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robininthelabyrinth · 7 months

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The Other Mountain - ao3 - Chapter 26

Pairing: Lan Qiren/Wen Ruohan

Warning Tags on Ao3

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Wen Ruohan was bored.

Incredibly bored.

He was so bored that he wanted to kill someone.

Such a pity that Jin Guangshan was already dead.

He sighed to himself – not out loud, of course – and picked up his bowl of wine, taking another sip, though not enough of one that the obsequious Jin Guangshi, sitting next to him, would have a chance to refill it. Prior to this evening, Wen Ruohan had all but forgotten that Jin Guangshan even had a brother, which was likely intentional on Jin Guangshan’s part and whole-heartedly agreed upon and cooperated with by the sickly Jin Guangshi, who was probably exceptionally eager to ensure that he didn’t meet the same fate as Jin Guangshan’s other potential rivals for the position of sect leader. The man was a useless playboy, even in comparison to Jin Guangshan himself – and that was saying something.

Jin Guangshi’s sole virtue, if it could be called that, was that despite his playboy reputation, he hadn’t fathered a whole passel of bastards the way Jin Guangshan had. This had led to rumors that Jin Guangshan had ensured that Jin Guangshi would never challenge his succession by rendering him sterile, which in turn gave rise to rumors that Jin Guangshi’s son and only child, Jin Zixun, was actually yet another unacknowledged bastard instead.

Such a thing was certainly possible, knowing Jin Guangshan’s character, but personally Wen Ruohan thought the rumors were likely all overblown nonsense. It seemed more likely to him that Jin Guangshi’s lack of bastard children had more to do with his general sickliness, his awareness that his brother wouldn’t tolerate such a thing from a relative so close to the line of leadership, and perhaps some vague desire to not suffer from his wife what Jin Guangshan regularly suffered from his. Anything else would have required imagination, and there was nothing more lacking in Lanling Jin.

Take Wen Ruohan’s current plight, for instance.

There had presumably been a collective decision by the shattered leadership of Lanling Jin to butter him up while they tried to figure out what to do next. Being immensely boring people, they’d decided to do this by inviting him inside Jinlin Tower, separating him from Lan Qiren, and were even now plying him with fine wine, fine food, and twice the usual number of dancing girls. All actually prostitutes in disguise, naturally, though calling them ‘disguised’ was doing a disservice to the term.

Wen Ruohan could understand the logic. It only made sense that they would want to please him! The Jin sect was currently surrounded by his Wen sect’s army, which they weren’t in any state to contend with – their hired mercenaries had all disappeared into the ether the moment Jin Guangshan died, if not sooner – and with Jin Guangshan dead, any plan he’d presumably had in place to deal with the approaching threat was gone as well. The people now in charge of the Jin sect desperately needed to buy time just to think, much less start making plans for the future….and, of course, they needed to figure out what exactly had happened to Jin Guangshan.

Because, apparently, they didn’t know.

That was the most ridiculous part of the whole thing. It’d be one thing if Jin Guangshan’s death had been part of a deliberate powerplay, killing him as an offering to assuage Wen Ruohan’s desire for vengeance; no one would have questioned that outcome, not even Wen Ruohan or Lan Qiren.

Unfortunately, no one who might have done that appeared to have actually done it.

Certainly no one had admitted to it, though it was patently obvious that several of them suspected each other. At any rate, what it certainly meant was that the remaining people in charge needed to figure out what, or who, had killed him in such a convenient manner before they could actually put the ‘offer up the death as a fait accompli to appease Wen Ruohan’s anger at Jin Guangshan’s actions’ plan into play, and that meant…that they were stalling.

And so the wine, and so the girls, and so the food, and so the simpering Jin Guangshi.

Wen Ruohan sighed. Out loud, this time.

He was so bored.

He had nothing against pretty dancing girls, of course. He had very happily partaken of the multitude of varied female delights that Lanling City had to offer at any number of discussion conferences in the past, often egged on by his colleagues – Lao Nie, for instance, whose sexual appetite was even more voracious than Wen Ruohan’s, or even Jin Guangshan himself, in a pinch, since sex seemed to be the one subject on which he was genuinely enthusiastic. But that wasn’t the point right now.

The point was that while Wen Ruohan liked getting off as much as the next man (excluding oddities like Lan Qiren), and prostitutes were generally very good at that, he had never once in his entire life prioritized sex over power. And right now was a pivotal moment – a moment for power, and politics. Accordingly, Wen Ruohan was completely disinterested in having sex.

Well. With prostitutes, anyway.

They weren’t going to fuck him over the table while helping him strategize plans to conquer the world, now were they?

(This was not necessarily true of all prostitutes. In fact, if Wen Ruohan recalled correctly, Jin Guangshan had once kept a particularly intelligent whore from somewhere in Yunmeng as his mistress, favoring her for an unusual length of time given his usual flightiness. She’d been good at dance and at music; she had been literate, clever, thoughtful and strategic, with an excellent mind for both planning and execution – her pillow-talk had improved Jin Guangshan’s schemes at least ten times over. Unfortunately for her, she lacked only the good sense to understand that there was a difference between what people actually wanted and what they seemed to want: she’d made her only misstep when she’d tried to obtain the security of becoming an official concubine by bearing Jin Guangshan a child, which had instead caused him to leave her at once; he had been unwilling to deal with the headache that was his wife for the sake of some whore. A deplorable waste of a useful woman, in Wen Ruohan’s view, but that was the way the world worked sometimes.)

At any rate, these particular girls had clearly been chosen first for their bodies, then their faces, with dancing skills and intelligence both clearly far lower in the priority list. Even if Wen Ruohan could be coaxed into sharing his bed with someone who wasn’t Lan Qiren, it certainly wasn’t going to be by this lot.

The girls and their shoddy dancing aside, the rest of it wasn’t anything good either. The food wasn’t anywhere as delicious as what Wen Ruohan could get back at the Nightless City, which had chefs that were intimately familiar with his palate, and after a certain degree of expensive, the wine one could get in Lanling was more or less the same as what he could get in Qishan.

And they hadn’t even left him Lan Qiren to entertain himself with!

That was the most obnoxious and least expected part of it. The rest had all been within his calculations: when Wen Ruohan briefly discussed strategy with Lan Qiren before accepting the Jin sect’s invitation to come discuss the resolution of their current situation, he had already more or less resigned himself to being hideously bored – such was the fate of a sect leader, tragically enough. Since obviously he wasn’t going to sit around and wait for the Jin sect to figure out what had happened to Jin Guanghshan in order to better lie to him about it, he’d ordered his disciples to collect any information they could, whether through his spies or their own investigation. For them to do that, however, they needed someone to draw away the Jin sect’s attention.

Someone that could make them focus on something, or someone, else.

As sect leader and current scariest person in the cultivation world, Wen Ruohan was unfortunately the perfect candidate for being that someone.

So while his disciples and Cangse Sanren, who had been discussing something intriguing about paperman puppets with her husband, got to go do all the fun stuff, Wen Ruohan had to sit here and be bored out of his skull while also stalling for time, matching the Jin sect’s interests with his own. Every moment he could hold out against his own boredom was an extra moment his disciples could use, valuable time they needed to get the information he would need to have in order to most effectively counter the Jin sect’s next play.

It made sense. He was well aware it made sense.

But he didn’t have to like it.

(It was at times like this that he missed Wen Ruoyu more than most. His lost brother’s memory had been too painful to touch for many years, a relentless agony that he could only deal with by keeping all thoughts of him remote and distant and never to be revisited, but for some reason it had gotten easier to think of him recently. At moments like this it even felt particularly suitable – he would have enjoyed this whole debacle, ridiculous person that he’d been. Wen Ruoyu had been not unlike a chattering magpie, sociable and open-minded to the point where thoughts sometimes seemed to spill out rather than stay in, and whenever he ran out of patience, he’d had no hesitation about pulling out his spear to make that clear. Perhaps that had been why he’d picked the spear as his primary weapon, going against the grain when so many others had picked the more gentlemanly sword: he hadn’t ever cared about manners, only efficiency, and nothing could empty a room faster than a madman with a spear.)

Still, it would have been more tolerable if they’d left him Lan Qiren.

Sure, he understood why they’d swept him away the first moment they could, given their plan to distract and tempt Wen Ruohan with prostitutes. Given Madam Jin’s temperament, she would never believe that anyone would be willing to see their spouse do such a thing, least of all someone with a reputation as upright as Lan Qiren, and so she’d intervened personally, pulling Lan Qiren away with the excuse that they needed to talk.

The whole thing was a ridiculous farce. With Jin Guangshan dead, Madam Jin was the acting leader of Lanling Jin, while Wen Ruohan was sect leader of Qishan Wen. By all rights they ought to just talk directly, open negotiations between the two sects…but no, they couldn’t do that, apparently. Because it would be inappropriate, apparently, for wives to intervene in political matters. And presumably because Madam Jin, like the rest of the world, refused to believe that Wen Ruohan actually meant his decree regarding the roles of husband and wife.

Or maybe she just wanted the opportunity to tempt them both separately.

Wen Ruohan really, really hoped Lan Qiren had also been offered prostitutes.

Jin Guangshan had felt obligated to make the offer every time he’d offered it to the others; he was too canny to ever snub another Great Sect by leaving them out, or at least canny enough to avoid doing it openly, and never mind if they wanted what he was offering. Even before Wen Ruohan had grown interested in Lan Qiren himself, Lan Qiren’s offended refusals had been one of the highlights of the obligatory post-dinner entertainment for the Great Sect leaders that took place every time there was a discussion conference held at Lanling City.

…of course, with them separated, even if Lan Qiren was getting that offer, Wen Ruohan wasn’t going to see it. Which was no fun at all.

“– do you think about that, Sect Leader Wen?”

“I have no notion what I think about whatever you were saying. I was ignoring you,” Wen Ruohan said, taking another sip, thinking to himself that at least they’d picked the right sort of wine, and that that was no consolation at all. And then, suddenly, he decided he’d had enough. “Tell me instead: what do you know about your brother’s death?”

He’d endured this dreck for nearly two shichen. Someone had better have already found something by now.

Jin Guangshi looked spooked, as anyone might imagine. “I – I don’t – ”

“Is this delay really because you don’t know what killed him?” Wen Ruohan asked with a nasty smirk. He summoned a little of his power and spread it out, doing with deliberate effort what he usually did naturally; the sudden pressure caused the dancing girls to shriek and scatter like frightened birds, and Jin Guangshi looked as if he’d rather like to join them. “Or perhaps it is more intentional than that? Perhaps you just wanted the time to finish squabbling over who will take over now that Jin Guangshan is gone…”

“Please don’t make me take over,” Jin Guangshi blurted out.

Wen Ruohan didn’t choke in surprise, but only because he’d already settled his face into his usual public mask of indolent disdain. What sort of request was that?!

“She’ll have me killed,” Jin Guangshi said, voice low but hurried, his face pale, his eyes practically bulging out of his face, white all around the edges. “You don’t understand. I know she will. The only reason she let me come here to talk to you is because she thinks that I’m unlikeable and stupid enough that it would sink my chances at becoming regent anyway. If you support me in any way, she’ll get rid of me. Please.”

He was talking about Madam Jin, Wen Ruohan presumed. Judging from what he knew of her character, Jin Guangshi was right to be concerned.

Any woman that could keep Jin Guangshan from bringing home concubines was a fearsome woman indeed.

“Did she have Jin Guangshan murdered?” he asked, wondering if Jin Guangshi would try to lie to make Madam Jin seem worse in an attempt to better improve his position. Wen Ruohan was already quite certain that she hadn’t, if only because she wouldn’t have been so stupid to let things get so out of control if she had, so this would be a good test to see if this was some sort of twisted manipulation on Jin Guangshi’s part. Lanling Jin was notoriously full of insidious vipers, so Wen Ruohan wouldn’t put some sort of double-cross past Jin Guangshi – his brother had certainly tried something similar a few times.

“I don’t think so,” Jin Guangshi said, which was a mark in favor of him actually being in earnest. “Her position was always stronger with him than without him. That’s why he’s lived so long already given all the – uh – ”

“Everyone knows about the bastards,” Wen Ruohan reminded him. “Who found the body?”

“She did, actually,” Jin Guangshi confessed. “That’s another reason I don’t think she did it. If you know what I mean? There was supposed to be a meeting of all the sect elders so that we could discuss strategy and he didn’t show up on time – not even late, like he normally arrives – and she started getting angry, so she went off to get him. And then there was shouting – not her normal type of shouting – so I followed after her…”

“Madam Jin found him?” Wen Ruohan arched his eyebrows a little. The sequence of events wasn’t a surprise, but the fact that Madam Jin had managed to be the first to trip over the body was. It meant that he’d been killed somewhere she could find him. “Where was he at the time?”

“In his bed,” Jin Guangshi said.

Wen Ruohan’s eyebrows went up even higher. “You mean – he was…?”

“Uh, no, actually.” Jin Guangshi looked embarrassed. “He was alone. It’s true, but no one believes it.”

Wen Ruohan could imagine. He had no reason to question the veracity of the story he was hearing, and yet he scarcely believed it himself. Add to that Lanling Jin’s tendency towards gossip, and passing off that gossip as fact…as soon as the city wasn’t locked down, the entire cultivation world was going to know and believe that Jin Guangshan had died underneath a prostitute. Possibly underneath multiple prostitutes, depending on how disliked he was – actually, never mind, the story would definitely involve multiple prostitutes.

At least no actual prostitutes had been involved.

“I see,” Wen Ruohan said, shaking his head with a mental farewell to whatever had been left of Jin Guangshan’s reputation. Truly there were times when people got exactly what they deserved. “Can you tell me how he was killed?”

“We don’t know.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you see the body?”

“That’s the thing, Sect Leader Wen! I did! I even went and tried to feel his pulse to make sure – that is, to check to see if there was any hope, but there wasn’t. He was dead, I’m sure of it! He was dead, absolutely dead, but there wasn’t a mark on him anywhere. No stab wounds, no strangulation marks, no signs of poison…we even checked his head to see if someone had hammered in a nail, but there was nothing.”

Now that was interesting. “A curse, then?”

“We’re not sure. You know how hard they can be to see when they’re not active. That’s why we needed the time, that was what the disciples were trying to check…”

Well, that wasn’t going to get anywhere, not with what Wen Ruohan knew about Lanling Jin’s internal politics. Even if someone did figure out what had happened, they wouldn’t tell anyone until they could figure out some way by which they could try to obtain some benefit out of it. He was going to have to hope that his spies were doing a better job of figuring out what exactly had happened to Jin Guangshan, and just as importantly, who had caused it.

It would be one thing if the murderer was Qingheng-jun, who they were already targeting, and another thing entirely if it was someone else. Wen Ruohan didn’t like the idea of someone willing and able to kill a Great Sect leader in his own bedroom being out there undetected. Even if it was merely someone else trying to do the job for him, wanting to please him, it was terribly presumptuous of them. Wen Ruohan hadn’t even decided for himself if he thought that the present war would require Jin Guangshan’s head as a resolution, and if someone had already gone ahead and made the decision for him – no, that wasn’t acceptable at all.

“Do you have some sense of what his plans were?” Wen Ruohan asked, but was unsurprised when Jin Guangshi shook his head. He would have been more surprised if Jin Guangshan really had taken his hapless brother into his confidence. “Give me something more, and I’ll not only refuse to consider you as potential regent, I’ll insist on taking you and your family back to the Nightless City as hostages.”

Jin Guangshi’s eyes went wide once more, but in a hopeful rather than panicked manner. “Oh, would you…? That would be wonderful – even just for a year – just to get out of the way until things settle down – ”

“The offer was conditional.”

“But I really don’t know any more! My brother never told me anything. He had some sort of plan, I know that much, but other than that, all I know is that he was getting angry about it, or at least impatient. Someone involved was dragging their feet, and it was something that had to be done now or not at all.”

Presumably during Wen Ruohan’s period of temporary weakness.

The involvement of another person – that tallied with Lan Qiren’s theory that Jin Guangshan had been counting on Qingheng-jun to do something to pull out some miracle that was going to save his sect. Since Qingheng-jun was currently ‘missing’ from the cultivation world, he would have to be somewhere hidden away, and quite a number of sects had hidden passages tucked away where the sect leader could easily reach. It wasn’t unthinkable that one of those passages led to Jin Guangshan’s bedroom, and that Qingheng-jun had gone there to meet with him.

Yes, Wen Ruohan could see it: Qingheng-jun arriving, irritated at being summoned like some servant, arrogant and proud and not inclined to be treated dismissively by Jin Guangshan; Jin Guanghsan impatient at the delay and afraid for his sect, for his own life, and starting to get short-tempered with the delay. Their tempers began clashing, they began quarreling, the quarrel escalated, and then Qingheng-jun…

Hmm, no, that didn’t quite work.

In Wen Ruohan’s mental re-telling, under such circumstances, Qingheng-jun would merely draw his sword and cut Jin Guangshan down. Their power was in no way comparable; for all of Jin Guangshan’s defensive items, he wouldn’t have been able to save his life if someone of Qingheng-jun’s caliber had wanted it. But Jin Guangshan had been found without a sword mark anywhere on him. So he hadn’t been struck down with a sword…which didn’t necessarily mean that the sequence he’d thought of was wrong, of course. It might only mean that if the murderer was Qingheng-jun, he must have found another method of killing Jin Guangshan.

But what?

Wen Ruohan still firmly believed that he was right about Qingheng-jun’s current motivations, thinking that he likely wanted to kill a large number of people to cover up his perceived disgrace. The man was mad, there could be no doubt about that, and Wen Ruohan was far more familiar with madness, with cruelty, than the others. What they saw as an extreme reaction, he saw as reasonable, even likely. Only a true bloodbath could distract the cultivation world from what had happened. Only with enough blood being shed could his crimes be wiped clean – or at least overridden and forgotten, which was generally speaking just about the same thing.

Unfortunately, that just made everything more complicated. Assuming his suspicions were right and Qingheng-jun really was Jin Guangshan’s murderer…then they had a problem. If Qingheng-jun had figured out some new way of killing people, Wen Ruohan very much wanted to know about it.

“I do know about a present my brother was going to give you,” Jin Guangshi said, having apparently wracked his not-very-large brains to try to produce some additional information in exchange for his life.

“The saber? I already received and rejected that.”

“No, it wasn’t a saber. It was a person. A spy, I think.”

A spy…?

Inspiration hit abruptly: Wen Ruohan knew what, or rather who, Jin Guangshan’s proposed present was going to be. “A spy at the Nightless City, perhaps? Wang Liu?”

“Yes, that’s right, that’s right, that sounds familiar! He was going to have him handed over to you, to do with as you wished.”

