just trying to get home that night. That’s something he really wants you to know. This was before the three-car crash, before some pudgy man ripped off his shirt and started swinging, and before one of the most fearsome defensive players New Orleans has ever seen spilled onto the concrete, dead.

You probably know him differently by now, though. Or at least you do by his mugshot: This 6′6, more than 300-pound black man — round-headed, a thumping beard and waving dreads — known as Cardell Hayes. His hood in the Ninth Ward calls him “Bear,” naturally. He looks like one.

On April 9 last year, the night he shot Smith, Hayes woke and sold his last pit bull puppy. “Bullies” as he calls them. He breeds them by the book; even does the artificial insemination himself. He played with his son, Cardell Hayes Jr., or CJ for short. Hayes ran some errands, went to football practice, and then hit his favorite neighborhood spot by night’s end.

Lance’s Barbershop sits down Ursulines Avenue in the Treme neighborhood. It’s a haven for Hayes, a calm place to ease his mind after a day driving a tow truck, dealing a pit, or pouring cement.

Dwight “Whitey” Harris frequently leapt on Hayes’ back when Hayes would enter, “It’s like man versus Bear,” Whitey says. “When I attacked him he picked me up by my ankles.”

Lance Rouzan usually orders some extra-large pizzas while barbers trim heads. It’s frequently busy. Late night Saturdays in New Orleans tend to get like that.

A pocket in Hayes’ jeans vibrates. Kevin O’Neal, his best friend, had been calling all day. Rouzan and the boys saw his face crack a grin. “What’s going on?” one asked. House party. Uptown.

Some high school friends were having a get-together. Hayes would scope it out. He’d call if it was worth a drive.

It turned out to be a bust. Maybe 20 people showed and were playing Pictionary. It was lackluster enough to head home early.

The problem was that O’Neal rode to the function in Hayes’ Hummer. They had to go back to the shop to retrieve his truck. That much is indisputable. How the next part goes, though, depends entirely on whom you’re talking to.

One of the corridors where Will Smith and Cardell Hayes’ vehicles collided. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

Right after 11 p.m., the duo zoomed down Magazine Street. The Hummer jolted. A Mercedes SUV was behind them. Hayes pulled over. The Mercedes sped away. The Hummer drove after it. Maybe Hayes could get the license plate. He had already been in an accident once, and insurance ain’t cheap.

Hayes will tell you he tried to call 911 while chasing the Mercedes. The prosecution insists Hayes is a liar. Hayes says he tried to pump his brakes during the chase but accidentally hit the car. The prosecution says he rammed that SUV.

A man named Richard Hernandez exited the passenger’s side of the Mercedes. Hayes says he didn’t leave his car until Hernandez charged at him and ripped off his shirt. Prosecutors reluctantly agree. Hayes also says Hernandez wrapped a “shiny object” in the shirt and swung at him. Prosecutors say Hernandez wasn’t the aggressor.

The contested points of that night haven’t found any resolution in the months since. You’ve probably heard different versions of these depending on which lawyer’s mouth said it. How Hernandez’s actions made Hayes get his gun. How Hayes claims Smith hit him “three or four times” in the face. And how, maybe, the Smith party taunted him for not using that pistol.

“Nigga, you got your gun? Well I’m gonna get mine and I’m gonna show you what to do with it,” Hayes, under oath, recalls Smith yelling.

“What else can I think other than he’s trying to kill me?” Hayes says. Still, at that point, Hayes hadn’t drawn. Smith started fighting with his wife, Racquel. She pulled him from the scuffle. She reminded him of their kids waiting at home: Lisa, Wynter, and Will Jr.

The Smith family finally reached its vehicle. The Hernandez family had run away. Will Smith then reached into his car. The whines of police sirens are about to blare down Felicity and Sophie Wright Place.

Hayes raised his pistol while he begged Smith not to grab his gun.

“Please don’t do this, bruh,” he can be heard saying on video from last summer entered as evidence. “Please, please don’t do this.”

Racquel shrieked in the direction of her husband. “No, baby, no.” Hayes insists that he didn’t wanna pop this guy.

“I didn’t have nowhere to run,” Hayes says. “If I turned and run, I’ll get shot and killed”

Hayes saw the man turn. A bang. Hayes released eight shots. As the smoke cleared, bystanders could only see a giant crying next to a dead body. He bellowed into the night, praying an ambulance would answer his calls.

AprilApr

April 9: A driver in a Hummer runs into the back of Smith’s SUV. An argument ensues. Smith is fatally shot and his wife Raquel is wounded in the legs. Hayes is arrested on the scene.

April 11: Surveillance video shows Smith’s SUV bumping Hayes’ Hummer moments before the crash that preceded the shooting.

April 12: Police say they found a loaded handgun in Smith’s car, that Hayes told officers on the scene he was the shooter and that in addition to the .45 used in the shooting officers found a revolver in Hayes’ vehicle.

April 13: An attorney for Smith’s family holds wide-ranging news conference during which he says Smith didn’t brandish a gun during the altercation and had a concealed-carry permit. But a lawyer for Hayes says a witness saw Smith with a gun that night. A coroner says Smith was shot seven times in the back and once in the side.

April 15: Hayes’ lawyer calls for the New Orleans police to recuse themselves from the investigation, claiming their competency and honesty are questionable. The request is later rejected.

April 16: Funeral services are held for Smith.

April 28: Grand jury indicts Hayes on one charge of second-degree murder, which carries a mandatory life sentence, and one charge of attempted second-degree murder.

MayMay

May 5: Smith’s wife, Racquel, accepts his posthumous degree from the University of Miami.

JuneJun

June 3: A defense lawyer says test results show Smith was legally drunk the night he died.

JulyJul

July 14: Hayes’ lawyer tries to get the New Orleans District Attorney’s Office off the case, saying the DA made “baseless and inflammatory” statements about him in a report sent to law enforcement agencies.

July 22: The judge refuses to remove the New Orleans DA and his staff from the Hayes case.

OctoberOct

Oct. 28: Racquel Smith offers her first public remarks since her husband’s death, speaking at Will Smith’s induction into the Saints’ Hall of Fame.

NovemberNov

Nov. 16: Judge rules the jury will be sequestered during Hayes’ trial, which begins Dec. 5.

DecemberDec

Dec. 5: Trial begins.

Dec. 11: A jury convicts Hayes of manslaughter and attempted manslaughter.

Source: AP

Across town, Nandi Campbell’s phone started ringing. The lawyer got a midnight call from bounce artist Big Freedia. Hayes made national news. Homicide by shooting. Road rage turned murder in New Orleans. Somebody had to go find Nandi’s cousin.

Campbell saw Hayes in a police interview room and told him for the first time that Smith, a Super Bowl champion, was the man he killed. Hayes couldn’t believe it. He used to watch Smith’s game tapes and study his moves as budding defensive lineman. He idolized him.

Hayes crumpled next to Campbell.

“My life over with,” Hayes said. “They gonna make me look like I shot and killed this man. I looked up to Will as a football player.”

“No, baby. Ya life not over,” Campbell said in a New Orleans drawl, placing a hand on his back. “Don’t say that.”

Hayes is not innocent in the realm of moral court. He killed a man and may have maimed a woman. But Hayes isn’t denying that he killed someone — he’s arguing that he was within his right to do so.

Formerly named Thurgood Marshall Middle School, this is the Mid-City building where Bryant Lee says he met Cardell Hayes. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The state of Louisiana wants Hayes to fry on the plantation fields of Angola, the Louisiana State Penitentiary. That has become evident over the 246 days between the killing and Hayes’ conviction.