Wen Ruohan could think of quite a few things he would want to do to Wang Liu, but he could also think of a fair number of times that Lan Qiren had very uncharacteristically expressed a desire to do violence to the same man on Wen Ruohan’s behalf. Maybe they could do something together, as a bonding experience.

“Good,” he said, pleased with the prospect. “I will accept that gift, although not with any restrictions or requirements in advance. You’re not really in any position to make any demands.”

“Of course not, of course not…”

“And I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Wen Ruohan said, nodding towards the cowering dancing girls. “Send them away at once. And find out for me where Madam Jin took Lan Qiren. Now!”

Jin Guangshi jumped to his feet at once, practically tripping over himself to rush around and accomplish Wen Ruohan’s request. In the end, however, it turned out that he didn’t have a chance: he’d only just opened the door to usher all the girls out when there was a very loud crash from the hallway, followed shortly by the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hello!” Lan Qiren said, sounding…oddly cheerful, actually. And notably louder than usual. “Have you seen my wife? I am looking for him. Wen Ruohan. He should be around here somewhere.”

Wen Ruohan stared at the door, unable to see past the crowd of people. Was…was that some ventriloquist doing a poor imitation, perhaps?

It sounded just like Lan Qiren, yes, but Wen Ruohan had never heard him sounding so…peppy.

“No…? No, no problem. I will ask someone else – oh, hello! Do you know where my wife is? I need to find him – ”

“I think he’s in here, Senior Lan,” Jin Guangshi said, glancing over his shoulder at Wen Ruohan with an extremely wary and yet extremely confused expression on his face. “Uh, why don’t you come inside…? Ah, wait, no, not that way, that’s the wrong way – this way – you, there, maid, help escort Senior Lan inside – ”

Wen Ruohan felt his eyebrows going up to his hairline. What in the world…?

A moment later, contrary to all doubts, Lan Qiren himself appeared, clutching the arm of a maidservant in Jin yellow, who was leading him. He appeared to need the assistance, since he kept stumbling, and for whatever reason his cheeks were red, but not in a blush. He was smiling.

What in the world…?!

“There you are!” he said in what was more-or-less Wen Ruohan’s general direction. His voice, still largely monotone, was so energetic that it could almost be described as chirping. “I was looking for you! And now I found you!”

“You’re drunk,” Wen Ruohan marveled, belated understanding dawning on him. “They got you drunk? How?”

Even he hadn’t managed that. Lan Qiren had always strictly refused even the slightest serving of wine or liquor, no matter how fine or precious – Wen Ruohan had only ever heard about Lan Qiren being drunk second-hand from Lao Nie, who’d apparently once gotten Lan Qiren thoroughly drunk, only to have to suffer for an entire shichen listening to him rant about the Lan sect rules. It had sounded pretty funny to Wen Ruohan, though at the time he’d been more interested in Lao Nie’s suffering, but when after their wedding he had proposed repeating the experiment, this time out of genuine curiosity, Lan Qiren had been inflexible in refusing.

The maidservant supporting Lan Qiren cleared her throat. “Sect Leader Wen, I believe Senior Lan was served liquor in a teacup,” she said delicately, casting her eyes down in embarrassment. “And he drank some before realizing what it was.”

“Everyone out,” Wen Ruohan announced. “Except you. You stay and tell me more.”

Jin Guangshi, who had been lingering with a pained expression on his face that suggested he didn’t want to be here but didn’t think he could gracefully manage to leave, looked relieved by the reprieve. He scurried out as quickly as he could manage, leaving behind the one lone remaining servant without so much as a backwards glance.

As soon as he was gone, Wen Ruohan snapped a privacy array into existence around the room.

(It ached to do it so quickly. Was this how normal people felt? How terrible. He couldn’t wait to recover his true power and never have to feel this way ever again.)

“I expect a full report,” he told the servant, who was of course one of his spies. They all knew his priorities, and protecting Lan Qiren was first and foremost; if they had let anyone else be the one to support him, he would have slaughtered them himself. “What happened?”

“It is good to see you,” Lan Qiren said enthusiastically, apparently not bothered by Wen Ruohan not paying attention to him. He left the servant behind and tottered carefully over to him; when Wen Ruohan rose up to greet him – and to try to steady him – he eeled his way to his side and wrapped his arms around Wen Ruohan’s waist. “I was looking for you. No one knew where you were.”

“Well?” Wen Ruohan asked, temporarily ignoring Lan Qiren’s unusually handsy behavior in favor of answers.

The maidservant saluted. “Reporting to the Sect Leader: Madam Jin ordered us to take him into a room with a great number of women – some dancing girls, some harlots, some maids, and some well-born girls that aren’t too well-protected by their parents. She wanted to make sure we had whatever his preference was. She said that men were all the same, all wanting the same thing, and that the best way to create a problem between the two of you was to make you jealous of each other.”

That sounded like something Madam Jin would think. But…“She thought she’d have more luck with him?”

“The Sect Leader is known to have indulged alongside Sect Leader Jin, and was likely to be jaded by the selection of offerings as we would be able to produce on short notice. While Senior Lan, during his time as sect leader, was from a sect that required him to resist such things…”

“She thought you were a hypocrite,” Wen Ruohan told Lan Qiren, who’d laid his head on his shoulder and was humming something to himself. “Stupid woman. If you really wanted to debauch yourself and public perception was the only thing holding you back, you could have found a way…I take it he refused, of course?”

“Any time Madam Jin directly implied anything, yes. He was very uncomfortable the entire time.” The maidservant-spy was smiling. “That’s when she decided to slip him some liquor to loosen him up.”

Wen Ruohan smirked. “Did he start explaining the Lan set rules?”

“Yes, Sect Leader. For nearly a shichen. He asked the prostitutes to help.”

Wen Ruohan choked on his own glee. “Lan Qiren asked who for help?”

“Those nice young ladies in the room,” Lan Qiren said, proving that he was at least in part listening to what they were saying. His voice was delightfully still monotone. “They were very clever. They were able to give some very good examples when I asked for input, and they did not mind playacting some of the situations that demonstrate the applicability of the rules. That’s a recommended pedagogical approach, you know, particularly when you are dealing with people who do not have sufficient skills in literacy.”

Wen Ruohan had already laughed fit to break a rib back at the Nightless City, where it was safe. He was not going to do it again now, here, where it was not.

Even if he really wanted to.

“I see,” he said, aware that his voice sounded strangled from the sheer effort he was expending in not laughing. “Very wise, Qiren. Though I must say that I’m surprised they stayed in the room long enough to participate…particularly Madam Jin.”

“Senior Lan was standing in front of the door,” the maidservant volunteered. “It was the only way out. No one was able to move him long enough to get past.”

That was even funnier.

“People have already started asking why Madam Jin was locked in a room with so many prostitutes for so long. Certain unsavory implications have already been made – ”

“I think that’s enough,” Wen Ruohan said. His shoulders were starting to quiver with the strain of staying silent. It was starting to hurt. “Is there anything else worth reporting?”

“No, Sect Leader. The investigation into Sect Leader Jin’s death is still ongoing, and no fresh evidence of what might have happened has been obtained. Everyone is very confused. Though I heard from one of the others that Senior Wei said that he and his wife were onto something…”

“Fine. Then you’re dismissed as well. Carry on with the search.”

The moment the servant left, Wen Ruohan turned to look at Lan Qiren, who had at some point somehow managed to maneuver himself such that Wen Ruohan’s arms were wrapped around him in return.

“Well, then,” he said, unable to resist smirking at him. “What do you have to say for yourself, Qiren? Did you have a good time explaining the rules to all those…ah…nice ladies?”

“I had a very good time,” Lan Qiren agreed, completely serious. “But then I realized I had to find you. But then I realized I did not know where you were. So I went out and asked.”

Wen Ruohan could imagine. And it was a great mental image, too: Lan Qiren wandering drunkenly through the hallways asking everyone he met, and possibly even some inanimate objects that just looked a little like people, where he could find his wife. He could imagine it, perfectly and clearly, but he wasn’t going to, because if he did he would laugh until he cried.

“I see,” he said instead. “Tell me, did you really only have one sip from a teacup?”

Lan Qiren looked tragically wronged. “The rules correctly say Act in moderation. But the room was filled with perfume, and I was thirsty; the tea was the first thing they had offered me to drink. I took too large a sip. Nearly a third or even half of the teacup.”

“Oh, well, then, no one can blame you for being intoxicated.” Wen Ruohan was grinning wildly. Lao Nie had not mentioned how much alcohol had been involved in his experiment of getting Lan Qiren drunk, and Wen Ruohan’s initial assumption of what had been required had clearly been far, far too high. “A whole half a teacup of liquor. Who could stand that?”

“It was very rude of them to give it to me without asking,” Lan Qiren said, nodding agreeably. He didn’t seem angry, though, which was good because Wen Ruohan was definitely pulling the same trick on him in the future. “It was also rude of me to interrupt the lecture, but I realized that I needed to find you, so I did not have a choice.”

“And why did you need to find me so badly?” Wen Ruohan smiled again. “Did you miss me?”

Lan Qiren scowled at him as if he were the one being silly. “I remembered that I owed you.”

“Owed me? What do you owe me?”

“I promised! The night we got back to the Nightless City, after the Lotus Pier. I was tired and you were not. I wanted to go to sleep. You went to go paint. But before you did, you said that I owed you. So I owe you!”

Wen Ruohan abruptly remembered: Lan Qiren had offered to perform his marital duties, which included ensuring that his wife was appropriately satisfied, and Wen Ruohan had excused him, knowing he was too tired to enjoy it. And in the process, he’d said, quite casually, You can make it up to me with interest tomorrow.

He’d forgotten it entirely. Apparently, Lan Qiren had not.

Wen Ruohan had thought that his grin was already as wide as it could be, but now it was starting to hurt his face.

“Qiren,” he said, drawing out the name. “Are you saying that you came here to fuck me?”

“I promised,” Lan Qiren said solemnly. “Also, there were too many women there, and they continuously tried to touch me, which I did not like. Do not give your wife reason to doubt your fidelity.”

“I never doubted you for a moment,” Wen Ruohan promised him. “Now, while I certainly don’t object to your proposition, I think – ”

“Good,” Lan Qiren said, and pushed Wen Ruohan back onto the bench he’d been sitting on. Luckily it was a cushioned one, and very much designed with the idea in mind that he might take a fancy to one of the available prostitutes, but they were still in a fairly public room, privacy array or no. Wen Ruohan hadn’t been expecting Lan Qiren to be quite so enthusiastic.

“Should I feel bad about taking advantage of your impaired stare?” he wondered, then yelped when Lan Qiren got tired of trying unsuccessfully to maneuver his fingers through the delicate act of opening his clothes and opted instead to rip them apart. “Never mind – I liked that outfit. Carry on. Assuming you even can, given how drunk you are.”

“I like being able to bully you,” Lan Qiren said nonsensically. “That is easily the best part. You react in such funny ways.”

“I’m expressing mild irritation about an outfit. I would hardly say that you are bullying – ”

That was about when Lan Qiren stopped playing games, shoved Wen Ruohan’s head down, and demonstrated, at significant length, that he was both in fact perfectly capable of carrying on and also that he really did enjoy what he apparently called bullying and what Wen Ruohan personally preferred to call sadism.

Very, very enjoyable sadism, or at least it was by the time Lan Qiren finally let him finish.

Wen Ruohan ended up having to set the remnants of the bench on fire to avoid leaving evidence of their activities behind. Lan Qiren had managed to break the bench relatively early on in the proceedings, but he hadn’t stopped in the slightest…

Really, there was no one out there as brilliant as Wen Ruohan. Surely no one else would be able to train up such a talented and considerate lover as he’d managed with Lan Qiren.

(Be attentive to your wife’s needs and diligently perform your duties as husband was definitely and without question Wen Ruohan’s favorite rule. By far. No contest.)

Once that was done and no evidence was left to be found, face preserved all around, he found a servant (one of his own, thankfully) and demanded they find him a bedroom.

“Any updates on the investigation?” he asked, carrying the now fast asleep Lan Qiren in his arms. “Have they figured out what killed Jin Guangshan?”

“Not yet, Sect Leader,” the disciple in question said with a remarkably straight face, his eyes firmly locked on the ceiling above Wen Ruohan’s head. Presumably to avoid seeing any of the bite marks on his sect leader’s neck or the way he was ever-so-slightly limping, or possibly just the fact that his clothing was being held together on his body more through spiritual energy rather than by connected cloth. “We are increasingly certain that it must have been Qingheng-jun behind it, given the lack of evidence pointing to anyone else. You see, there was a secret tunnel – ”

“I had already deduced that much. Has the Jin sect figured it out?”

“No, Sect Leader.”

“Good. Ensure that they don’t.”

Lan Qiren wouldn’t want anyone to know about his brother’s involvement in this murder if they could help it. In an ideal world, he would want his nephews to grow up as the sons of a reputed if tragic hero, but unfortunately Qingheng-jun’s stubbornness had cut them off from that option. Ultimately, it might not be possible to preserve Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji’s reputation in regard to their father, but until then, Wen Ruohan would do everything in his power to carry out Lan Qiren’s wishes.

He barely had time to arrange Lan Qiren in bed and change out of his ravaged outfit into a new one before there was a snort from the bed and the audible sound of Lan Qiren yawning.

“Are you waking up?” Wen Ruohan asked, slightly disbelievingly.

“It’s mao shi,” Lan Qiren said, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in the same way he always did. He showed absolutely no sign of any sort of hangover. “Isn’t it?”

Wen Ruohan checked the window: it was indeed. The Lan truly were better than any clock.

“For that matter, why are you awake so early? You normally do not rise before me.”

Wen Ruohan glanced over at Lan Qiren, who had already risen from the bed and started puttering about in what looked like his normal morning routine. “...are you joking right now?”

“I am not,” Lan Qiren said, frowning. “Also, why am I so sore? What was I even doing last night?”

Wen Ruohan felt a smile insuppressibly forcing its way onto his face. “How much do you remember?”

“I remember entering Jinlin Tower, and Madam Jin wanting to speak with me privately – although she took me to a room filled with women instead, which was not exactly conducive to a private conversation. I believe she was trying to encourage me to sleep with one of them, though naturally I refused, and then…”

He paused, clearly hitting a blank.

“And then she slipped you a teacup full of liquor,” Wen Ruohan added helpfully, and enjoyed the dawning expression of horror on Lan Qiren’s face. “At which point, you lectured a room full of prostitutes about the Lan sect rules for an entire shichen at least, then spent at least another half shichen wandering the halls asking everyone you could find whether they knew where your wife was. And then you found me and screwed me so thoroughly that I had to set the bench we used on fire – ”

Lan Qiren groaned and put his face into his hands.

Wen Ruohan gave in and finally started laughing as hard as he’d wanted to all this time.

“Stop that,” Lan Qiren grumbled. “It is not funny.”

It was extremely funny.

“I’m given to understand that the prostitutes you lectured were ‘very nice,’” Wen Ruohan wheezed. “I’m certain that they will tell everyone that you gave them a most memorable night…”

“I most certainly hope they do no such thing.”

After a while, Wen Ruohan finally managed to piece himself back together. By this time, Lan Qiren was doing his sword exercises – indoors, since the room they’d been given was quite so enormous. Or possibly just because he was pretending to stab Wen Ruohan’s head every time he lunged.

“Do you really not remember any of it?” Wen Ruohan asked once he had regained his self-possession. “At all?”

“From my limited experience, the memory will return eventually,” Lan Qiren said grimly. “Usually at an inconvenient time.”

Wen Ruohan could just imagine.

“Tell me when it happens,” he instructed happily. “I would like to see your face.”

Lan Qiren scowled at him.

“Don’t look so offended. Next time I’ll supervise and make sure you don’t do anything strange.”

“I would appreciate the offer,” Lan Qiren said, “except for the fact that it starts with next time…”

Wen Ruohan laughed again.

“Turning to more serious matters, have there been any new developments regarding Jin Guangshan’s death?” Lan Qiren asked. “Do we know anything more?”

Wen Ruohan explained what he’d learned, between the reports his spies had given him and what he’d heard from Jin Guangshi.

“I completely forgot that man even existed,” Lan Qiren said, frowning. “It is a good thing he has no intention of claiming power – I made no provisions for him whatsoever in the initial conversations I had on the subject with Madam Jin.”

“Were you negotiating a treaty without me already?” Wen Ruohan asked, amused. “For shame, Qiren, I’m out of commission for a few days and you’re letting the power go to your head?”

Lan Qiren narrowed his eyes at him. “You are not actually upset about this.”

“Not in the slightest, no. What did you discuss?”

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes. “A few broad strokes, nothing more. I wished to feel her out on the subject of her proposed solution for the war her husband started while retaining the option for you to revoke anything I might have promised. I will lay out the details for you in a written report – even with privacy arrays, the walls may have ears and eyes, so there is no harm in being especially cautious.”

Wen Ruohan nodded, and decided not to mention where exactly most of the previous day’s activities had taken place. It would be far funnier to see Lan Qiren remembering it in real time if he didn’t know.

Also…

“There was one other thing that Jin Guangshi mentioned,” he said, and Lan Qiren looked at him in silent question. “Jin Guangshan was intending to make an overture of peace with us by offering up Wang Liu.”

“Wang Liu…” Lan Qiren’s eyes narrowed, although he did not stop his exercise. “The spy? The one he and my brother used to set up the situation in Xixiang?”

“That’s the one.” Wen Ruohan watched Lan Qiren do a particularly nice sweep with his sword that he could imagine decapitating someone. “What do you want to do with him?”

“What do you mean? Naturally he must be given a trial and sentenced to a fair punishment.”

Now it was Wen Ruohan who rolled his eyes. “You do understand that we don’t actually need to do that, right? His own sect leader has decided to hand him over to us. We can punish him as we see fit.”

“And the correct punishment is that he be given a fair trial and a fair sentence.”

“Qiren, be serious.”

Lan Qiren brought his sword down into the final pose, then stood up with a sigh. “I am serious,” he said. “I am extremely serious. Yes, I have previously expressed, both in my thoughts and out loud to you, a desire to cause harm to the person who deceived you into throwing me into the Fire Palace. However, that was before he was taken into custody. It is different.”

“But why?”

“Because before he was an enemy, and now he is a prisoner.” Lan Qiren shook his head. “And I, at least, do not mistreat prisoners.”

Unlike my sect elders, he meant. Unlike my brother.

Wen Ruohan grunted. There were some matters even a sadist knew were better not to touch. “Have it your way,” he said dismissively. “You’re the one who wanted to hurt him. I just want him dead.”

Lan Qiren snorted. “You are aware, I hope, that the reason I bear a grudge against him is he chose to carry out his orders against you in a manner that was especially harmful to you.”