That might seem like an eternity. But not many people in New Orleans have seen a man go down as fast and surgically as Hayes. In 2015, there were 16 murder trials in Orleans Parish. The average time from arrest to trial was 3.2 years. The shortest was two years.

Hayes was arrested overnight. He was indicted in 18 days. He received a bond near $2 million an hour after. He was sent to trial eight months later. Then he was convicted after a six-day trial under the first sequestered jury in over four years in a parish that couldn’t afford it. That’s how much the state wanted justice for Will Smith.

Attorney Peter Thomson, who represents Smith’s family, said days after the killing that Hayes was a “cold-blooded murderer,” that he intentionally rammed the Mercedes, that he was “deranged.” New Orleans Police Superintendent Michael Harrison said hours after the killing that the NOPD vowed to “build a strong case,” allowing the prosecution of Hayes to be done to the “fullest extent of the law.”

Saints quarterback Drew Brees spoke for five uninterrupted minutes on his former teammate’s death. He called the violence an “epidemic.” He said he thinks the young men feel like they have been abandoned, or are lacking family, or are lacking a father. At one moment it was drugs. At another, it was gang violence. He was sad for New Orleans, and angry at New Orleans, and taking wild swings at making sense of it.

“What that tells me is that the person who’s pulling the trigger in many cases has no regard for the life that he’s about to try to take,” Brees said. “He also has no regard for his own life, because there’s consequences with that and they have to recognize those consequences.”

New Orleans head coach Sean Payton said “our city is broken” the same week because his former player got killed, and he even called for an end to guns.

Defense attorney John Fuller presented himself as the only man with a difference in opinion. Hayes retained the up-and-comer who took the high-publicity case to bolster his own practice and profile, delaying a criminal court judgeship in the process. In Fuller, Hayes had a gem, one of the most intimidating, eloquent, problematic, God-fearing black defense lawyers the South has to offer — or at least one who didn’t mind leaning into that role.

Fuller got to work quickly, spoon-feeding the city a defense based on a vice familiar to New Orleans: corruption. It was evident in the investigation of Hayes’ case, or at least, that’s what Fuller was selling. And to sell that, he needed a big audience. So he started his months-long sermon in the pulpit of the media.

“Cardell Hayes,” Fuller said to gathered TV cameras on a dreary April afternoon four days after the shooting, “was tried and convicted before I got out of church Sunday morning.”

My Redeemer Missionary Baptist Church is where Pastor Sha’Teek Nobles, a family spokesperson, says Cardell Hayes was a member. It sits off S. Claiborne Avenue in Central City. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

In the eight months Hayes spent behind bars awaiting trial, not many cared to look into the man behind the late-night mugshot or the man he killed. The Saints lost a soldier from their defensive line. All anyone knew was that some rogue gunslinger killed him in cold blood.

Stray blogs said Hayes did security for the Saints, which was never true. USA Today said his “bullies” are “loyal, protective and potentially dangerous—characteristics that apparently Hayes shares.” Sports Illustrated capitalized off that rhetoric, running a story titled “The Saint v. ‘The Thug.’” Tyrann Mathieu, an NFL defensive back and former prep star here, said on Twitter that April that Hayes was a “hating ass coward.”

“Everyone starts on the side of the Saints,” Derwyn Bunton, New Orleans’ chief public defender said. “The sentiment, overwhelmingly, was that folks assumed Mr. Hayes was some hot-head thug that killed a beloved member of the community.”

Racquel Smith’s husband was that beloved member of the community.

“I don’t want sympathy,” Racquel said during trial. “I want justice for my husband … He loved New Orleans. He loved the people and the community and he did so much for the community. We loved it because we both came from humbling beginnings. It was us.”

“Would you exaggerate or leave out parts of what would happen to preserve the memory of your husband?” Fuller asked her on the stand.

“No, sir,” she said.

“Would you do anything to save his public image?” Fuller said.

“No,” she said before circling back. “I know the truth.”

Racquel Smith testified that she didn’t believe her husband had a temper, though it was reported in 2010 that he dragged her by her hair out of a Lafayette, Louisiana, nightclub. She says she doesn’t remember how much he’d drank, but on the night Smith was killed, blood tests showed he was three times past the legal alcohol limit.

Will Smith died with gunpowder residue on his hands. Of the two bullets that hit Racquel, one bullet’s origin can’t be conclusively proven — it’s still embedded in her leg. She testified that a doctor told her it was too risky to remove. But no one attempted to either prove her claim or negate that claim. Her testimony went unchallenged.

Presented with a chance to finally dispute the corruption narrative that Fuller fed the media — that the case had been manipulated to get quick justice for the local celebrity — Racquel didn’t waver. She told you. She didn’t want empathy. She just wanted justice. Regardless if, like she admits, she never saw the person who shot her.

If it’s worth anything, though, she swears it was Hayes.

“No one sympathized for me. He was putting lies about my family,” Racquel said.

“You are reading all these horrible things, that are false, and you don’t say a word?” a prosecutor asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Racquel said.

“Did you wait to tell these ladies and gentlemen of the jury your story?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes ma’am,” Racquel said.

“Is this the first time anyone showed any sympathy for your case?” the prosecutor asked.

“Absolutely,” Racquel said.

This is the last place cardell Hayes lived, as provided by public record. It sits in New Orleans East on Morrison Road. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

Hayes made his home deep in the Ninth Ward, a place plastered on network news during Katrina when the levees broke. His last known residence leads you down Morrison Road, in New Orleans East.

It’s a fleeting oasis here, narrowly missed by tornados that struck nearby in early February 2017. Small homes with overgrown bushes dot opposite sides of the canals. It’s working class renewal sprinkled amid desolation. A shotgun duplex here. An orange spray-painted X there.

Hayes’ house is big enough for him and his girlfriend, Tiffany, to raise CJ in. The neighborhood is lively. School kids yell and run down sidewalks in the afternoons. Girls in colorful barrettes hoot for “Angel” or “Rosie” or “Tyrell” or “Kevin.” It’s a normal hood for a middle-class family.

Down Crowder Boulevard there are a slew of gas stations and markets separating highway entrances from exits. You can get fried chicken by the bucket and gas past dusk. If you’re really hungry, a smaller stand by one gas pump sells fresh po-boys.

Ten minutes east, Hayes laced his cleats in Joe W. Brown Memorial Park. He played for the Crescent City Kings, a development team the papers don’t even waste ink on. Plenty remember “Bear” as CJ’s father, Dawn Mumphrey’s son, Genitra Mumphrey’s brother, a familiar face at Lance’s, a football star from Warren Easton High School, a businessman, and much more.

Warren Easton High was where Cardell Hayes became a touted defensive lineman, rising up recruiting websites as a top-50 recruit in Louisiana. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

Leonard Brooks, 42, helped raise the boy from these blocks. Brooks, who says he’s Hayes’ uncle, has been choked up by the proceedings. Hayes is a churchgoing boy, he says, a role model to Brooks’ other, younger family members. No one’s denying he killed Smith. But  few seem to recognize that this may have been self-defense.

“All they want to do is bury my nephew,” Brooks said. “As God as my witness, I would trade places with him so he can be with his family because, I know, in my heart, he was protecting himself.”

Bryant Lee, a store owner, met “the real silent dude” at Thurgood Marshall Middle School. They went to college and sweated in football camps together.

Lee had a brother who got locked up way back. A middle-class man could go insane counting the bills. He asked Hayes for advice, and Hayes gave him $1,000. When Lee tried to return the money, Hayes laughed it off. You can’t give back a gift.

“That’s just not his character. He’s a loyal dude. He’s family-oriented and giving. He’ll give you his last,” Lee said about Hayes’ portrayal. “If I was in the situation, I would’ve done the same thing. Out here? It’s kill or be killed.”