Wen Ruohan had not been aware. “He’s a spy, Qiren. He was doing his job.”

“And his job was to harm you and the sect, which means that after his trial, he will more than likely be executed as justice requires. It is only my personal vengeance that must be set aside. The rules say – ”

“I wonder where Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze got to with that lead they were following,” Wen Ruohan interrupted. He wasn’t in the mood for a discussion of the rules, especially on the present subject, which sounded like nothing more than ‘I don’t get to get what I want for no reason’ again. “One of the reports I got earlier on said they had something, but there were no updates after that.”

“Unusual,” Lan Qiren said with a faint frown, effectively distracted. “We must hope that they are making progress, even if no one else is. Can you ask for an update?”

Wen Ruohan shrugged in agreement and walked over to the door to their quarters, intending on summoning one of his disciples to go run the errand for him. He pulled open the door.

A small child in yellow looked up at him, hand frozen as if he had been planning to knock.

“Hm,” Wen Ruohan said. “Qiren, I think this one’s for you.”

Inside the room, Lan Qiren rose up, and Wen Ruohan stepped to the side, indicating with his head that the child should enter. When the child didn’t move, staring up at Wen Ruohan with an expression not unlike a mouse fixated by the gaze of a snake, he reached out to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, walked him in, and then closed the door behind him as he himself stepped out of the room.

Child wrangling effectively delegated, Wen Ruohan swept off in search of his spies. Surely one of them knew where Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze had ended up.

He turned out to be mistaken about that: it appeared that the two of them had completely vanished.

“That suggests the existence of additional secret places,” Wen Ruohan said, not overly concerned. He’d noticed before that Cangse Sanren sometimes got mixed up and reported the future instead of the present – for instance, in Xixiang, she’d told him about the search party for Lan Qiren, which his subordinates had confirmed to him had come together just as she’d said. Only, in their telling, the actual event took place a shichen or two after she had explained it to him. And so, since Cangse Sanren had mentioned that her ultimate doom involved a large beast of the sort that was not exactly native to the urban environment of Jinlin Tower, she was no doubt fine. “Are you telling me that a pair of rogue cultivators is beating you to valuable information? Do better.”

When he returned to the rooms they had been assigned, he found that Lan Qiren had finished managing the child situation as well.

“Jin Zixuan,” Lan Qiren said to the boy, who was sitting on a bench trying his best to mimic Lan Qiren’s perfect posture. “Stand and greet Sect Leader Wen.”

The boy jumped up and did a passable salute. “Hello, Sect Leader Wen.”

Wen Ruohan arched his eyebrows a little – he’d been doing that a lot in the past day or so, but he felt rather entitled; there had been rather a lot of surprises. Jin Zixuan was Jin Guangshan’s heir, and, pending either the appointment of a regent or a coup by one of the branch families, the next sect leader. What was he doing trying to talk to a foreign sect leader without supervision?

He inclined his head, polite as he was only to his peers…even if they happened to be six. “Well met.”

“I will discuss with Sect Leader Wen what you have shared with me,” Lan Qiren told the boy. “We will resolve the issue. In the meantime, you should return to your rooms before people notice your absence.”

Wen Ruohan waited until the boy had left the room and disappeared into the overly gaudy hallways of Jinlin Tower before turning an expectant look on Lan Qiren, who cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I took you at your word when you said that I could make decisions on behalf of the sect,” he said.

Wen Ruohan smirked.

“I am aware you already said that I could,” Lan Qiren said grumpily, scowling at him, but Wen Ruohan could see the way his shoulders relaxed a little once he’d received the reassurance. “At any rate, you mentioned that you would be taking Jin Guangshi and his family to the Nightless City as hostages – ”

“I said that I offered to, in exchange for him giving me information of value. It is debatable if he has.”

“Irrelevant. You can play on Jin Guangshi’s stupidity to extract additional favors if you so desire – ” That was in fact what Wen Ruohan was doing. “– but we will be taking them with us as hostages. We will also be taking Jin Zixuan along with them.”

Were they now.

“You say that so definitively, as if you think I might have an objection to taking custody of the presumptive next sect leader of another Great Sect,” Wen Ruohan remarked, settling down next to Lan Qiren. “I don’t, of course. The power that such a situation would give me and my sect would be immense…which suggests a more practical issue. How do you intend to sell that idea to Madam Jin?”

Lan Qiren snorted. “I was planning to refer her to your army if she had any complaints.”

Wen Ruohan grinned and pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot on Lan Qiren’s neck.

Lan Qiren elbowed him in the gut, which was probably about what he deserved.

“I was merely expressing my appreciation,” Wen Ruohan pretended to complain. “You cannot hold it against me that I like it when you’re arrogant and ruthless.”

“The rules say Do not bully the weak and Do not look down at those who lose to you. Neither is applicable to Lanling Jin, which remains extremely powerful despite their current weakness.”

“Yes, and anyway we started looking down at them long beforehand…”

“Do not treat others with contempt.”

“Not even deserved contempt?”

Lan Qiren refused to answer, which was practically an admission.

“Why are we taking the boy, anyway?” Wen Ruohan asked idly. He didn’t really care: Lan Qiren was simply too distractingly attractive when he schemed. “Given that he’s her sole source of legitimate power, I can’t imagine this is one of his mother’s schemes.”

“Far from it. He is concerned that she will smother him – and based on what he has shared of her past behavior in regard to him, I am inclined to agree.”

Wen Ruohan shrugged. Getting Jin Zixuan out of Jinlin Tower wasn’t going to be as easy as Lan Qiren pretended and they both knew it. Lanling Jin was still a Great Sect, Madam Jin was far more formidable an opponent than Jin Guangshan was, and the cultivation world did not look kindly on the notion of child hostages; it would be difficult to justify such an action. They were going to have to pull off something extraordinarily clever or else find the Jin sect red-handed in the midst of something incredibly damning if they were going to find something to use as leverage to convince Madam Jin to agree to let Jin Zixuan go to the Nightless City.

But if they could pull it off…well, like he had said, Wen Ruohan was hardly going to object.

Lan Qiren had started off their marriage by giving him four sects to conquer – and now, not even a year in, he’d gotten Wen Ruohan access to, if not outright custody of, the Lan heirs, the Jiang heirs, and the Jin heir. Wen Ruohan wondered what his plans were for their anniversary.

Though, in the short term –

“I think we still have some time left before the day properly begins,” he said. “You don’t remember what we did last night, right?”

Lan Qiren gave him a narrow, distrustful look.

He was right to do so.

“I just think that it’s important that I help you remember what you missed,” Wen Ruohan said earnestly, and knew that Lan Qiren had understood his barely veiled meaning when he started rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt. “I can demonstrate some of the highlights – ”

There was a loud sound from the hallway outside, followed shortly by yelling.

“I think the day has already begun,” Lan Qiren said dryly. “Your insatiable libido will have to wait.”

Wen Ruohan scowled.

“Of course, if you feel you require additional service to be satisfied, we can make some time – ”

“Perhaps later,” Wen Ruohan said. There was an edge to Lan Qiren’s tone that gave him a distinct sense of danger, though his primary reaction to such a feeling was to be filled with a delicious sense of anticipation. “We should first attend to politics.”

The life of a sect leader was truly full of sacrifice.

Wen Ruohan dramatically slammed open the door to their rooms, startling the group of disciples outside. Once he was sure he had their attention, he asked flatly: “What is the meaning of this?”

The Wen sect disciples present heard his tone of voice and immediately dropped into deep salutes, leaving the Jin sect disciples standing there awkwardly.

“Sect Leader, a situation has developed,” one of the Wen sect disciples said. “These Jin sect disciples claim that they were transporting a prisoner nearby when the prisoner escaped.”

“Why would they be transporting a prisoner near to where guests are being housed?” Lan Qiren asked from where he stood at Wen Ruohan’s shoulder, his voice cold. “That seems to be the height of irresponsibility.”

There was an obvious answer to that, of course, and both Wen Ruohan and Lan Qiren knew it. But at the same time, the Jin sect’s incompetence deserved a sharp reprimand.

“The prisoner, Wang Liu, was going to be delivered to your sect for safekeeping,” the chief Jin sect disciple was forced to admit. “We did not anticipate that he would break free – ”

Wang Liu was an accomplished spy that had been of sufficient quality to get sent to the Nightless City, and from there to actually achieve his goals. Naturally he was top tier. There were only a dozen or so Jin sect disciples here, not anywhere near the number that would ben needed to guard someone of Wang Liu’s caliber…sending only this many to escort him was ridiculous. Either the disorder following Jin Guangshan’s death was rendering people here even more incompetent than usual or else this supposed ‘prisoner escape’ taking place so close to where his Wen sect was being housed was an intentional, if ham-handed, move.

Wen Ruohan suspected the latter. After all, if he was busy hunting Wang Liu down, he wouldn’t have time for other things, such as negotiating Lanling Jin’s submission to his authority.

Too bad he didn’t care.

Or, well, that his anticipatory rage against Wang Liu had been thoroughly extinguished by Lan Qiren’s bloodless insistence on all the trappings of a trial. Wen Ruohan was willing to concede the point, yes, and even to give the spy the trial he apparently deserved. But if it wasn’t going to be any fun, he wasn’t going to spend resources he didn’t want to spend just to get the man to do it.

“That seems like a problem for the Jin sect,” he said firmly. “We were promised that prisoner, and we expect you to deliver that prisoner. Good luck finding him.”

The Jin sect disciple looked taken aback. Clearly he had expected Wen Ruohan to offer assistance in finding him, or even to demand that his people take over looking, and wasn’t sure what to do now that he hadn’t. “Uh…Sect Leader Wen, it will take us additional time to find more people to help with the search. If you would be willing to lend us your disciples – ”

“I’m not. Go find him yourself.”

“Sect Leader Wen – ”

“I do not repeat myself,” Wen Ruohan said, and started to reach for his power, intending to teach these idiots a lesson, only to stop when Lan Qiren put his hand on his arm – a silent reminder that he lacked the power he usually did, and that fools like this were not worth straining himself.

He glanced at Lan Qiren, wondering suddenly if they were going to play-act a scene for the benefit of the Jin sect. Something along the lines of the imperious and vicious sect leader with his more conscientious spouse, who was, perhaps, willing to beg for mercy even on behalf of those who did not deserve it. The idea was positively mouth-watering.

What Lan Qiren actually said, however, was “Do you hear that sound?”

Wen Ruohan frowned, and tore his attention away from the Jin sect in front of him to listen –

“There is someone in the walls,” he said, identifying the source at once.

Not just standing there, either. They might not have heard that, or paid any attention to it; there were plenty of servant’s passages in a place as large as Jinlin Tower, and they were often filled with footsteps. But this person sounded almost as if they were choking on something.

Perhaps poison.

“Sect Leader?” his disciple asked.

“Open the wall at once,” Lan Qiren instructed, and Wen Ruohan nodded in agreement.

“The wall?” The Jin sect disciple looked horrified, even as the Wen sect disciples leapt into action. “Sect Leader Wen, you can’t do that! You are only a guest – ”

“You may refer your complaints to the army I have standing outside your gate,” Wen Ruohan said, borrowing Lan Qiren’s earlier phrase with a considerable amount of relish. It worked very well: the Jin sect disciple shut his mouth with an audible click.

“Sect Leader!” one of the Wen disciples shouted. “Sect Leader, we’re through the wall, we found him – look – look – ”

“It’s the prisoner!” one of the Jin disciples exclaimed. “What’s wrong with him? He’s dying!”

“Let me through,” Wen Ruohan said firmly, and swept forward.

When he got to the front, he determined quickly that it was wrong to describe Wang Liu as dying.

In actual fact, the man was already dead.

Rather unequivocally dead.

He had no breath, no heartbeat, and even his spiritual energy was gone – which was strange, since spiritual energy tended to linger around a cultivator’s grave for a long time, seeping out slowly, often resulting in the development of spiritual grasses or animals in the vicinity.

If Wen Ruohan hadn’t literally heard the man choking to death moments ago himself, he would have thought that this corpse was at least a few days old.

Also, there wasn’t a single mark on him.

“It appears that we’ve left behind the realm of medicine,” he remarked. “Qiren, would you like to take a look?”

Lan Qiren didn’t condescend to reply. He just pulled out his guqin and directly started to play Inquiry.

“We should be in charge of this investigation,” the chief Jin sect disciple said, taking advantage of the moment to try to argue his way into some level of control over the situation. “We have our own methods for contacting the spirits of the dead – ”

Before Wen Ruohan could threaten him again, the man’s mouth abruptly sealed shut.

The Lan sect silencing spell.

“Do not interrupt,” Lan Qiren intoned with the ponderousness of a man reciting a rule, even though Wen Ruohan knew that it wasn’t. The closest the Lan had to something like that was in their exhortations to respect etiquette. “Hmm.”

That did not seem to be a promising ‘hmm.’

“Is his spirit not present?” Wen Ruohan asked. It seemed unlikely, given how recent the death was – absent some particularly pernicious method of killing that would result in the spirit disintegrating, he couldn’t think of any reason the spirit wouldn’t be there.

If Qingheng-jun had gotten hold of a method that did that, they were in more trouble than he’d thought.

“No, he’s present,” Lan Qiren said, which at least assuaged that particular burst of paranoia. “Unfortunately, he may not be as helpful as we might have hoped. His death came as a surprise.”

Now that was interesting.

“A surprise,” Wen Ruohan mused, stepping back and looking over the crowd. The Jin disciples looked just as surprised by the news as anyone else, which meant that this development wasn’t part of the power play someone (probably Madam Jin) had been attempting to pull off. He hadn’t really thought it would be; Wang Liu was simply not important enough to Lanling Jin for them to bother with his death. Once they’d decided he was of no further use to them as a spy, he’d been useful only as a distraction.

It was tremendously wasteful, actually.

Wen Ruohan blamed Madam Jin for not knowing what she was doing. His spies all knew that if they were found out, provided that the discovery wasn’t the fault of their own negligence, they would be guaranteed a new identity and a place to lie low for as long as it took for the storm to blow over, or even a full retirement and a new career if that turned out to be necessary. Wen Ruohan’s ambitions to grow his sect’s power meant that he’d given more thought than most to the subject of recruiting, but this wasn’t just a matter of attracting new talent. Rather, it was about retaining it: Wen Ruohan knew, and other sects that used spies also knew, that loyalty was only truly given where it was adequately paid for, whether financially or through other means. One Wang Liu didn’t matter in the larger scheme of things, but all of Jin Guangshan’s other spies would see Madam Jin’s betrayal of her husband’s spies as a bad sign of things to come – a sign that she would throw them away just as easily.

Hmm. Perhaps Wen Ruohan should encourage his spies to pass around rumors that he’d be willing to grant an amnesty to any existing spies from other sects, provided they were willing to declare loyalty. This could be a good moment to fish in troubled waters, to catch some of them to make his own. After all, hadn’t Wang Liu demonstrated how effective a spy could be when someone else believed them to be their own?

The music from Lan Qiren’s guqin stopped.

Wen Ruohan was already turning to look at him when Lan Qiren started playing again, this time a song of liberation, rather than questioning.

He was banishing the spirit. Was Lan Qiren concerned that the now-deceased Wang Liu would reveal something he didn’t want revealed, or was he simply being efficient? The quicker a spirit could be put to rest, the less resentful energy it generated.

“Nothing more to be gained?” Wen Ruohan asked, trying to make clear in his dismissive tone that he was not questioning Lan Qiren’s judgment but rather agreeing with it.

“Nothing more,” Lan Qiren agreed, untroubled. “His spirit was not inclined to linger – his death was a shock, and he had no time to form significant resentment. He was quite cool-headed throughout, truly an ideal ghost.”

“He was a good spy,” Wen Ruohan said, nodding in agreement. It was only a pity that he had been on the wrong side. “What did you manage to get from him? Any sense of how he died?”

He didn’t bother asking for the name of the murderer. With the ghost’s death a surprise, it was likely not the most reliable witness – and anyway, Wen Ruohan could tell from the faint scowl on Lan Qiren’s face that he likely suspected that his brother to be the perpetrator.

After all, they had agreed with Wen Ruohan’s deduction regarding Jin Guangshan’s death, and the two deaths were suspiciously similar, both involving someone dying unexpectedly while leaving no obvious sign of how they had been murdered. If Qingheng-jun had done one murder, he had likely done the other – and there was no reason to share that information with anyone.

“I believe I can shed some light on how he died,” Lan Qiren said, surprising Wen Ruohan all over again. “Can someone fetch me his sword?”

Wang Liu’s sword?

One of the Wen disciples went for the sword – in fact, one of the Jin disciples also started to move, but all the remaining Wen disciples put their hands on their own swords and glared, and they pulled back.

“I’ve got it, Senior Lan,” the disciple reported, picking it up. “It’s – oh!”

She drew the sword, revealing to the rest of them what it was that had caused her exclamation.

“It’s broken,” Wen Ruohan said, frowning. “Surely he would not have been carrying a broken sword on purpose…someone broke it, then? How did someone break a spiritual sword? And anyway, what does a broken sword have to do with Wang Liu’s death?”

“I’m not sure,” Lan Qiren admitted. “But the sword was broken with a curse.”

Wen Ruohan raised his eyebrows. He’d suggested it earlier, but it was good to have confirmation. Curses were often very nasty and hard to spot, especially the lesser-known ones – and he didn’t know of anything that operated like this.

“Wang Liu’s description of his death suggested that the curse used his sword as a means of accessing his spiritual energy,” Lan Qiren explained. “He was using his qi to connect with the sword, trying to draw it so that he could fly, at the moment the curse activated. The impact of the curse shattered both the steel and all his meridians.”

Exceptionally nasty.

No wonder there was no spiritual energy left in the body. The curse had used Wang Liu’s own qi to kill him!

“Was Jin Guangshan’s sword also broken?” he asked, then answered his own question: “No one would have checked, as he almost never wielded it.”

“Precisely.” Lan Qiren shook his head. “His defensive talismans would not have protected him from a blow if it was not aimed at him, but rather at his sword. And if his sword broke while still in its scabbard, no one would have noticed – no one would have drawn it.”

Clever. Very, very clever.

“But Wang Liu was found alone,” Wen Ruohan said, thinking it through. “There wasn’t enough time for his killer to get away from him, not without us noticing, not with how quickly we found the body. Yet if his killer was not present, he could not have known when Wang Liu was using his qi with his sword in time to activate the curse at that exact moment.”

“That is correct,” Lan Qiren said solemnly. “Which means the curse was set in advance, and triggered later.”

Truly, whoever had come up with this curse was extraordinarily clever. Well done all around! Using a curse like poison, as a means of killing someone in advance when you were safely away…it was brilliant, really.