Five years ago, Casandra French saw him at a brass band parade.

Hayes was introduced as “the man with the American bullies.” Her husband desperately wanted to get a litter together. They needed the extra cash. Hayes was big in the game. So he handed her husband a hound and stuck around to help get their litter together.

Soon they were doing inseminations. And their daughter got a scholarship to play second baritone at Alabama State. Due to his unasked kindness, she now has spending money.

“Because of him, now we’ve had six litters and that’s what keeps us going,” French said from the front seat of her car. “He was never a troublemaker. I just pray for the man. The glimpse I have of him is a very good person. To do what he did, he’d have to be pushed.”

Lamont Simmons met him on the gridiron at Victory Field. Simmons played a few steps behind him on defense. Hayes came on the team midseason a year or so ago. He learned the plays in two weeks and gave the team the lift it needed. Hayes’ push got the developmental gang to a championship game.

Between those lines, Simmons learned about “Bear.” He saw a doting father who brought CJ to practice and let his boy ride his shoulders and play in his dreads. He befriended a man who coached his son in pewee kickoffs and kissed him whenever he could. He understood the mild-mannered giant that “led by example” and broke up fights as Simmons threw haymakers at opposing offenses.

“He was a mediator, he was always calm, except during a double team,” Simmons recalls.

It’s the weight of all of this that momentarily had Joe Howard in knots on a bench outside one of the court hearings last year.

Howard went to high school with Hayes. His wife’s sister is a friend of the family.

“He doesn’t have that aggressive nature that was put out,” Howard said with a huff. “But that’s with anything. A black man goes to jail, the public sees the mugshot and you are automatically labeled.”

The corner of Gravier and S. White St. sits Orleans Parish Prison, a holding cell blocks from where Cardell Hayes was tried in December. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The Orleans Parish Prison is an uninspiring behemoth of a building. It’s not a last stop. It’s a holding cell, a nationally known repugnant penitentiary.

OPP is just a peek at the hell Angola offers.

The Life and Legend of Leadbelly describes Angola as a place that kneels defendants in courtrooms upon sentencing. It’s America’s largest maximum security facility where 85 percent of prisoners never leave. “One of 10 inmates” annually get shanked there, according to the book. It sits in the middle of nowhere on a bend by the Mississippi River. The only things around for miles are an airstrip, a rodeo, and a radio station.

This is what Hayes had been grappling with in the months leading up to trial. At worst, he’d stay caged in Angola on a life sentence for second-degree murder. It’s possible that in Louisiana — the only state besides Oregon where all 12 members of a jury don’t have to unanimously agree on murder — that he could’ve gotten a reduced sentence. Negligible homicide isn’t the worst bid for killing a football king down South. At least he’s alive.

At best, like his lawyers said, he’d go not guilty on all charges. He’d walk free after a few days of court. But with the way Hayes’ case was handled, that option seemed further away each passing month.

Parties surrounding the case didn’t understand why the defense was failing. Plenty thought the overconfident Fuller was to blame. One lawyer close to both the prosecution and Fuller said the defense attorney could have received bad information from his client.

“He looked kind of silly when he didn’t come out with [any] video,” the lawyer said after Fuller didn’t present additional evidence during a Nov. 7 hearing. Fuller had been publicly promising video evidence that Billy Ceravolo, a former NOPD captain and friend of Smith, moved a gun from Smith’s car. It was a key piece of the corruption narrative that titillated observers into thinking there’d be an actual showdown between the sides at trial.

Another lawyer, who is close to the defense team, walked around between the lulls of court and asked, “Why doesn’t he just show this video?!” before offering his smartphone, which replayed an inconclusive video of an unidentifiable man at the scene of the shooting. Fuller introduced no such video at trial in April, and Ceravolo explored bringing a defamation suit against him.

The prosecution hinted at those missteps during trial. They asked O’Neal, Hayes’ best friend, when he testified about comments he allegedly made describing Fuller as a “sell-out,” a “nobody,” harping on a feeling that family and friends expected Hayes home months ago. O’Neal didn’t hide it. He hated the legal system, Fuller, and the timeframe that kept his companion confined to a cage.

“I’m heartbroken and tore up,” O’Neal said. “It’s extremely OK for me to be emotional.”

If you’re Fuller, you want justice to work as slow as you remember, with no rush to judgment. He pleaded in court for months to move this trial back. Who could possibly get convicted eight months after killing a man?

“I cannot, in good conscience, say I’m going to (delay),” Judge Camille Buras said in September when Fuller asked to move trial after the NFL season, hoping to ensure a fair tribunal for his client.

“That does not, to me, seem like a good legal reason.”

An emptied park in Cardell Hayes’ neighborhood where the effects of Katrina still linger. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

“I don’t know how we can automatically make these assumptions that are so vulgar about black men,” Dyan French Cole or “Mama D,” a Seventh Ward resident protesting Hayes’ arrest on the corner of Tulane Avenue, said one December morning at the start of trial. Surrounded by half a dozen protestors, she pointed toward the criminal court where Hayes prepared for the week that would decide his life.

“They are guilty when they walk up these steps, not after they go inside.”

This much is a given here: Louisiana’s criminal justice system is in need of reform, and New Orleans along with it. Cole’s refrain is a common local opinion about Hayes’ case. New Orleanians empathize with him — not many, but enough to garner attention. They’ve seen plenty of “Cardells” before. They’ve seen black boys disappear into a courtroom only to never return. Hayes isn’t the first and won’t be the last.

Harry Connick’s 30-year run (from 1973-2003) as the former district attorney is one cause for their angst. A southern Democrat that used music to leverage political power, the “Singing District Attorney” ran an office laced with controversy when he wasn’t humming at nightclubs in the French Quarter.

The U.S. Supreme Court chastised his regime in a 1995 opinion, describing an office culture that repeatedly failed to turn over exculpatory evidence. In that case, a man spent 14 years on death row and was nearly executed before missing evidence exonerated him. He called his predecessors weak, “moral midgets” and received dozens of misconduct complaints.

Leon Cannizzaro, the current DA, came in 2008 billing himself as a reformer. Yet in 2011, he was asked why his office mishandled a murder case by not turning over evidence. Cannizzaro responded that the defense counsel never asked for it. “If he doesn’t, we aren’t obligated to give it to him.”

During the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in 2005, Henry Glover’s charred body was found in a roadside Chevy, having been burned by NOPD officers after they’d shot him. Two days later, cops shot six unarmed black people on Danziger Bridge, killing a 17-year-old boy and a 40-year-old man. Both resulted in police cover-ups.

A Justice Department attorney called these crimes the “most significant police misconduct” prosecution since Rodney King’s beating. Eleven years later, the city paid more than $13 million in a civil rights settlement.

That’s why Byron Cole was outside of criminal court most of the sweltering summer. Cole wanted to personalize this case. He felt the need to watchdog this system. He, Simmons, O’Neal, and many others marched with signs and megaphones. They broadcasted their message over live streams on Facebook. They passed out white “Free Bear” T-shirts with a bear’s face on the front and dreadlocks raining from its head.

This wasn’t just that they thought Hayes was being prepared for a ludicrous trial in a kangaroo court. He was the son of New Orleans they saw themselves in the most.

“We live under a stranglehold in New Orleans, man,” Cole said one day in November. “It’s really just status quo racism. Modified black laws. Modified Jim Crow.”

More recently, the community was stung by similarities between Smith’s shooting and that of Joe McKnight, a rushing powerhouse and national mega-recruit killed by Ronald Gasser one parish over in early December. The makings of Gasser’s case are similar to Hayes’ — a local football hero gunned down in an act of road rage — except for one detail. Gasser, who is white, left jail 24 hours after he shot a former NFL player. After public outcry, Gasser was charged and indicted. Hayes, who is black, hasn’t been home since April 9.