Wen Ruohan was a little aggravated to have no choice once again but to applaud Qingheng-jun for his creativity. In another life the man would have made a superlative assassin, assuming this really was all him the way they assumed it was.

“But what I do not know is how,” Lan Qiren continued. He was stroking his beard. “How was it done? What curse was it? What exactly killed him, and why?”

“Actually,” a very familiar female voice said, and they all looked up abruptly to see Cangse Sanren, leaning out of the giant hole in the wall with dust all over her nose, cheeks and forehead, as well as the world’s most tremendous grin. “I think I might be able to help with that.”

#mdzs #wen ruohan #lan qiren #my fic #my fics #Megafic

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mathiwrites · 30 days

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the lighthouse, an au fanfic where orm is raised alongside arthur on the surface

Chapter 7

Never did she think the day would come where she feared the sea and all the creatures that live within. Yet, Atlanna remains vigilant, standing in waist deep water and feeling the gentle vibrations of the water. She will never be as strong on land as she is in the sea, and her senses are dulled. The constant light blinds her, and the sounds have finally evened out in her ears.

It is only for Arthur’s sake that she does not fetch her sword. He seems to think the boys are safe. The sword is dull either way; she’ll make due with what she can find.

The woman’s approach is marked by the waves, a disruption in their rhythmic cadence. She is hesitant, but brave to come towards Atlanna who had shown a willingness for violence.

“Lana?” The woman asks softly.

Her name in the mouth of someone other than Tom’s makes her feel strange. Her chest squeezes and her heartbeat kicks up at the thought of interacting with someone outside her protective bubble. She cannot fight this woman for she has done nothing, and she remembers nothing outside her duty to protect her family.

“The boys brought back some food, I thought you might like some. The children are already eating.”

Tom’s favourite recommendation to newcomers is always the oysters and for the kids, obviously, he’ll say that it’s fries and fish sticks.

Atlanna takes a deep breath and turns to regard the woman. She holds out a tray of oysters along with a gentle smile on her features. It’s warm, it’s welcoming and it’s kind. A lost part of her longs to connect, so she offers an awkward smile in return.

“Thank you,” she says, softly. “After you.”

“Let’s share one together.”

Each woman plucks an oyster from the tray and raises it to their lips. Neither avert their gazes; they are not shy, queens in their own right, but they are polite. The flavour is fresh and salty-sweet. It reminds her of home, and that in itself is heartbreaking. The texture has always been her favourite—the softness of the meat dancing on her tongue followed by the delightful crunch of the shell.

Martha Wayne stares at Atlanna, eyes wide with surprise.

The Atlantean Queen furrows her brow and immediately begins to close herself off. “What?”

It’s the laughter that surprises her. The woman raises her hand to cover her mouth, as if to stifle her amusement before answering. “What a unique way to eat oysters.”

Atlanna pulls back, making a face—disapproving of either her own strangeness, or the comment. She had forgotten that Tom never eats the shells. He hands them to her to polish off.

“No, no, it’s wonderful to see. Please, have more. It’s a sustainable way of eating oysters.” Martha holds out the tray, but Atlanna does not take any. “I’m sorry for laughing.” She must have some experience with volatile personalities because Atlanna’s reticence does nothing to deter her. She simply keeps eating and nudges the empty shells, and some untouched oysters, closer to Atlanna.

“It must have been a shock to hear your children crying out like that. I’m so sorry this happened.”

“Are you looking for a reward? For your intervention?”

“What?” Martha blinks her dark eyes at Atlanna. “No, of course not. I just thought you would like some company. You look… sad. I don’t mean it in a pitiful way, but like you’re longing for something. That’s all.”

Longing? What could she possibly be longing for? She has everything she needs here: her boys, her lighthouse and the man who should be her husband. Atlanna looks out at the sea. It’s not longing that she feels, but mourning—mourning for all the hopes and the dreams she has carried with her since she was a child, and now, must abandon them for the sake of her children.

It is a woman’s plight, is it not? To gore oneself and feed pieces of her heart or her soul to the world around her, so that it may thrive. This is what it means to love, truly, and to nurture. No matter the choice, she would have lost, whether it was Tom to her kingdom if she became Queen, or her childhood home for the sake of freedom.

“I know we don’t know each other, but whatever it is, you’re not alone.” Martha steps closer, wading deeper into the sea to join Atlanna. “When Bruce was young, a man tried to take us. He doesn’t remember, he was too little, but it terrified me.” She pauses, leaving room for Atlanna to respond, should she want to. “I don’t know if I’ll understand, but I’ll listen, if you want someone to talk to. You’re not alone.”

Of course, Atlanna isn’t alone. She knows that. She has her sons, and her Tom, but… there is so much she cannot tell them. Not for lack of want, but for lack of words. How can she say that she has not felt right since Orm’s birth, like she is an inadequate mother, like she cannot give him what he truly needs which is why she brought him to Tom who raised a happy Arthur? How can she word the endless pit that is exhaustion and fear? How can she watch Tom’s face fall when she tells him that every night, she thinks that if she never woke up again, it would be easier for him? He could simply take the boys and start a new life, a safe one.

It doesn’t occur to her until that very moment that she has never felt the kinship of another woman. Her life has been surrounded by men, by fathers who put duty and tradition first and by warriors who guard their emotions most of all. Here, a stranger is gently lacing her hands with hers and showing her an unwarranted and undeserved kindness.

It—

It brings tears to her eyes, the ones that would not—that could not fall because she needed to be strong.

Atlanna says nothing. She has no words to name her sorrow.

Martha listens anyway.

#my fics #dc fanfic #dc comics #batfamily #aquafam #atlanna #tom curry #orm marius #arthur curry #aquaman #martha wayne #batman #ao3feed #ao3

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bnuuywol · 1 year

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From the Life and Journals of Phoenyx Eldritch

Aight here we go, I’m finally gonna bite the bullet and post the fics I’ve written about my WoL. This post is gonna be the first in a series of interconnected works that I wrote during the course of my time playing through for the first time, as well as pieces of the timeline I’ll go back to fill in later. I’ll be separating each chunk of chapters by expansion, which also means some things will be out of order as I haven’t written everything in my brain yet (sweats in I barely wrote anything for A Realm Reborn or Stormblood oops). Right now I’m still waiting on my invite email to AO3, but once I receive it they’ll be posted both here and there.

Now, onto the first chapter in PART I: A REALM REBORN!

I hope y’all like childhood trauma 👉😅👉

CONTENT WARNINGS: Gender dysphoria, misgendering

PART I: A REALM REBORN

Chapter One

Nineteen years predating the Seventh Umbral Calamity, a new brood of Viera kits were born in the Veena village of Akusos. The cycle of breeding came and went like clockwork for the Viera who lived there. After all, with the Garleans waging war just outside their borders and the ability, or lack thereof, of their men to survive in the unforgiving wilderness at the base of the Skatay Range, they found themselves needing to replenish their numbers often in order to survive. Among these children was an odd kit who would one day come to be known as Phen.

Their mother only bore the one child. Rael, her name was. She had only recently come of age to participate in the breeding cycle, and even so her priorities often seemed to lie elsewhere. She was one of the most skilled hunters in their village, constantly venturing out into the forest to procure prey for her peoples’ survival. Even pregnancy didn’t stop her in this plight. It was this very reason that the child’s father, Kir, sought Rael when the time came. A Wood Warder since the age of fourteen, like all other males of their kind, he spent the vast majority of his days in the forests as a protector. He’d known Rael since they were both kits themselves, having been born roughly around the same breeding cycle. He had always admired her kindness, her fearlessness. The two found themselves drawn together the moment they were able. Warriors at their core exchanging a passion that ventured far beyond their responsibilities for Akusos.

This fearlessness, passion, and edge of reckless disregard they both possessed would be passed down to their child, but neither would live long enough to see it. A Garlean ambush came at no surprise, but this one came dangerously close to the village itself. Kir performed his duties to the best of his abilities, but not his efforts nor the efforts of other Warders in the surrounding area could drive the Garleans away from Akusos. There were far too many of them, brandishing suits of magitek that could cut down their most skilled fighters in an instant. Rael led a party of the village’s most skilled hunters out into the field in order to drive the invaders out by force. Their success met with a heavy cost. Neither Rael nor Kir returned from the ordeal. Knowing the behavior of their lineage, the village elder, a woman named Dava, decided that taking their child under her personal care would be for the best.

And Phen never knew any different. Their mother died when they were only three years old. The decade that had passed since then held a deeper grip on their memories. Not that they imagined things would have been easier had she survived. Throughout their life they were met with nothing but scolding and disappointment from Dava. It had always been “don’t.” Don’t ask questions like that. Don’t wander outside the village by yourself. Don’t touch those weapons. Don’t speak about that gift of yours. Don’t grow too attached to being a Wood Warder. Don’t question the Green Word.

But they were cursed with an insatiable curiosity. No matter how many times they were told no, they did it again anyway. That reckless behavior made it so Dava kept them separate from the other kits, raising them in isolation lest their misguided ways infect the other young ones. Every effort she made to teach them the proper ways of the Veena clan backfired. Of course, it was in part that very isolation that made them crave answers. Phen didn’t understand the prospect of simply accepting certain things at truth without being told why. Dava always shut them down whenever they prodded at a subject that she did not want them to know about at that age. She just told herself that the kit would settle down as they got older, that puberty would hit and their gender would provide them with a purpose and all of this would just go away.

How wrong she was.

Phen appeared to be growing into a lovely young woman, much to Dava’s relief and the kit’s dismay. Dava immediately got to work preparing the thirteen year old for her new responsibilities as a woman of Akusos. Surely the prospect of training as a hunter would appeal to the child’s tendency towards the same behavior as her mother. But what Dava found was only further resistance.

When her puberty started, Phen felt like she was living in a waking nightmare. Her body was rebelling against her. There had to be some sort of mistake. From what she knew and felt of the two genders, she had always resonated with the males of their race. Everything about being told she was female felt… wrong. Feeling the tenderness in her chest often brought her to tears. Her facial features remaining soft and absent of angles, her waist curving into an hourglass, the idea that she would one day be expected to bear children? Phen couldn’t believe this was happening to her.

She, no… he would not surrender to this reality. Phen knew who he was, he was not about to let Dava decide for him. He just needed to gather the courage to say something. And one day after training, he approached the elder.

“Dava, if you could spare a moment, there’s something I wish to discuss.” Phen requested before returning to his room, his head bowed to show his respect.

“Make it quick, Phen. You know I have little patience to answer questions about things that do not concern you.” Dava responded sharply, hardly looking up from the task that presently occupied her.

“Of course. I…” Anxiety swirled in his chest, but he raised his gaze and steeled himself for the worst. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I was wondering if when next the Wood Warders return, I could go with them and begin training to become one.” Phen’s request was immediately met with a seething silence. Dava closed her book and stood, approaching the kit with a dangerous glare.

“You know full well that women are not permitted to become Wood Warders. The Green Word forbids it.”

“I know, but… I don’t really feel that I am… a woman, I mean. I understand that the developments my body is going through would make it seem as such, but… it doesn’t feel right.”

“What on earth could you possibly mean by such a claim?”

“I mean exactly what I’m saying.” Desperate to be understood, he threw caution to the wind and let emotion take over. “Everything about it feels wrong, like I’m a prisoner in my own skin. Puberty be damned, I am a man, not a woman!”

“Watch your tongue, kit! Need I remind you that it was by the goodness of my heart that you were given a home after the passing of your mother? And now you would stand here and insult her memory, insult our very way of life. Rael would be ashamed of who you grew up to be.”

“But why is what I say so wrong? Why is what I ask to do so wrong? My father died in the name of protecting Akusos, he devoted his life to the protection of our village, of our forests. He took upon him the lonely duty of the Wood Warder with pride and honor. All I have ever wanted was to follow in his footsteps. To protect the land as he did. And now, because you all decide who I am for me, I will not be allowed to do so?”

“What you want, Phen, is any excuse to go off into the outside world! That’s all you have ever wanted, to be rid of this place. Is that not so?”

Phen opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, his face twisting with confliction. He shoved down the dysphoria induced by Dava’s choice to ignore what he shared about his gender and tried to fully consider the question posed to him. “I…” His voice faltered. He pressed his eyes shut, his chest heavy with the reality that she was right. With a deep sigh, he opened his eyes and brought them back to hers. “Can you blame me? All my life you have kept me sheltered away, able to experience nothing but the four walls of our home. Does it truly surprise you that I now look to the stars and yearn for the freedom to know more than that?”

Dava crossed her arms, greatly disappointed by what this kit became despite her best efforts to prevent it. She shook her head, her eyes daggers upon the child. “Then go.”

Phen’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”

“I hereby exile you from the village of Akusos. Leave now, and do not return.”

“Dava—” His voice swelled with panic.

“My decision is final. You have spat in the face of the Green Word for the last time, kit. The wilderness will decide your fate now.”

The Warders all knew better than to aid the young kit that had entered the forests that evening. The circumstances by which the, what appeared to their eyes to be female, child came to be in the wilderness could only mean one thing: the elder had exiled the kit, and deemed them Veena no longer. For a mercy, Phen had been allowed to keep the bow and quiver of arrows he had begun training with, but nothing else. After the initial shock and panic from Dava’s decision had passed, he made his preparations swiftly. Believing he had nothing further to lose, he broke into the storehouses and acquired the gear given only to the men of their tribe before they went out into the forest. If he were to be sent out into the world, likely to his death, he would do so with dignity, unbound by the clothing expected of someone assigned female.

That first night proved particularly difficult. The cold bit through even the armor on his forearms and legs, his exposed midriff numb and bright red with irritation as the unforgiving winds tore against his body. But despite the tips of his fingers feeling as though they might break off, he used a partial cave and a haphazardly built wall of snow to shelter himself through the night. When he awoke, it felt like he had frozen in place, his body wracked with profuse shaking. It probably would have been easier to simply lay there and die, but something inside him wouldn’t allow that. A fire burned in his chest and told him that this world held more for him than to freeze to death as a child. And with that determination, he found the strength to pull himself up off the ground.

Phen spent nine years in that forest, watching Warders from afar, teaching himself the lay of the land, teaching himself how to survive. Though he stumbled through the first couple of years, surviving mostly on luck, he was quick to pick up the skills he needed in order to survive. Hunting, building fires, finding shelter, looting supplies off the bodies of fallen Garlean soldiers, as well as those of Dalmascans and Nagxians who fled into the woods hoping to escape the invaders only to face the unforgiving cold and beasts. Every once in a while he’d find particularly useful supplies off the bodies of ‘adventurers.’ In particular, he once found a gold encrusted vial with a strange blue liquid within it, deciding to keep it in case it held any value.

The more he found himself encountering adventurers, either alive or dead, the more intrigued he became by the concept. Phen would sometimes spend his evenings spying on their camps, hearing their stories about adventures in far away lands that they regaled one another to pass the time. Tales regarding a place called Eorzea caught his attention in particular. People spoke of a great tragedy striking the land, the Calamity, they called it. How many people were in need of aid to rebuild, to gain protection from bandits and ruffians, to find some sort of peace after the red moon Dalamud broke apart and released a ferocious dragon, Bahamut. The more he heard about the place, the more he felt drawn to it. Especially the deserts of Thanalan. How he yearned to free himself from this cold wasteland at the base of the mountains and explore such a place.

One day, the circumstances seemed to align in a most harmonious fashion. A party of adventurers hailing from Eorzea was passing through the forest in pursuit of the mountains of the Skatay Range, with intent on exploring the Burn just beyond them. Phen caught an intriguing conversation about a vial not unlike the one he had acquired a few years past. Fantasia, they called it. They were, of course, speaking of how much value the substance held in the marketplaces, their intention to sell it to line their coin purses. But all that information was lost on Phen once he heard what it could do: using magic to change the user’s entire body as they pleased, including their physical gender. His ears perked and eyes widened with this information. From his vantage point, he pulled the vial from his pocket. The answer to his struggles living with the body given to him at birth… could it have been this close for all these years? Only one way to find out. Phen opened the vial, and with his heart’s desire at the forefront of his mind, downed its contents. An odd sensation filled his being, as if his skin were rippling across the bone. Overwhelmed by it, he soon lost consciousness.

When he came to, Phen found himself surrounded by that selfsame group of adventurers. He inhaled sharply, pulling the dagger from its sheath at his back and rising to one knee, brandishing the blade in front of him in defense. The first thing he noticed was the… weight, for lack of a better word, between his legs. Then the lack thereof around his chest, as well as an overall different sensation regarding his center of gravity. Had it… worked?

“Be at ease, lad. We found ya passed out with a pack of coyotes circling around. Thought it best to not let ya become their lunch.” A gruff voice pierced his ears. He turned to find a heavily scarred Roegadyn man with his arms crossed, emerald green eyes staring down at him. Phen’s gaze followed from him to a dark-skinned Elezen woman, a teal haired Miqo'te man, and then back to the Roegadyn.

“I…” He began responding, immediately taken aback by the sound of his own voice. Between the vastly different physical sensations he felt, the deepening of his voice, and the stranger’s immediate and correct assumption that he was, in fact, male all but confirmed it. Fantasia had done its work. “Thank you.” He finished, easing into the fact that this was now the voice he possessed. As shocking as hearing it had been, it felt right.

The Roegadyn man held out a hand and smiled. Phen sheathed his dagger and took it, graciously accepting the help to rise to his feet. “Name’s Haldryss. That there is Catane,” he gestured towards the Elezen, “and L’lev,” his gaze shifted towards the Miqo’te. “What might you be called, lad?”

Phen opened his mouth, then hesitated and shut it. If this were to be his first steps towards starting a new life outside of this place, his new identity in possession of a body that matched his soul, he would need a new name. Not one given to him by the elder of a people who despised him. He recalled a creature from a tome he’d found on a Nagxian some time ago, a creature who embodied rebirth with its ability to set itself aflame and start life anew. “Phoenyx.” He responded. “Phoenyx Eldritch.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv wol #warrior of light oc #viera wol #transmasc wol #ffxiv rp #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy xiv fanfiction #wol oc #phoenyx eldritch #pre-arr #my writing #gonna go hide now lol haven't posted about my ocs since my tumblr rp days #cw gender dysphoria #cw misgendering

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sarcasticdolphin · 9 months

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Smrtolf “Aemilia(s)”

This is a drabble that could be done with great historical accuracy and proper research. I have done exactly none of that in this case. All the nobles are OCs.

I’m tired and it is late here so proofreading was less than usual.

For @adridoesstuff as all my smrtolf drabbles are. Cut for length.