The McKnight shooting’s aftermath enraged Hayes’ family and friends. One day, it led to a heated argument outside of court.

“We just watched a white man execute a man in cold fucking blood. Cold fucking blood, stood over him, witness are out there saying what they saw,” O’Neal said on a video which was posted to Facebook, with Simmons behind him and Big Freedia to his left.

“This man is at home, bruh! This man is at home. Cardell Hayes was attacked by Will Smith, as well as Will Smith’s entourage, and he’s sitting in jail for murder. For murder! He’s sitting in jail for murder with a $1.7 million bond and don’t none of y’all give a fuck about that.”

The prosecution doesn’t understand the fuss. “What happened in Jefferson Parish has nothing to do with this case,” prosecutor Laura Rodrigue said, to which Buras nodded during jury selection.

“Whatever happens in this case, it won’t reveal anything new to me,” Chuck Perkins, a local radio host said from his studio in October. “The only thing it’ll do is reconfirm that there are different legal systems for us black folk and the wealthy or the white.”

A man runs out of Orleans Parish Criminal Court one December afternoon during the week that decided Cardell Hayes’ life. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The second floor of the courthouse in Mid-City sings from the scuff of prisoners’ shoes sliding across tile. Men and women in orange jumpsuits shuffle through wooden doors along the hallway during the week of Hayes’ trial.

New Orleans courts are more picturesque than most. The roof is decorated with Victorian chandeliers. Parthenon-style oak columns balance Buras’ stand, which is anchored by Louisiana and United States flags with two angels dancing on the flagpoles.

“That’s what this was, this was murder!” prosecutor Jason Napoli screams in his closing argument. “April 9 was an execution on the streets, and the only verdict in this case is guilty as charged.”

The families are separated by a center aisle, the Smiths on the right, Hayes’ family on the left. During testimony, a member of the Smith family had flashed a middle finger at O’Neal. Hayes’ family had the tendency to laugh during Racquel Smith’s emotional three hours on the stand. Another night, there was a minutes-long staring contest as court let out after a long, contentious day.

The Smith family has a police escort. Racquel Smith is accompanied by crestfallen women wearing goose egg-sized diamond rings. On each arm are battered-looking NFL men.

Hayes’ family and supporters carpooled or came on the bus, arriving with their own expressions of grief etched on their faces. A lot of the time during the trial, bailiffs kept them from entering the court. It was a fire hazard to have that many people on one side of the room.

Racquel Smith cried during the swings of the trial. Her kids had lost their dad. She’d lost the love of her life. And by her and her friends’ accounts, Hayes was evil. He purposely pulled the trigger and put those bullets in her legs. Sending him “back to the streets,” as Napoli says on that last day of trial, was not an option.

“The most important evidence in this case is buried with Will Smith. Those are his wounds,” Napoli says before crying in front of the jury. “Will Smith played defense for this city. He was defenseless that night. Now it’s your turn to play defense for him.”

The crescendos of the prosecution draw ire from Hayes’ supporters. Many of them believe the truth was thrown aside to get justice for just one family in the case: Hayes was legally allowed to carry in this state, one with Stand Your Ground laws. That he drew and fired at a threat didn’t make him devilish. It made him Louisianian.

“Don’t throw away this boy’s life like this. You owe this family more than that,” Fuller says to the jury. “We have the rich and famous and the poor and the powerless. Don’t jump to conclusions. This boy deserves to be treated like everyone else.”

By the time court recesses, each side thinks it won. Fuller shakes old women’s hands, leads the gathered public in prayer, yucks it up with bailiffs. The prosecution surely doesn’t mind Brees hugging Cannizzaro midcourt as a horde of Saints stars sit and comfort Racquel Smith.

The heaviness of this case weighed tangibly on family. The mornings grew to afternoons and crept into nights. They spent every day, at times 14 hours, in court for a six-day trial reliving the night that changed everything.

One of those evenings, Hayes’ mother, Dawn, ducked to St. Bernard Avenue for a quiet meal. In the months her boy had been behind bars, she’d lost a lot of weight, Bryant Lee said. Fair-toned with skin the color of sweet potato pie, Dawn Mumphrey’s hair is graying around her temples.

At the only table in the joint, her head shifted between a window and her hands.

“You gotta eat something, grandma” a waitress said.

“I’m trying,” she replied. “But I can’t hold anything down.”

The place started to close as Dawn finally picked at her plate. Her pupils grew red. Her voice cracked, and she whispered as the shop grew empty.

“I pray for strength,” she sniffed. “I know he’s coming home. I just know it.”

Another corridor where Will Smith and Cardell Hayes’ vehicles collided. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The jury finds Hayes guilty of the manslaughter of Will Smith and the attempted manslaughter of Racquel Smith after five hours deliberating. The verdict comes right as Sunday Night Football ends. Media reports later described how pressured the jury felt to convict. The members wanted to write letters begging for leniency at sentencing.

“In between, there were lots of tears,” a juror told the New Orleans Advocate. “This was gut-wrenching.”

As soon as Hayes is cuffed, his momma glues herself to the mahogany pillars on her left. His pastor tries to hold her as she wails, her body cranking like a metronome. What do you tell Dawn Mumphrey when the state takes her only boy away for good?

“Do you need a drink?” Hayes asks, unable to help her with two bailiffs anchoring him.

Hayes’ family waits in the empty chambers that night sobbing as the Smith family departs with its police escort. Payton flew back from an afternoon loss in Tampa Bay to hear the verdict in person. He bear-hugs former tailback Pierre Thomas, who was with Smith before the shooting, and slaps his hand so loudly it echoed the empty halls.

“We did it,” he said.

Racquel Smith cries into her coat as she exits, her friends shaking deputies’ hands. As they pass, Hayes’ family can’t seem to leave.

They are stuck to this place and their last minutes with Hayes. Rouzan, his friend from the barbershop, has tears wedged in his thick beard. Hayes’ sister, Genitra, had been smiling all week and running around with CJ, Hayes’ son. Now she ducks under a pew.

Lawyers from each side bolt out of doors from different angles of the courthouse. Fuller, who beamed every time the spotlight was on him, left through one side door downtrodden, trudging into the darkness surrounding the building. The prosecution, content that their version of justice has been delivered, darts out of a different side door with smiles earned after an emotional battle.

“This was the murder of a hero,” Cannizzaro says hours later, explaining that his office wants Hayes, 29, to serve 60 years. “Mr. Hayes is not going to hurt anyone ever again.”

A deputy slams the doors behind Hayes’ family members as they drag themselves down those main courthouse steps. Big Freedia fought off cameras so Dawn and Genitra could sprint to a nearby SUV.

With two families destroyed and the courtroom battle finished, it is finally clear that justice is not the same as recompense. “There are no winners in a situation like this,” Deuce McAllister, a former Saints running back and close friend to Smith, tells cameras outside as he walks out with Racquel.

The only lights left shining are the red twinkles from an ambulance speeding down Tulane Ave. Camera crews spinning the news are met by a group of citizens at the place that had sent so many of them away over the years. People parked their cars in the middle of intersections. They cried into Snapchat apps and live feeds as the news spread around New Orleans.

A middle-aged man in a hoodie walks up to the courthouse from the dark. He begins yelling at ESPN’s cameras, beseeching them to “tell the truth.” When asked, the man declines to give his name, only identifying himself as “a concerned citizen of New Orleans.”

“That was a good kid. Y’all know what it was. This is a set-up and a game.”

He pauses.

“Cardell Hayes was guilty when he walked up those steps.”