Franz has never been good at talking to his son. At first he had simply chalked it up to Rudolf’s age - talking with children was very different from talking with adults, but if anything things got harder and not easier as Rudolf grew.

It’s at one of the informal dinners that Franz finally pries something out of Rudolf. It’s not really anything, just a name. Aemilia. A friend of his son’s. Or at least that is what Rudolf calls her. No title, no family name to accompany it. Just Aemilia.

And as much as Rudolf had a tendency to dance around these sorts of things, Franz had no delusions about the nature of Rudolf’s friendship with this Aemilia. Perhaps it would do some good for the boy to have a mistress that he did seem to care about.

He does try to put it out of his mind. Rudolf and this Aemilia are being remarkably discrete - Eduard seems entirely in the dark, and Franz honestly hadn’t thought that was possible.

But Franz for his part can’t help but to survey the long table of nobles at one of the more formal dinners. Aemilia, Amalia, however it was being spelled these days, wasn’t quite as popular a name as it used to be.

That was probably for the best. Whoever Aemilia was, there would be no major diplomatic incident aside from with Belgium, and given how discrete Rudolf was being it wasn’t like they could really complain much. Men had needs.

There are only two women named Aemilia - Maria Aemilia that is - at the table that night, and both are dowagers, so Franz discards them immediately. There are a dozen women by that name at his court among the more minor nobles. And it would be easier to conduct an affair with a countess than with a princess.

But perhaps there is a little more than that to it. One of the Dowagers is old enough to be Franz’s mother, but the other is younger even than Rudolf. The poor woman had been the fifth wife of an ancient lord. None of the four who had come before her had ever so much as swollen with child, but the fifth wife - Amalia - had borne the lord a son. He’d been the late lord by the time the boy was born, though.

And while the succession had been a relatively smooth transition - Amalia had been great with child when the father passed. There was no doubting the paternity, but the lord had never updated his will, and his equally ancient brother had taken the child almost immediately and declared himself regent.

Amalia had come to Vienna to petition for the return of her son among other things, and if nothing the woman was determined. Perhaps she had gone to the Crown Prince to try and speed things along. It wasn’t as if no one was sympathetic to her plight, but the legalities were murky. Such things did not move quickly.

But Rudolf hadn’t ever said anything at the young dowager’s petition, only nodding along as all the others did and departing for Mayerling, leaving Franz to the business of government.

The other women who came to mind were countesses for the most part, and a few baronesses. But he’d know if it were one of them. Minor noble houses had tendencies to become hangers-on if their daughters found places in the bed of one so high as a Crown Prince. Franz does make a mental note to have Eduard compile a list to see if there are any who might not have the usual hangers-on.

Given how discrete Rudolf seems to have been, perhaps he has found a lady with no relations. There are, of course, other possibilities. Less savory possibilities. It’s expected for one such as Rudolf (or Franz himself for that matter) to dally with a countess, or perhaps a baroness. Actresses, on the other hand, would be entirely unacceptable. But surely Eduard would know if Rudolf had a lady friend in the city.

Perhaps then it is that Rudolf keeps an orphan countess at Mayerling, away from prying eyes. But such a woman would be a sought-after bride. A baroness, then. Or even an actress. How Rudolf managed to get any of them to Mayerling without alerting Eduard, Franz had no idea. Then again, Eduard was a very busy man. But this was not the sort of thing that would slip through the crack. Especially as it was another thing that Eduard could complain to Franz himself about. That the Crown Prince was bedding women instead of learning to rule and empire.

And, Franz thought, it would do him some good to be out of the palace, even if it was only for a day or so.

He departed with only a few guards, well before dawn. Eduard could deal with matters for a day.

—------------------

The birds are there, watching ever so carefully as Franz dismounts his horse. Rudolf had always tried to be subtle, but the walls of the palace were white. It wasn’t as if the boy could have hidden a flock of crows if he tried. He had tried, but never with much success. But they had all left once Rudolf took up residence at Mayerling, so Franz had never brought it up with his son. The problem was out of sight. Foreign ambassadors wouldn’t be writing any superstitious missives to their home nations about the Viennese court being haunted by carrion crows.

He comes swiftly through the lodge, the servants parting. There aren’t many here, and they were ever so loyal to Franz’s son to a level that vexed Franz himself on occasions. Eduard seemed almost to the point where he would tear his own hair out. To Franz, though, it spoke well of his son, of his ability to inspire loyalty when he needed to.

It’s early, and part of Franz expects to catch Rudolf still asleep, in bed with his mistress, but the scene that greets him is nothing of the sort.

His son is painting, a raven perched at his side and a crow on the floor some distance away, playing with what appears to be one of Rudolf’s shirts.

“Rudolf.” The boy starts, entirely surprised to see Franz. It’s not like Franz comes here often, usually leaving Rudolf to his privacy.

“Papa.” He does recover his composure quickly, passing off the brush to the raven, who holds it in its beak ever carefully while regarding Franz. The crow on the floor hadn’t even looked up. There’s an unspoken tinge to Rudolf’s voice, though. What are you doing here?

“Rudolf, we need to talk.” The confusion on Rudolf’s face is obvious. Franz sighs and sits down. “About your friend. Aemilia.”

His son goes completely still at that. So this will be a most awkward conversation, then.

“Rudolf, having urges is normal. And you’ve been discrete, but-” Franz pauses. Awkward didn’t do whatever this was justice. It was torture. “Rudolf, if you’re trying to father a son out of wedlock to try and get your divorce you should know it doesn’t work that way.”

The look Rudolf gives him is one of utter shock, mixed with confusion. So that was not his son’s goal, then. The idea had come to Franz on the ride.

“She’s not my-” Rudolf doesn’t even get the word out, still looking at the floor. The crow - an odd black and white thing - was still playing with the shirt, seemingly enthralled as it tried without success to unpick the seams.

“Rudolf-”

“Aemilia Isn't my mistress.” Rudolf blurts the words out, looking up at Franz only only seeming to just notice that he had spoken out of turn. Franz for one didn't care much - it wasn’t as if there was anyone around to see.

And so Franz waited, giving his son an expectant expression. He wants to know.

Rudolf instead turns, taking the brush from the raven, setting it down, and offering it his wrist.

“Papa, this is Aemilia.” Rudolf nods to the bird, placing a little kiss on her head. “My friend.”

The bird chirps in agreement.

A familiar bird, Franz realizes. “Is that the bird that bit me two months ago?”

Rudolf had been hiding after dinner, and Franz had joined him, watching his son toss grapes and bits to meat to a graceful raven. But when his son had run out of morsels the raven had turned to Franz himself, nosing around at his fingers, and ever so slightly nipping at one.

“Yes.” Rudolf sounds resigned. The bird, on the other hand, makes an affirmative noise and eyes Franz once more. Perhaps, Franz thinks, Eduard might not be able to handle the empire for a day. Things have been tense.

“Aemilia stays at Mayerling, Rudolf.” And, Franz thinks, others can retrieve his son.

Rudolf looked up, confused, but Franz was already taking his leave. He took a step back, only to hear a squawk. The little black and white raven was looking at Franz, seemingly very confused.

The exit is more than a little clumsy, but it’s for the best. And Eduard can call off the search for the mysterious Aemilia.

Or at least, that is what Franz tells himself during the ride back.

#my fic #smrtolf

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natromanxoff · 2 years

Text

(x)

THIS is Freddie's song:

Just think of all those hungry mouths we have to feed,

Take a look at all the suffering we breed,

So many lonely faces scattered all around,

Searching for what they need.

Is this the world we created,

What did we do it for,

Is this the world we invaded,

Against the law,

So it seems in the end,

Is this what we’re all living for today,

The world that we created.

You know that everyday a helpless child is born,

Who need some loving care inside a happy home,

Somewhere a wealthy man is sitting on this throne,

Waiting for life to go by.

Is this the world created, we made it on our own,

Is this world we devastated, right to the bone,

If there’s a God in the sky looking down,

What can he think of what we’ve done,

To the world that He created.

The Greatest Show on Earth

By DAVID WIGG

FREDDIE MERCURY will sing a song tomorrow which sums up the message of the entire Live Aid spectacle.

Called Is this the World We Created? Freddie will perform the poignant number just before the finale, accompanied by co-writer and fellow Queen member Brian May on acoustic guitar.

"Strangely enough, we wrote this song long before the Live Aid project," says Freddie. “But everyone decided it fitted the occasion. It's about the unnecessary suffering and starvation among children all around world."

Mercury will appear twice on tomorrow's sensational global bill. First, at 6.40 p.m. when Queen play some of their greatest hits including Bohemian Rhapsody — “We are playing songs that people identify with to make it a happy occasion” — and then again at 9.30 p.m. to perform Is This The We World Created? which was featured on Queen's The Works album last year.

Queen have cancelled all other engagements to take part in the Wembley concert.

Mercury first became aware that he was luckier than a lot of children when he attended an English boarding school in India, and discovered through a boy’s eyes the plight of the country’s poor.

So does he offer his services for a charity event like Live Aid out of gratitud for his own good life or out of guilt?

“I’m certainly not doing it out of guilt,” says the 38-year-old superstar. “I don’t feel guilty just because I’m rich. Even if I didn’t do it the problem would still be there. It's something that will sadly always be there.

“The idea of all of this is to make the whole world aware of the fact that this is going on. By making this concert we are doing something positive to make people look, listen, and hopefully donate.

"Neither should we be looking at it in terms of us and them. When people are starving it should be looked upon as one united problem.”

He openly admitted that when he sees TV film of Africa’s starving millions he has to switch off his set. “It disturbs me so much I just can’t watch it,” he says.

FORCE

"Sometimes I do feel helpless and this is one of those times I can do my bit.

"Bob Geldof has done a wonderful thing, because he actually sparked it off. I'm sure we all had it in us to do that, but it took someone like him to become the driving force, and actually get us all to come together.

"You have got to have a certain status for this kind of show. That's what Geldof realised, and he has succeeded in persuading the world's biggest-established rock stars to appear for nothing. He is trying to raise as much money as possible, and to achieve that he needed the cream of th music business."

[Photo caption: Magic… Mercurial music from Freddie]

#queen #queen band #freddie mercury #queen scans #magazine’s title is unknown

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wisdomrays · 3 years

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QUESTIONS & ANSWERS: Why Was the Prophet Polygamous?: Part 2

Khadija was the Prophet's first wife. As mentioned above, she married him before his call to Prophethood. Even though she was 15 years his senior, she bore all of his children, except for Ibrahim, who did not survive infancy. Khadija was also his friend, the sharer of his inclinations and ideals to a remarkable degree. Their marriage was wonderfully blessed, for they lived together in profound harmony for 23 years. Through every trial and persecution launched by the Makkan unbelievers, she was his dearest companion and helper. He loved her very deeply and married no other woman while she was alive.

This marriage is the ideal of intimacy, friendship, mutual respect, support, and consolation. Though faithful and loyal to all his wives, he never forgot Khadija and mentioned her virtues and merits extensively on many occasions. He married another woman only 4 or 5 years after Khadija's death. Until that time, he served as both a mother and a father to his children, providing their daily food and provisions as well as bearing their troubles and hardships. To allege that such a man was a sensualist or driven by sexual lust is nonsensical.

'A'isha was the daughter of Abu Bakr, his closest friend and devoted follower. One of the earliest converts, Abu Bakr had long hoped to cement the deep attachment between himself and the Prophet through marriage. By marrying 'A'isha, the Prophet accorded the highest honor and courtesy to a man who had shared all the good and bad times with him. In this way, Abu Bakr and 'A'isha acquired the distinction of being spiritually and physically close to the Prophet.

'A'isha proved to be a remarkably intelligent and wise woman, for she had both the nature and temperament to carry forward the work of Prophetic mission. Her marriage prepared her to be a spiritual guide and teacher to all women. She became one of the Prophet's major students and disciples. Through him, like so many Muslims of that blessed time, her skills and talents were matured and perfected so that she could join him in the abode of bliss both as wife and as student.

Her life and service to Islam prove that such an exceptional person was worthy to be the Prophet's wife. She was one of the greatest authorities on hadith, an excellent Qur'anic commentator, and a most distinguished and knowledgeable expert on Islamic law. She truly represented the inner and outer qualities and experiences of Prophet Muhammad. This is surely why the Prophet was told in a dream that he would marry 'A'isha. Thus, when she was still innocent and knew nothing of men and worldly affairs, she was prepared and entered the Prophet's household.

Umm Salama of the Makhzum clan, was first married to her cousin. The couple had embraced Islam at the very beginning and emigrated to Abyssinia to avoid persecution. After their return, they and their four children migrated to Madina. Her husband participated in many battles and died after being severely wounded at the Battle of Uhud. Abu Bakr and 'Umar proposed marriage to her, aware of her needs and suffering as a destitute widow with children to support. She refused, believing that no one could be better than her late husband.

Some time after that, the Prophet proposed marriage. This was quite right and natural, for this great woman had never shied from sacrifice and suffering for Islam. Now that she was alone after having lived many years in the noblest Arabian clan, she could not be neglected and left to beg her way in life. Considering her piety, sincerity, and what she had suffered, she certainly deserved to be helped. By marrying her, the Prophet was doing what he had always done: befriending those lacking in friends, supporting the unsupported, and protecting the unprotected. In her present circumstances, there was no kinder or more gracious way of helping her.

Umm Salama also was intelligent and quick to understand. She had all the capacities and gifts to become a spiritual guide and teacher. When the Prophet took her under his protection, a new student to whom all women would be grateful was accepted into the school of knowledge and guidance. As the Prophet was now almost 60, marrying a widow with many children and assuming the related expenses and responsibilities can only be understood as an act of compassion that deserves our admiration for his infinite reserves of humanity.

Umm Habiba was the daughter of Abu Sufyan, an early and most determined enemy of the Prophet and supporter of Makkah's polytheistic and idolatrous religion. Yet his daughter was one of the earliest Muslims. She emigrated to Abyssinia with her husband, where he eventually renounced his faith and embraced Christianity. Although separated from her husband, she remained a Muslim. Shortly after that, her husband died and she was left all alone and desperate in exile.

The Companions, at that time few in number and barely able to support themselves, could not offer much help. So, what were her options? She could convert to Christianity and get help that way (unthinkable). She could return to her father's home, now a headquarters of the war against Islam (unthinkable). She could wander from house to house as a beggar, but again it was an unthinkable option for a member of one of the richest and noblest Arab families to bring shame upon her family name by doing so.

God recompensed Umm Habiba for her lonely exile in an insecure environment among people of a different race and religion, and for her despair at her husband's apostasy and death, by arranging for the Prophet to marry her. Learning of her plight, the Prophet sent an offer of marriage through the king Negus. This noble and generous action was a practical proof of: We have not sent you save as a mercy for all creatures (21:107).

Thus Umm Habiba joined the Prophet's household as a wife and student, and contributed much to the moral and spiritual life of those who learned from her. This marriage linked Abu Sufyan's powerful family to the Prophet's person and household, which caused its members to re-evaluate their attitudes. It also is correct to trace the influence of this marriage, beyond the family of Abu Sufyan and to the Umayyads in general, who ruled the Muslims for almost a century.

This clan, whose members had been the most fanatical in their hatred of Islam, produced some of Islam's most renowned early warriors, administrators, and governors. Without doubt, it was this marriage that began this change, for the Prophet's depth of generosity and magnanimity of soul surely overwhelmed them.

Zaynab bint Jahsh was a lady of noble birth and a close relative of the Prophet. She was, moreover, a woman of great piety, who fasted much, kept long vigils, and gave generously to the poor. When the Prophet arranged for her to marry Zayd, an African exslave whom he had adopted as his son, Zaynab's family and Zaynab herself were at first unwilling. The family had hoped to marry their daughter to the Prophet. But when they realized that the Prophet had decided otherwise, they consented out of deference to their love for the Prophet and his authority.

Zayd had been enslaved as a child during a tribal war. Khadija, who had bought him, had given him to Muhammad as a present when she married him. The Prophet had freed immediately him and, shortly afterwards, adopted him as his son. He insisted on this marriage to establish and fortify equality between the Muslims, and to break down the Arab prejudice against a slave or even freedman marrying a free-born woman.

The marriage was an unhappy one. The noble-born Zaynab was a good Muslim of a most pious and exceptional quality. The freedman Zayd was among the first to embrace Islam, and he also was a good Muslim. Both loved and obeyed the Prophet, but they were not a compatible couple. Zayd asked the Prophet several times to allow them to divorce. However, he was told to persevere with patience and not separate from Zaynab.

But then one day Gabriel came with a Divine Revelation that the Prophet's marriage to Zaynab was a bond already contracted: We have married her to you (33:37). This command was one of the severest trials the Prophet, had yet had to face, for he was being told to break a social taboo. Yet it had to be done for the sake of God, just as God commanded. 'A'isha later said: "Had the Messenger been inclined to suppress any part of the Revelation, surely he would have suppressed this verse."

Divine wisdom decreed that Zaynab join the Prophet's household, so that she could be prepared to guide and enlighten the Muslims. As his wife, she proved herself most worthy of her new position by always being aware of her responsibilities and the courtesies proper to her role, all of which she fulfilled to universal admiration.

Before Islam, an adopted son was considered a natural son. Therefore, an adopted son's wife was considered as a natural son's wife would be. According to the Qur'anic verse, former "wives of your sons proceeding from your loins" fall within the prohibited degrees of marriage. But this prohibition does not apply to adopted sons, for there is no real consanguinity. What now seems obvious was not so then. This deeply rooted tribal taboo was broken by this marriage, just as God had intended.

To have an unassailable authority for future generations of Muslims, the Prophet had to break this taboo himself. It is one more instance of his deep faith that he did as he was told, and freed his people from a legal fiction that obscured a biological, natural reality.

Juwayriya bint Harith the daughter of Harith, chief of the defeated Bani Mustaliq clan, was captured during a military campaign. She was held with other members of her proud family alongside her clan's "common" people. She was in great distress when she was taken to the Prophet, for her kinsmen had lost everything and she felt profound hate and enmity for the Muslims. The Prophet understood her wounded pride, dignity, and suffering; more important, he understood how to deal with these issues effectively. He agreed to pay her ransom, set her free, and offered to marry her.

When the Ansar and the Muhajirun realized that the Bani Mustaliq now were related to the Prophet by marriage, they freed about 100 families that had not yet been ransomed. A tribe so honored could not be allowed to remain in slavery. In this way, the hearts of Juwayriya and her people were won. Those 100 families blessed the marriage. Through his compassionate wisdom and generosity, the Prophet turned a defeat for some into a victory for all, and what had been an occasion of enmity and distress became one of friendship and joy.

Safiyya bint Huyayy was the daughter of the chieftains of the Jewish tribe of Khaybar, who had persuaded the Bani Qurayza to break their treaty with the Prophet. From her earliest days, she had seen her family and relatives oppose the Prophet. She had lost her father, brother, and husband in battles against the Muslims, and eventually was captured by them.

The attitudes and actions of her family and relatives might have nurtured in her a deep desire for revenge. However, 3 days before the Prophet reached Khaybar, she dreamed of a brilliant moon coming out from Madina, moving toward Khaybar, and falling into her lap. She later said: "When I was captured, I began to hope that my dream would come true." When she was brought before the Prophet as a captive, he set her free and offered her the choice of remaining a Jewess and returning to her people, or entering Islam and becoming his wife. "I chose God and his Messenger" she said. Shortly after that, they were married.

Elevated to the Prophet's household, she witnessed at first hand the Muslims' refinement and true courtesy. Her attitude to her past experiences changed, and she came to appreciate the great honor of being the Prophet's wife. As a result of this marriage, the attitude of many Jews changed as they came to see and know the Prophet closely. It is worth noting that such close relations between Muslims and non-Muslims can help people to understand each other better and to establish mutual respect and tolerance as social norms.

Sawda bint Zam'ah ibn Qays was the widow of Sakran. Among the first to embrace Islam, they had emigrated to Abyssinia to escape the Makkans' persecution. Sakran died in exile, and left his wife utterly destitute. As the only means of assisting her, the Prophet, though himself having a hard time making ends meet, married her. This marriage took place some time after Khadija's death.

Hafsa was the daughter of 'Umar ibn al-Khattab, the future second caliph of Islam. This good lady had lost her husband, who emigrated to both Abyssinia and Madina, where he was fatally wounded during a battle in the path of God. She remained without a husband for a while. 'Umar desired the honor and blessing of being close to the Prophet in this world and in the Hereafter. The Prophet honored this desire by marrying Hafsa to protect and to help the daughter of his faithful disciple.

Given the above facts, it is clear that the Prophet married these women for a variety of reasons: to provide helpless or widowed women with dignified subsistence; to console and honor enraged or estranged tribes; to bring former enemies into some degree of relationship and harmony; to gain certain uniquely gifted men and women for Islam; to establish new norms of relationship between people within the unifying brotherhood of faith in God; and to honor with family bonds the two men who were to be the first leaders of the Muslim community after his death. These marriages had nothing to do with self-indulgence, personal desire, or lust. With the exception of 'A'isha, all of the Prophet's wives were widows, and all of his post-Khadija marriages were contracted when he was already an old man. Far from being acts of self-indulgence, these marriages were acts of self-discipline.

Part of that discipline was providing each wife with the most meticulously observed justice, dividing equally whatever slender resources he allowed for their subsistence, accommodation, and allowance. He also divided his time with them equally, and regarded and treated them with equal friendship and respect. The fact that all of his wives got on well with each other is no small tribute to his genius for creating peace and harmony. With each of them, he was not only a provider but also a friend and companion.

The number of the Prophet's wives was a dispensation unique to him. Some of the merits and wisdom of this dispensation, as we understand them, have been explained. All other Muslims are allowed a maximum of four wives at one time. When that Revelation restricting polygamy came, the Prophet's marriages had already been contracted. Thereafter, he married no other women.

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asocial-inkblot · 2 years

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Azula is not an object to be owned, shared or edited.

Or: How about nobody gets “control” of Azula after the end of the war?

I’m not talking about the likelihood of this happening btw. I just fail to see what makes any of us think this would be an okay or preferable situation for her to be in.

(Sorry if the title/headline is inflammatory. I’m indeed aware that this is a serious topic for many sympathetic to her plight, even those that think the best of some of the below mentioned people. However none of them deserve anything from her, least of all power over her.)

Here’s the situation:

Iroh should never be allowed near a child again by the end of the series, seeing as he has literally or symbolically killed two families and three children (including his own son) for his benefit. Ozai on the other hand was a crumbling man before the end, which kept trying to tape the pieces back onto his ego’s statue using the worst and most damaging methods, and after the war, is a broken man who also needs to be kept away from children. So neither of them are options.

Mai and Ty Lee seem just as self-absorbed, clueless and desperate at many points as Zuko does, likely due to the fact that all three are young; far too young to take a 14 to 15 year old under their similarly-aged wings.

Zuko of course was nothing but ungrateful or malicious toward Azula and doesn’t even need to be convinced for him to want to take her down. (Or...something? I think his mind is in need of its own dissection...)

If the excuse with Ursa is that she’d finally have the chance to be a present and nurturing mother...uh, bit late for that. Azula’s already nearing adulthood and it could be interpreted that the Fire Nation purposely matures its children earlier than in other nations and the real world. So those from their homeland, including Ursa herself, may not even view any of them as being ‘just kids’ (maybe it’s a stretch but I think this is more likely than few, if any, have ever considered. Especially when you take into account the time periods being represented and some of the practices we are made aware of).

The Gaang are youths themselves and were her enemies during the war. If she had trust issues before it ended, you better believe she will after. So I don’t think she’d want help from them of all people, anymore than from the Fire Traitors. I believe she’d need at least a bit of time and to be educated about a different set of beliefs by someone unconnected to her past life, before she could be willing to be open to their advances.

(Remind me again what she’ll have to worry about, knowing she’d make a better Fire Lord than most if not all of the others and will soon have people demanding her reinstatement soon enough? Yes I know, different AU ideas and all that. But this happening would still make the most sense imo.)

Shouldn’t we be asking if Azula would even accept being in the hands of one or more of them? I’m currently finding it hard to believe that any of the Fire Nation mains know anything about Azula, outside the bare minimum (like how some have noted in regards to Zuko and Iroh in specific), and I doubt she’d be so limited in options postwar, honestly. Comics aside, there are some who could be willing to do therapy with her, while focusing on what she needs, not what they want her to be for them. This would be ideal because Azula doesn’t owe anyone anything and she should be allowed to explore for exploration’s sake as well as grow into herself without family bias or peer pressure.

On top of everything else, would she even need treatment, especially in comparison to the other youths from her world? Well, I suppose it depends on how we decide to interpret her condition postwar. I’d say the key in all this is to focus on her and her needs. That would be tough for people from her past to do though, because all of them are insensitive, myopic and self-centered. Why should her being a bit more vulnerable than she was portrayed to be throughout the majority of the series, suddenly mean she requires her reckless, inconsiderate slightly older brother, a self-righteous, adult male hypocrite, another girl(s) that’s hardly closer to her than her many detached servants are, and/or even her previously absent—and before that, possibly neglectful—mother to ‘watch over her’ as though she suddenly regressed mentally or physically in age?

I understand wanting a character to be more. More for another amazing but in-need character, more than s/he was meant to be overall. Nevertheless, if canon-compliance means anything, it’s that sometimes we take things where they were likely going to go had the piece of media been continued by the original writers—or where they were never intended to go. Mai and Ty Lee in fact, may have been meant to be read as selfish, plain awful friends that weren’t prepared for the real world or to acknowledge their more exploited friend’s needs. Zuko has nothing to offer Azula that she couldn’t get from anyone else, noble and village idiot alike. Not until he actually changes anyway. The others, I won’t say much else on. All of them plus the Gaang are stuck in their own heads to varying degrees. Azula would likewise have her own psyche to focus on and wrestle with, and can’t afford a guardian doing a half-baked job with her.

So in conclusion I ask: Why should any of the people from her childhood and up to the war’s end be allowed to enact a Britney Situation (two similar links) on her and become her conservator in some form, when we know based on information from the show (and post show/outside the show), actual scenes, character/writer admissions and even real life examples, how that would end?

#Azula #postwar #postwar healing #postwar battle for jurisdiction over her #What's stopping Azula from choosing to run instead and stay low?#Britney Spears #Based on what we've been told of Britney's situation.#Since Azula's situation could become like hers.#In some ways it already canonically was.#Including or excluding the comics.#Azula as Britney Spears AU idea?#FWIW Britney is free from her conservatorship now.

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mwolf0epsilon · 2 years

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A Boy and his...

Summary: Tulpa's coolest ba'vodu decides he deserves a pet, much to Dogma's dismay...

[@gaeasun this is entirely your fault. I hope the rest of you enjoy some nice Post-Order 66 Corrie Domesticity, featuring Dogma's dumb brothers and his little boy who he can't say no to. I'm sorry for your loss @lost-on-kamino Rhythm will be missed...]

[THIS STORY IS NOW ON AO3]

---

Realistically, none of the Guard Remnant actually knew when Tulpa's real decant day took place.

When Sponge handed the little tubie over to Dogma, he'd already been out of his actual tube for a couple of days, and the medic hadn't bothered to tell him when it happened.

Due to this minor detail, they instead used the date of Dogma's return to Epifania accompanied by his new bundle of joy.

And what a day it was!

Fairly calm for a Benduday.

Not a single cloud in the perfectly blue sky.

Warm out, not unpleasantly so, and sunny enough that the locals's spectacular hats were less of a fashion statement, and more of a way to keep the sun's glare from their eyes.

The many flocks of birds that often flew routes over their little town had even been singing rather beautifully that day.

An absolutely perfect 16th of Selona.

Now claimed as Tulpa's unofficial decant day.

So of course it shouldn't be surprising that on the third year of the little tyke bringing their lives so much joy, as soon as Selona came around, every single guardsman that lived in Bakkskrash was banding together to figure out what to give to the boy they were helping Dogma raise.

None of the clones knew exactly what the perfect gift for Tulpa might be, because they themselves had never been kids. Not in the sense that they'd been decanted as fully grown adults, but rather the fact they had been children but not kids.

As in, their entire childhoods had been spent training to be soldiers.

This of course meant they had little insight into what an appropriate present for a kid might actually look like.

Was a blaster a good thing to give to an adiik? Was a knife a better choice for said adiik because it didn't come with the massive con that was teeth-shattering recoil? Was a shield a preferable gift over a weapon because none of them could see Tulpa getting into a fight on purpose?

Were any of them really fit to look after a child when they didn't even know what to gift him on his decant day?

These were the thoughts that were haunting Rhythm as he finished poking and prodding at his breakfast. As self-proclaimed cool ba'vodu, he felt like it was his duty to find his little nephew the coolest gift ever. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted bragging rights over the others, considering every single clone in their household was nothing if not a little competitive... Even when it came to such mundane things.

He kept mulling over it as he shoveled up the rest of his eggs into his mouth. Dogma had left earlier with his ad to drop him off to classes, so Rhythm didn't even have Tulpa around to try to figure out what the little one might want. Without any hints he really felt like he was hitting a bit of a wall.

"If you keep thinking so hard, you'll burn out the tiny lightbulb that lives inside your thick skull..." Olly didn't bother looking up from his caf as he addressed Rhythm. The riot trooper wasn't exactly a morning person so, much like Fox, he was often glued to his favourite mug during breakfast.

"Very funny Olly..." The usually chipper communications expert sighed. "I'm drawing blanks on what to get the little ankle-biter... Been drawing blanks all week actually..."

"Really? I couldn't tell..." the guitarist set down his now empty mug and leaned back on his chair, seeming content to watch his little brother suffer from his self-imposed plight. "Tulpa's decant day is still a day away... You don't need to go cross-wired over it..."

"But out of everyone I'm the only one who hasn't given up and just cobbled something up out of whatever salvage we could find!" Rhythm whined. "Your turtles all made him armour pieces, Redacted got him an actual hardcover encyclopaedia on animals, Slick found him upgrades for his slingshot, and you even got him a little banjo! And you hate the banjo!!!"

"Dogma and Fox have also not gotten him anything just yet... You're not the only one who's without ideas..." Olly rolled his eyes. "You need to take things slow Rhythm. Something will eventually pop up into that scattered brain of yours. Preferably, something he might actually find enjoyment out of... I can't imagine what degenerate actually likes the banjo..."

"Hey!" Rhythm pouted. All instruments were perfectly fine in his opinion, Olly just had an irrational hatred of anything that wasn't a guitar. The kazoo incident wasn't one he'd forget so soon.

"Whether or not you actually give him a gift, I'm certain Tulpa won't be upset with you. There's no mean bone in that cadet's body..." The shield-barer shrugged, face as impassive as ever. "Now finish eating... Radio broadcast said it'll rain later... You know what that means."

"Frogs..." The communicants expert guessed.

"Frogs." Olly confirmed. Their day would surely be eventful.

Epifania was, by most modern sentients's standards of living, a bit of a shithole. But it wasn't overall too bad of a planet to settle on. The animals and the plants could be a bit weird but most settlements were fairly friendly, bar from the gangs of wandering bandits and mercs that sometimes liked to stir up trouble.

Mostly the Mandalorian pockets tended to deal with any troublemakers that didn't get with the program, and both Dogma and Rhythm were nothing if not exemplary soldiers that took their law enforcement jobs very seriously.

One issue that neither the Mandos or the sheriff and deputy could put an end to, however, were the swarms of Thornback Desert Rainfrogs...

Every time that it rained, without missing a beat, the dang little critters would emerge from their sandy burrows and begin the trek towards flatter grounds where they could congregate and soak up the water.

The town of Bakkskrash, the Guard Remnant's chosen home, was built on open dry planes.

Very flat open planes, where the foundations stood firm and solid, and that were surrounded by the deserts where these pests nested in great numbers.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant every time the clouds started to look a little fuller and darker...

The clones had a system for dealing with the issue of course, but nothing permanent. All they could do was mount their Gryphos (or hoverbike in Olly's case) and get to work on driving the swarm away.

Such was the predicament that day, as it slowly began to drizzle and then pour like it hadn't poured in weeks.

The corrie turtlers were spectacular at rounding up the frogs. Their shields made for very handy tools for frog-pushing, and Olly was nothing if not good at directing his boys with hand-signals and quick calls here and there. Always moving, sticking to the outskirts of the forming mass of amphibians, a quick blur of red and dark brown as his cloak and hat fluttered in the wind.

Between the experienced riot troopers and Dogma's strategies, the army of unruly and rather ravenous pests was quickly driven out of town and towards the territory of much bigger much more hungry beasts. The Armaboras rarely invaded town because they always knew to expect a feast once the weather turned colder and wetter. They were quite intelligent for such odd and clumsy looking predators.

Rhythm and the others were glad they were smart enough not to break their tentative truce (aside from that one scrawny snake that seemed to have some weird rivalry going on with the marshal commander, often showing up in Fox's favourite hammock where the grumpy clone would most surely find it and drive it back out of town with angry screams and a flailing broom).

With the frogs driven off to meet their doom at the mouths of seven foot bipedal snakes, and minimal losses reported on the food and crop front, the communications expert sighed in relief and began to assess other potential damages.

Thornbacks got part of their name from their spiky bodies, which tended to scratch up both wooden and stone structures. After each visit it was usually his and Dogma's job to make sure every building and fence were still in relatively good condition, otherwise mass repairs would be necessary and all other duties would need to be put in the back burner.

"The town centre looks good." He called into his comm, noting that today they'd been quite fortunate. Aside from a few things strewn about from the chaos.

"South of town's also good." Olly responded calmly. "Market wasn't set up yet, so the buggers didn't bother sticking around for long."

"The Northern gate's busted." Dogma sighed into his comm. He was a little winded from directing the troops. "It'll likely take a while to repair, they snapped one of the latches clean off. Must have been caught pretty badly too, there's a bit of blood on it."

"East and West sides of town are also good. Seems like the worst damage was the Northern gate itself." Fox mused. "The turtles are reporting in saying the snakes are handling the crowd. The Gryphos lookouts are also less agitated from what I can see. That's all of them for today..."

"Guess it won't rain much more then, just a brief weather flash." Rhythm shrugged. He got to work picking up anything the frogs bumped into and knocked over. It was a pity some of their water barrels had been tipped over, their contents soaking up into the dry cracked ground. Going up to the fountain to collect some more would be a pain.

As he went to push up one of the barrels, however, he noted an odd weight to it. Hoping that maybe some of the water had somehow stayed inside of it he peered in, only to fall back when something wet and very sticky slammed into his exposed face.

"GHMFH!!!" the flailing clone fell on his ass and struggled to pry off whatever had latched onto his face. Against his fingers it felt squishy, warm and really gross. Sort of like spacer tape, but thicker. And pink.

Whatever it is lets go and Rhythm is left scrubbing at his now very slimy face, coughing and spluttering to get the stuff out of his mouth, gasping for air as he kicks back away from the barrel further.

The barrel that's making weird noises and that had attacked him.

"Rhythm? Rhythm you there?" Dogma is calling him over comms, but the startled music enthusiast has his eyes fixed on the aggressive barrel. "Rhythm?"

"I..." He takes a shaky breath. "I'm here. Sorry I was... Tidying up."

"Ok... Then once you've finished up, could you come over to the North side of town and give me a hand with the gate? A second set of hands should make this easier." Dogma doesn't seem to notice how shaken up he sounds. Good. Rhythm picks up a stick and pokes at the barrel rim. "Then once it's sorted, we can go back to our usual schedule."

"Roger that. Rhythm out." He uses his nose to press the button to turn off his comm for the moment, and practically jumps out of his skin when the stick he's using to poke the offending container gets yanked out of his hand by a darting pink thing.

He gawks as he hears loud crunching noises come from inside the barrel. Whatever is inside it is eating the stick.

You'd think that after surviving the urban hellscape that had been Coruscant, that he of all clones wouldn't be startled by things like this. But never in any of his hours of service had he really encountered such a manner of thing. His job had been fairly stationary, much like Dogma's, and his outings often involved either a "date" with the medical officers, or a few nocturnal gigs as his DJ persona.

Going on patrol was fairly uncommon for him. Encountering critters was fairly uncommon for him. Getting attacked by said critters is also uncommon for him, but then again he concedes that he must have startled it.

The thing in the barrel shouldn't make him smile as much as it does, once he gets a clear view of it. But he can't help it. Not when he knows a certain nephew of his that had been practically begging his worrywart of a buir to get a pet for as long as he could talk.

Rhythm chuckles to himself and quickly looks around for something to use to transport the creature peering at him from inside the barrel.

He's just found Tulpa the perfect gift.

Dogma would like to think he's a very patient man. He had to be, considering the amount of responsibilities he was shouldering 24/7. Even before he'd become a buir he'd always had little to no time to spare for himself.

Yes, Dogma was a patient man. By necessity even. But no amount of patience in this galaxy could abate the rising irritation that came whenever one of his vod shirked their duties. And of all of his brothers in red he never expected Rhythm to be the one to blow him off, especially after he'd specifically requested his help.

An hour. An hour he'd been stood at the Northern gate, waiting for his vod to arrive. A whole stinking hour where he was left trying to sort the damage to the gate on his own, while fuming the more time passed and Rhythm still hadn't shown up.

To say Dogma was livid was an understatement.

Just what was keeping the deputy from coming over to give him a hand with this? Surely there couldn't be that much stuff to tidy up in the centre of town, when he'd said it was clear of any serious damage?

"Better have a pretty good reason..." He grumbled to himself as he looked to his chrono. He'd need to go pick up Tulpa soon, and then he'd have to prepare lunch for everyone. Hardly enough time to fix up the whole gate on his own. "Damn it Rhythm..."

Tapping his foot in irritation, Dogma scratched just below his jaw and tried to think of a solution. He'd tried messaging his vod over comms, but the no-show had apparently turned off his comm altogether. Maybe he could ask someone else to come over? Or maybe...

Making up his mind, Dogma shook his head and brought his comm back up again. He quickly dialled Fox's number before sending him a quick message. Then he dialled Slick's number and sent him a message asking for a quick favour.

Looking back at the gate, the sheriff hummed to himself. It couldn't shut, but it would at least hold. If he arranged a lookout rotation someone could guard the gate temporarily until he could repair it properly.

Two pings from his comm made him look back down at his wrist. Fox and Slick agreed to going to pick up Tulpa while he went to search for his missing deputy. Good, one less thing to worry about. Now all he needed as to ask another brother to keep watch of Northern entrance while he tried to find Rhythm.

A handsome reward would await anyone who took up the task. Mostly in the form of dumplings. An irresistible offer, for sure.

Realistically Rhythm knows that what he's doing is a bit of a risky gamble. A pet, no matter how cute or small, is a very big responsibility and honestly their home is already packed full of people. One more mouth to feed will need to definitely be accounted for in terms of their monthly spendings.

They also had their Gryphos mounts and Redacted's beloved Strill to care for, which means not only regular visits to the town's veterinary expert but also supplementing their complex diets. Rhythm had no real idea what this thing ate, but if it was willing to devour a stick it shouldn't be too hard to feed.

What was the saying? Nothing quite like a boy and his dog? Something like that, probably, and he thought he could make a compelling argument of it.

Dogma couldn't possibly say no. Olly on the other hand...

Yes, Olly was the actual issue here.

Not that his phobia wasn't justified, but goodness if his brother didn't have a rather strong reaction to animals suddenly getting up close and personal.

"I said I was sorry..." Rhythm doesn't need to look up to know the riot trooper is up on a chair. Or to know he's probably frowning more than usual. The sting of the slap to the face he'd received when he went to scoop up the feisty little critter that had managed to escape confinement and attached itself to his brother's head, was still consuming the brunt of his attention.

"I've been decked before, and that somehow hurt less than getting slapped by you... How the hell?" He rubbed his cheek, knowing it was probably as red as the dye his fellow music lover and vod used on his hair.

"I've been told I'm very good at slapping away rapidly moving objects... I suppose it had to do with the fact Pretty Boy enjoyed throwing stuff at both myself and Lichtenberg during training..." Olly shrugged. A fair enough explanation. Nothing quite like the good old Cain instinct to train one's siblings for a life of many dangers. Projectiles aimed at the head specifically, in Olly's case. "Never the less... There is a frog in our house..."

Both their attentions turn to the cause of this current situation. There, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, is a rotund little frog. A Thornback Desert Frog, to be precise. Although, looking closely at it, this one is a little bit weird.

It's got a shade of near 501st blue to its skin, the iconic four yellow eyes, and no spikes to be seen other than the singular but very nubby horn on it's head. It also has a finned tail, rather than the spiky one its species usually sported.

"Technically, there's a tadpole in our house." Rhythm corrects, staring at the little critter that's watching them with something akin to curiosity in its four eyes. It's kind of cute really, if one were to forget that not five minutes prior it had been clinging to Olly's face while the riot trooper screamed and flailed about desperately.

"Uh-uh..." Olly's face briefly contorts into disgust as it inflated it's little neck, croaking at them inquisitively. Rhythm can see him gulp around the lump in his throat, a sign that Olly is very uncomfortable indeed.

"There's also like... Something really cool about this tadpole." Rhythm adds as he stares at the thing. His eyes dart from it to Olly and then back, hoping this will lighten the mood slightly. "You see it too right?"

"If you're referring to the marking on it's face that disturbingly resembles Dogma's tattoo... Then yes. I see it." Olly stated flatly. "And it's honestly freaking me out."

"Yeah... I know right? How cool is that?" Rhythm grinned. So he wasn't the only one who saw the resemblance. The frog really had a bizarre V shaped red marking on it's face, in the same position as Dogma's tattoo no less. This little thing would make such a cool gift for their nephew.

"I wouldn't call it cool... Rhythm, why is there a frog in our house?" Olly sighed. "And I know you're behind it, considering you were trying to get it into a box when I came in... Aren't the birds and Redacted's mangy mutt enough...?"

"Hey, I'm cool with having just Persephone. But hey! Think about it!" Rhythm grinned up at Olly. This would be a good opportunity to practice his 'sale pitch'. "Dogma has Jasmine, your boys all got their own Gryphos mounts too, Redacted has Roadkill, and even Fox has a kinda weird relationship with that one Armaboras..."

"A one-sided relationship you mean. He hates the thing, and it loves bullying him from what I can tell whenever I see it antagonising him through the window..." Olly noted.

"Even so, we all sorta have that one animal in our lives that gives us companionship and plenty of laughs! Tulpa could really use that too, to learn responsibility and stuff. You know... A boy and his dog! Like in the Holos."

"....Rhythm, that's a frog. Not a dog. And its eating the tablecloth..."

"I know it's a frog, I'm just saying--It's eating the tablecloth?!"

Yep, it definitely is trying to eat the floral tablecloth that had been neatly folded on a chair. It was halfway through gulping it down even. And boy does it have one strong grip on it when Rhythm goes to pull it out...

Dogma choses that moment to enter the kitchen. Likely having searched the whole apartment for his missing deputy, and simply followed to noises to the kitchen once he'd combed through the rest of the rooms looking for him.

He's met with a scene where Olly is most definitely scooting as far away atop a chair as he physically can without tipping it over, while Rhythm seems to be having what he can only assume to be some kind of tug-of-war between himself and a frog, over the tablecloth he'd gotten from the market a week ago.

"What's going on in here?!"

Rhythm lets go of his corner of the tablecloth suddenly. The frog swallows it whole, causing Olly to squeak in abject horror as it doesn't even flinch. The critter even has the audacity to look smug.

"Dogma! I can explain!"

"Why is there one of those horrid little monsters in our house?!" the sheriff points an accusing finger at the tadpole. It just stares up at him blankly. "And who drew that on its face?!"

".... It's not drawn on." Olly grimaces. "Rhythm found your doppelgänger... Your frog doppelgänger..."

"A froppelgänger, if you will." Rhythm tries to joke, but stops once he sees Dogma's scowl only deepen further.

"What. Is. It. Doing. In. Our. House?"

"Well... You see... A boy should uh, a boy should have his dog and... And learn responsibility and... Uh..."

"Rhythm wanted to give it to Tulpa as a decant day gift."

"YOU WHAT?!"

"Olly!"

"You wanted to give my ad'ika one of those disgusting little creatures that invades our town and feks everything up? Are you insane?!" Dogma's gestured wildly as he looked from Rhythm to the aforementioned tadpole. It continued to stare blankly, only pausing to lick it's own eyes clean with its sticky pink tongue. "Those things eat a ridiculous amount! They bite! They are noisy! We're not keeping it!"

"Thank the Force..." Olly sighed in relief.

"But... But Dogma, this could be good for Tulpa... I mean... Yeah, the Thornbacks are a problem sure, but only in swarms..." Rhythm pouted as he tried to argue with his very displeased brother. "It's just one little frog... And look at how smooth he is! Just a little guy! Not even fully grown see? He's got a tadpole tail!"

"That's one big tadpole..." Olly commented. "Imagine how much bigger it'll get if it's not fully grown..."

"Olly I swear to god..." Rhythm glared at the riot trooper who was most definitely not helping.

"Oh sure... So we keep one of the things that causes us trouble all year round because it's cuter and just the one! Sure, I let Tulpa keep it and train it to do tricks and play fetch like a puppy..." Dogma rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he sarcastically listed off the stuff they saw kids do with dogs in films. "No problem at all! A boy and his pet frog!"

"I'm getting a pet frog?!"

The sheriff yelped, turning to look at the kitchen door in surprise. There, standing with a very bewildered Fox and a visibly laughing Slick, stood Tulpa who had the widest eyes any of them had ever seen on the kid. Almost as wide as saucers.

Olly winced visibly while Rhythm bit his lip. So much for a decant day surprise...

"Ah... Tulp'ika... I wasn't... I wasn't being se--" Dogma was cut off by his son running over to inspect the frog. The boy squealed in delight, picking up the plump little thing, roughly the same size of a tooka, before turning it to face Dogma.

"Buir! He looks just like you!" The boy grinned excitedly, holding the frog up to Dogma. It was scowling, just as he'd been doing previously when talking to Rhythm. The marking on it's face that looked disturbingly similar to his tattoo even contorted in the same way that his tattoo did when he was visibly irritated.

Slick guffawed from the doorway.

"It's like looking in the mirror! Oh Force!" The clone cackled maniacally as he looked from the despairing clone to the disgruntled frog. "I can't..."

"That's... A very interesting looking frog no doubt..." Fox at least had the decency to keep as straight a face as he could.

"Am I keeping him buir? For real?" Tulpa looked at his father with nothing but youthful excitement and hope. He'd wanted a pet for so long now, and suddenly here was his chance.

"But I... A-ah..." The clone with the V-shaped tattoo wasn't sure what to do. Rhythm decides to push his luck even further.

"Heck yeah little man! That's your birthday gift from your buir and your cool ba'vodu Rhythm! We wanted to get you the best gift ever."

Tulpa squealed, running over to hug Dogma and then Rhythm.

"Thank you thank you thank you!!!! I love him!" The little boy gently hugged the frog, which didn't seem opposed to being held or lightly squeezed. It even licked the boy on the face like a dog would. "I think I'll call him... Dog!"

"Short for Dogma the Second, no doubt!" Slick practically howled with laughter as he watched the shenanigans unfold. The more he laughed, the redder Dogma's face was getting. Rhythm had a feeling he was dead meat. A sentiment echoed by Olly who looked his way and proceeded to cross his heck before pointing at him and then their fuming brother.

"I'm gonna go play with Dog and the other kids now. I'll be back by lunchtime buir and bo'vado'e! I loved my birthday gift! He's the bestest ever!"

"I'll call you in for lunch..." Dogma watched his ad leave, carrying his new pet with him. Once the child was gone, however, he immediately turned around with a look of pure murderous intent on his face. "RHYTHM..."

"Aw crap..."

The next day was most definitely more eventful than the previous day, even after the frog invasion and the result of Rhythm's schemes. Nothing that Dogma couldn't sort through a little bit of retaliation in the form of piling bathroom cleaning duties on his sibling's chore roster. A duty he'd be sharing with Olly, despite the other's protesting.

"You laughed at his plight, so you're helping him." Dogma had justified, which earned him a long-suffering sigh from the riot trooper.

"Olly can laugh?" Slick snorted.

"Want to join them? I recall you finding Tulpa's new... Pet... Very humorous..." Dogma barked back.

"I'll shut up now." The other ex-frontliner made the wise decision to leave the kitchen where the sheriff was currently pouring most of, if not all of, his attention into backing his ad'ika a cake.

He was still fuming that one of his most trusted brothers had gone behind his back and gotten his son a pet without his permission. The sheer nerve of him... Tulpa wasn't ready for such a big responsibility!

And as of right now they were a full house anyway. Thornbacks were ravenous creatures too. Bottomless pits in the shape of spiky amphibians. Even if this one was still just a tadpole, it'd eat them out of a house for sure!

And little gods the marking on its face... It was kind of freaking him out. Like some kind of cruel cosmic joke.

Biting his lip, Dogma tried to focus on his task. His son deserved a cake for his decant day party, and Force above he'd make him the best one ever, even if he had to slave away in the kitchen to do it while everyone else kept him entertained. He cracked the eggs necessary for this particular recipe of chocolate cake, and went to throw away the egg shells. He found Dog the frog staring up at him from on top of the trash bin.

"Force above!" The tattooed clone pressed his free hand to his chest in fright before glaring at the offending critter. "Get out of here... Shoo! Shoo!"

The frog simply blinked, looked at the egg shells in his hand, and proceeded to dart out its tongue. Taking the shells in the blink of an eye. Dogma pulled his hand back in shock as he watched the thing eat the egg shells, crunching down on them as if they were crackers.

"What the hell?! Don't eat that it's junk!" Well, he supposed there was some nutritional value to eggshells in nature, but he couldn't have this thing eating garbage in the house. If it died from eating something bad Tulpa would most definitely be upset.

The frog swallowed without a care, staring up at Dogma expectantly. It looked at his hands again before scowling.

"What?"

The frog croaked, jumping off the bin and trotting towards the counter. It stared up at it longingly, then back at Dogma. Was it looking for more eggshells?

"None of that, no pets on the kitchen counter..." The clone huffed, moving back towards his work station. The Frog didn't try to hop up at least, just kind of sat next to him and watched him intently. "Hm... Weird critter..."

Throughout the whole process of baking the cake, the frog followed Dogma's every move. It seemed to have the sense to move whenever he moved so that it wouldn't trip him up, and kept a close eye on his hands specifically. Any time he went to go throw something out, it simply took it out of his hands and ate it. Be it an empty back of flour, empty carton of milk, or even a leftover back of chocolate chips that it had managed to take from him before he put it in the cupboard (that instance of thievery earned it a stern glare, which didn't seem to phase it at all).

Once the cake was in the oven, Dogma found himself sitting on a chair, having a staring contest with the frog.

"What's your deal?" He mumbled. "You're weird..."

The frog cocked it's head to the side, inflating it's throat to croak loudly up at him, as if saying the same about him. Looking at it now, Dogma couldn't deny it was a little cute.

"You're lucky my Tulp'ika likes you... Otherwise you'd end up like the rest of your buddies..." He felt silly talking to a frog of all things, but the little guy was maintaining eye contact so why not? "Snake-chow..."

Another series of loud croaks. The frog then turned around and began to hop-trot towards one of the lower cupboards. Dogma watched it trying to paw at it with its stubby forelimbs.

"What? All that trash didn't satisfy you?" He snorted. The frog kept pawing at the cupboard. "Here..."

The clone with the V-shaped tattoo walked over to the cupboard and opened it up. He took out a loaf of bread from the bread-bag before closing it back up again, then returned to his chair. The frog stared at him.

Breaking the loaf in half, Dogma began to chew on one of the halves before offering the other to the gluttonous amphibian. It darted over to his side immediately and eagerly took it.

"You're welcome." He mumbled between bites, watching Tulpa's pet feast on the loaf with gusto. "You know what? You're not so bad after all... Just don't eat trash ok? We have real food here."

Once the frog finished eating its half of the loaf, it nuzzled its fat little head against his leg, chirping contentedly at him. The display of open affection was enough to melt Dogma's heart. What a charming little thing, nothing like the other ones that caused trouble.

30 minutes later, when the cake was set to cool on the windowsill, Dogma went outside to watch his ad'ika open up his decant day presents. Each gift being met with excitement and gratefulness, especially Fox's book on frog-care which Dogma was pretty sure was inspired by yesterday's shenanigans.

No one said anything about how he was holding Dog the frog in his arms, nor about how he was petting the little thing like he hadn't hated it that very same morning.

#Eps Writes #Fanfic #Star Wars #the clone wars #Forceful Intervention AU #clone trooper dogma #clone cadet tulpa #communications corrie rhythm #riot trooper olly olly oxenfree #commander fox #clone trooper slick

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ddarker-dreams · 3 years

Text

Deal With The Devil. Yan Hades Giorno x Reader

Warnings: Isolation, implied kidnapping, forced marriage, brief non explicit sexual themes, and mentions of death. Word count: 3.2k.

Time alone is better than time spent in the company of someone you despise.

Skillful fingers run over the wilted stems of your carnations, a frown on your face at the current lifeless appearance. Dull shades of grey slowly turn to a vivacious green where your fingers pass over. Next are the petals, which are all but gone, a far cry from the flora’s typical beauty. At your delicate touch, it’s as if the hands of time are set in reverse. Soft fibers tickle your bare your skin, petals flourishing anew, now with a rosy glow. Standing from your bed, you return the revitalized carnations to their previous position on the windowsill.

The bright, pastel colors are in stark contrast to the obsidian colored walls that trap you. Darkness, like an everlasting night, cannot be cast aside by your pretty decorations. No matter how hard you try to do just that. The lone sources of illumination in the underworld, torches or lanterns, have also earned your scorn. How you had taken the sun for granted, the natural warmth it provided ethereal in comparison to this manufactured light. Sighing, you push the negative thoughts away, aware they do nothing for you. Wallowing in your grief harms the precious flowers you create.

The onyx marble flooring beneath your bare feet is cold and unnatural. Closing your eyes for but a moment, you remember how blades of grass used to feel in the summer and spring. Those blissful days traversing fields without a care in the world feel like centuries ago. You’ve tried to recreate grass as it is on the surface, but with mixed results, and now stick with forming flowers instead.

You take a mental inventory of the surrounding flora to check for problems. These creations of yours are a reliable pastime and bittersweet memory. No matter the life you instill into the delicate blooms, in the underworld, they wither away at an accelerated pace. Your days are spent reviving them or creating new bouquets to decorate this dreadful bedchamber. What else is there to do?

Nothing, you answer the question yourself, scowling. As if on cue, your poppies wilt at the sharp turn in mood, petals falling onto the ground and crumbling to dust. So the cycle continues. Understanding the passage of time when there is no sun is difficult, but if you were to guess, those poppies were just a few hours old. While you consider what to replace them with, a pair of eyes watch from nearby.

“In my brief time down here, this would be my first time seeing such beautiful flowers.” A feminine voice praises. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to find the source of the words. In front of your canopy bed stands a wispy figure. It takes the faint form of a human being, though lacking color and partially transparent.

It takes a second of tentative thought for you to realize what this apparition is. A soul. Not just any soul, a soul of a mortal, you presume. You haven’t spoken to a mortal in some time now. How did a soul manage to find its way to you, hidden away in the depths of the underworld’s palace? As if sensing your bewilderment, the soul speaks up.

“Is it true that I am speaking to the daughter of Demeter?” The soul questions. You nod, pushing down the agony of hearing your dearest mother’s name. “Then it seems I have hope after all.”

Silence settles in after the soul’s relieved statement. You take the time to contemplate the possible meaning of this soul’s words, reaching no conclusions. “How is it that you’re here?”

“... You will not call on his guards?”

Biting your bottom lip, you swallow down the bile that threatens to rise in your throat at the passing mention of him. “I will do no such thing.”

“Then lend me your ear for but a moment,” the soul’s voice is tinged with melancholy. “I am dead now, yes, but I was once alive. At that time I was Sotiria. I mothered three children, each splendid in their way, the lights of my life... I do not say this for complaining’s sake but to offer perspective. I never was given a decent lot in life, the child of a sickly widow whose face I can no longer remember.

Poverty was all I knew until I drew my final breath. I took work equally as it came, whether it was working the fields or being a companion to men at night. Anything for the sake of feeding three hungry mouths. But it was never enough. My youngest, Cyril, fell ill. To keep him alive I had to be by side at all hours. And so it goes… at my wit’s end from starvation, I had no choice, you must understand.”

Sortiria’s voice grows weaker, barely reaching your ears as she finishes her sentence. “I coveted, and I stole. Nothing more than I would need to keep my children alive for another day. When they caught me, well,” she motions to her phantom-like form with a pained smile. “I was killed.”

Your heart aches at her plight. “How terrible...”

“Yes, I’d agree so,” she doesn’t linger on the topic, eager to move to her final point. “But it need not end this way.”

“There is a reason I stand in your presence now. I heard rumors, waiting among the listless souls for Charon to ferry us to judgment. Rumors that gave me hope where I had none. That the god of the underworld had taken a wife, a wife who boasts a compassionate heart. You, [First].”

The pieces she’s presented you with fall into place. Your lips part, the world around you spinning, as Sotiria presents a final plea. “Please, go to him and ask that I may return to my body. That I may return to my children. Us humans have taken to praying to you for mercy when knocking on death’s door. I implore you, hear my prayer now.”

“I will not speak to him, no, I refuse to speak to him. Even if I did as you asked, who is to say he will listen to me? My cries for freedom have been denied, how would this be any different? I hear your prayers but have no power to answer them. My matrimony did not make me the goddess of the dead.”

Neither of you dares to mention Giorno by name, remaining cautious of what could happen, as he’s made aware every time his name is spoken. Even the mortals fear him, you think. And for good reason. You wonder if that’s how this was presented to the humans. A requited romance between the daughter of Demeter and Giorno, a union that gives hope to those dying. None of them know the truth, that you’re forced to remain here, tucked away from the wistful life you once had. That his self proclaimed adoration is nothing but suffocating and self-serving.

“You and you alone are the apple of his eye,” Sotiria insists with utmost urgency. “He will heed your words more than anyone else’s.”

“He has refused me everything of value that I have begged for.” The words are spat out with venom. You fail to notice that with your growing temper, the flowers you tended to prior shrivel up at unprecedented speed, a reflection of your distraught emotional state. Your chest heaves with each strained breath, fists clenching by your side until your nails pierce your skin. Does Sotiria not understand? How could anyone empathize with how the sorrow you feel? You stand in this saturnine chamber that remains your prison, Giorno the steadfast ward.

“I can not speak on what I don’t know,” she lowers her head. “But I do know this. You have his favor. You are his wife -- whether it was by your design or not -- and he holds affection for you in his heart. Go, speak to him, I beg of you. If not for my sake, then for my children.”

“But--”

“I can’t spend any more time here,” Sortiria looks around, her already faint form disappearing. “Please.”

Then she is gone.

You stare, eyes wide as a doe, at the spot Sortiria once occupied in your dim room. Nothing of her remains but the convicting call for action. Her words ring like funeral tolls in your mind, unrelenting, and weighing down on you. There’s no denying the effect her request has on you. Sortiria’s dedication to her children reminds you of your mother, who has tried everything to get you back. An ache in your chest pushes you forward, your legs moving subconsciously to the door.

She risked eternal damnation to speak with you. Leaving your room that never remains locked, you’re met with a similar color palette of midnight black and crimson red bricks. Hell flame is blinding at first, but when your eyes adjust, you catch the demonic guards stationed at your door looking in surprise. Giorno has granted you the freedom to traverse his palace as you please, but you rarely take him up on the offer, preferring to spite him by remaining in your room. When he searches for your company he knows where to find you. Loneliness haunts Giorno Giovanna like a plague, never warded off successfully until he acquired you.

No one dares question your intentions, averting their gaze to avoid eye contact as you travel down twisting halls. Your heart pounds against your ribcage through the journey, not knowing how Giorno will react to your uninvited appearance. This would be the first time you’ve sought him out of your violation. While wandering his palace, you can’t help but notice the difference in decorum compared to your room. He had tried to make adjustments to your personal space so that it would reflect a different aesthetic than the underground, fully aware of your displeasure with the gloomy architecture.

Not that it matters, you think. Nothing could make up for what Giorno’s taken from you aside from permanently returning to the surface. Rounding a sharp turn, you hold your breath at the sight. Cerberus towers in this grand hall and immediately picks up on your presence. The daunting creature lowers itself to the ground, three pairs of eyes piercing through you. A tense moment later, it seems content to let you pass, recognizing your position as Giorno’s beloved.

Behind Cerebrus is where your true challenge lies. Two monumentally sized doors that lead to Giorno’s throne room stand in your way. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes, Sortiria’s words reverberating in your mind. Perhaps you are soft on the mortals, as your mother once warned you, but she was guilty of the same. Should you be successful, and Sortiria lives to tell the tale, you wonder if your mother will visit her and ask after you.

The doors open when you take a step forward. This palace is an extension of Giorno, you’ve come to realize, bending to your whims to please you. While lacking the necessary preparation to make a sound argument, you have an idea of what may convince Giorno to do as you bid. Any confidence you may have had from knowing you have his favor melts like ice in the spring when his eyes land on you. These eyes, that belong to one of the universe’s most powerful gods, feel heavy and cumbersome. Giorno nods his head in acknowledgment, a good sign. You wish you could hear his thoughts. His sculpted face is impossible to read as ever, in comparison, you feel like an open book.

You manage to force out a cordial greeting despite your petrified state. “I was hoping to have an audience if you’re not otherwise occupied.”

Giorno sits on his sizeable throne, presence imposing yet regal. In contrast to his spun gold hair, the throne is dark as twilight, embedded with rubies and numerous precious gems. He isn’t just the god of the dead, you remind yourself, but also the god of wealth. That’s all Giorno has ever felt like to you, some distant figure. Nothing more, not now or ever. His attempts to kindle an intimate relationship with you have been discarded like weeds. Now in his physical presence, reverence takes place of the disgust you normally feel towards him.

“If it pleases you.” Giorno’s voice is undeniably soothing, every syllable ringing clear as a bell. At his confirmation, you tread forward, over an expansive vermillion carpet. The walk feels like an eternal punishment. He takes the time to scrutinize your body language. You didn’t expect anything different, fully aware that he’d be taken aback by this bold arrival. Doubts in your head cry louder as you lessen the distance. That after all this time, he might see fit to punish you for this final act of entering his throne room without an invitation. Interfering with Giorno’s work might be the final insult he tolerates. You are his wife, but what respite has that granted you before?

You bow your head down as a show of respect. “I apologize for arriving unannounced.”

“Your presence is a welcome one,” Giorno seamlessly dismisses your concern. “Though, I might add, unexpected.”

Despite your best efforts, your posture goes rigid, likely playing into what Giorno designed. Your husband is as pleasant as he is efficient in his conversations, you’ve learned. It’d be a fool’s wish to think otherwise. Sortiria’s words, though you wish they didn’t, held truth. All have come to know Giorno’s affection for you through his special treatment. It’s a blessing and a curse.

“I would’ve come sooner, but I feared you were busy.”

Giorno gazes up at your through golden eyelashes, voice lowering as he speaks from the heart. “I will always make time for you.”

Is it wise to start with your true request? The clock’s ticking and you need to decide without further delay. Anxiety and regret battle for dominance in your mind, but you keep it at bay, recalling the true priority. A mother’s tender love for her offspring. There’s nothing more important to you than doing right by this tormented soul. Sortiria’s words resurface, “Us humans have taken to praying to you for mercy when knocking on death’s door”, she had told you. You were but a minor goddess until this point, and content as you were with that, there was nothing of astonishing value for you to offer the world. Creating and maintaining gardens was all you could do. Now, you have a real chance to do good, to reunite a family. The prayers offered up to you until give strength.

“Would you please stand?” You ask with a sheepish smile. It’s a simple request to test the waters and also a way to feel less intimidated. Giorno blinks but voices no complaints. From his throne, he stands, still towering over you but feeling less intimidating. You step forward, raising your hand and placing it to his cheek. His skin is cold and smooth to the touch. It reminds you of the flower petals you adore so much. There’s no denying Giorno’s beauty, you must confess, it’s almost like his face is perfectly sculpted art. You can tell he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Truth be told, there’s something that troubles me deeply,” you confess, to which he frowns. “That’s what I wanted to speak about.”

Giorno prompts you to continue. “And that is?”

The worst he can do to me is say no, you tell yourself. He’s had no difficulty doing that in the past when you’ve begged for freedom. No harm would come to you -- any spite Giorno might feel would be directed elsewhere -- but that doesn’t bring comfort. Sortiria would be punished if Giorno believed she was taking advantage of you. Sentenced to eternity in Tartarus.

“A single request. I wish to reunite a soul with her body, so that she may continue her life that was cut short,” you rub your thumb over his cheek. “Please do me this one good.”

“Sortiria, was it?” Giorno takes your stunned silence as confirmation, not that he needed any. The two of you were careful not to mention him by name. So he knew all along? It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but you still feel disheartened, blood draining from your face.

“It’s a rare occurrence that I permit a soul to leave the underworld,” he explains what you already know in a calm tone. “[First], you know I hate to deny you anything, but--”

“I wasn’t done.” You interrupt without thinking, overwhelmed by enough emotion to drown out logic. Giorno’s mannerisms and subtleties can be picked up on after all this time you’ve spent with him, and you know he was going to politely reject your request. Neither of you utters a word. It’s a split-second decision, but you set your qualms aside, considering the greater implications.

“Giorno,” you call him by his name for the first time, his eyes widening at the slight nuance. “If… if you do this for me, I… I will allow you to finally consummate our marriage.”

Your face feels like it’s on fire from the lascivious suggestion. There’s nothing else you can offer Giorno that’s valuable enough to convince him. Nothing other than yourself that is -- which you’ve vehemently refused him up until now -- swearing you’d sooner cast yourself into Phlegethon than let him lay with you. You hear your heart pounding in your ears as you await his final response. Giorno’s eyelids flutter shut, eyebrows scrunching together.

“This means that much to you?” He asks, not entirely convinced himself. This fiery passion you’re portraying is new. Days of passively tending to your flowers gave him a different impression of you. Now, faced with a cause you truly believe in, you’re willing to do anything.

“It does,” you confirm without further hesitation. “Please give me this single happiness.”

You don’t dare breathe until Giorno speaks again. He reopens his eyes and appears deep in thought. Dread clouds your mind, dominating any thoughts that might bring you comfort. You’ve done the best you could.

“Very well.” Giorno bends to your whims after a long moment’s deliberation. Joy blossoms in your chest, a genuine smile gracing your features. He places his hand over yours, shivers running down your spine from the cool sensation. The negotiations are far from over, as Giorno returns his attention to your prior claim. He wants to test your conviction and see if you’ll give him a piece of what he’s ached for.

He squeezes your hand gently, voice so quiet that only you could hear it. “Is what you said true?”

It’s the only viable option, is how you reaffirm yourself. A degrading option, you recognize, but no one aside from the two of you would ever know. It’s been a long and good fight that you’ve put up. Denying a god his desires is not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination. Goosebumps dot your skin, reality feeling so far away, as you seal your fate.

“You have my word.”

Giorno smiles -- in a way you’ve never seen before -- an unidentifiable gleam in his omnipotent eyes.

“Then I will see it done.”

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hb-writes · 3 years

Text

Ignored Advice

Summary: Part II of the Alphabetical Outcast Series. Sylvie (OC) is the eldest child of Hugo Bridgerton, a cousin raised alongside the infamous Bridgerton brood. Born in-between Daphne and Eloise, Sylvie has made it her mission to delay her season again and again. As her deadline to put a stop to her entering the marriage mart this year approaches, Benedict gives his cousin a little pep talk.

Characters: Sylvie Bridgerton (OC) & Benedict Bridgerton

Bridgerton Appreciation Week Prompt: Do it, be bold.

Part I - The Firstborns - Sylvie Bridgerton & Anthony Bridgerton

Part II - Ignored Advice - Sylvie Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton

Benedict caught Sylvie’s approaching palm half a moment before it collided with his shoulder, her attempted slap and the groaning of his name an exaggerated response to his sudden presence in the garden she believed to be occupying all on her own, a rather silly assumption seeing as it was nearly impossible to singly inhabit a single space in Bridgerton House, not with ten children, if you could still refer to them that way, regularly milling about its halls and grounds. Even with several of them being married or having their own quarters, the house never seemed empty or quiet.

Suffice to say, Sylvie shouldn’t have been surprised that someone had come upon her in the middle of her endeavor to forge a dirt patch into the perfect lawn with her incessant pacing.

“Don’t do that!” she shouted at Benedict’s playful grin, freeing her hand from his grip to swat at him again as her heartbeat slowed. “You’re always sneaking about.”

Despite being a large man and the tallest of the Bridgerton brothers, Benedict was quiet and he moved in ways that weren’t always noticed, blending in as the color green could do among certain shades of blue, or a pink among certain purples. Somewhere along the line, he had taken a certain liking to using his natural stealth to rile his siblings and cousins.

“I have just as much of a right to enjoy my mother’s lovely flowers as you have.”

Some would argue that Benedict Bridgerton had more of a right to occupy the space, that as second in line to the title, it was nearly his garden, and the cousin whose thoughts he had interrupted had not a single claim on the flora, but Benedict had no interest in his claim. He’d happily settle for being second in line.

“What are you so worked up over this morning?” he asked when his comment received nothing but a return to pacing, the space over which she marched stunted by a few steps due to his presence.

“Who says I’m worked up?”

Gregory and George and Hyacinth had told him so over his eggs, but Benedict had no plans to tell Sylvie that, and he had no need to seeing as she’d just swatted at him, supplying him with plenty of evidence to support his accusation. Benedict simply raised his eyebrows and gave her a gentle smile, something not quite as smug as a smirk gracing his lips.

It took only a moment for Sylvie to give in, her shoulders heaving as she took a seat on the bench, hiding her face in her hands while Benedict moved to occupy the space beside her.

“I suppose I’m not so subtle.”

Benedict snorted at that. Bridgertons weren’t very good with subtleties. They communicated more in grand gestures and loud declarations, even the passive aggressive moments were rambunctious and obvious in nature, with silent treatments emphasized by the blatant actions that accompanied them.

“I shouted at the little ones over breakfast,” Sylvie offered. “They were being dreadfully vexatious. I couldn’t help myself.”

Benedict nodded. The kids towed a fine line between entertaining and exasperating. It had once been them getting chastised for their boisterous nature at the breakfast table, and some mornings it still was, but more often it was the youngest set with their endless source of energy primarily used for running about and arguing and shouting. He didn’t really fault her for a little outburst.

“And my deadline is approaching,” she mumbled.

“Deadline?”

Sylvie rolled her eyes.

“Now Ben, don’t pretend Anthony hasn’t already told you,” she answered, figuring that Anthony had pulled his brother into his office at the earliest opportunity after their last discussion. “I suppose he’s employed you to convince me to give this up and fall in line.”

Sylvie was surprised the whole lot of her elder cousins hadn’t descended upon her to bring her along to Anthony’s way of thinking. She had been expecting conversations with each of them, but the subject hadn’t been raised since she left Anthony’s office nearly two weeks before.

Benedict leaned back as he set his ankle over his knee. “Well, I must admit you having your season would go a long way in helping my dear mother forget that she has a marriageable son.”

“But?” Sylvie prompted.

“But I understand your plight.”

Society acted as if a woman’s life didn’t begin until one was married, until one was a wife and a mother, but to Sylvie marriage felt like an end, like the death of some part of her she hadn’t even gotten a proper grasp on yet, a part of her she felt certain was a part she rather liked. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

It didn’t make any difference to see that her married cousins were deeply in love, seemingly changed only for the better by the matches they’d made because Sylvie didn’t trust the odds of that sort of happiness for herself.

Of course, much of the married Ton kept up appearances, seemingly content in their hastily made matches, but Sylvie didn’t trust appearances either.

Appearances showed a world of people happy, a world of people content with their station and society and their lot in life, but she knew well enough that most people weren’t happy. Most people didn’t receive a true love match. Most people didn’t have a life that showcased the things they truly loved. Most people had lives that showcased the things society expected, the majority of people more engrossed with impressions and opinions of society than anything else.

The Ton smiled and danced and wed, but beneath all that was a layer of torment.

Sylvie knew Benedict understood that, knew they had a bit of shared appreciation for that bit of truth because Sylvie knew of his art, had seen the remarkable portraits he’d done of each of them, and though Benedict hadn’t been able to take her complimentary words to heart, hadn’t been ready to really accept praise for his art, Sylvie knew they shared a certain understanding about the world.

Sylvie envied Benedict a bit for knowing what his passion was when she had neither knowledge nor the ability to act on such a thing, and furthermore, she begrudged her cousin just a bit for not acting on it, for keeping his talents and desires hidden, for keeping up the very appearances they knew were expected.

“So, you can speak with—”

“Anthony? Oh, no. Definitely not,” Benedict said.

“But you—”

“I haven’t convinced Anthony of a single thing in my entire life. I can’t imagine I’ll have any luck where you haven’t.”

“You're his brother.”

“And you’re his favorite cousin.”

“I believe George is everyone’s favorite.”

“Well, George is a bit easier to manage, I suppose,” Benedict said, tilting his head back and forth as he considered it, his face scrunched a bit. “A more of a charming demean—”

The heel of Sylvie’s palm made contact with her cousin’s shoulder again, a barking laugh pouring from Benedict’s lips as he nudged her back.

“You prove the point far more often than you’re aware.”

“Yes, and that’s all the more reason for me to not enter society. I’m afraid I’m simply not ready, not well-behaved enough.”

Benedict hummed. “Yes, Anthony did mention you were exploring that angle.”

“I’m not exploring any angles,” she answered. “It’s simply my natural charm, as you’ve just said.”

“Maybe use some of that charm on my mother, then. Present your case? Prove your point? You know she’s the one who needs the convincing. If she agrees, Anthony has no choice.”

Sylvie shook her head. “I’m not ready.”

“To tell mother or to marry?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”

Benedict set a hand on her shoulder. “Do it at the weekend, then. Wait until she’s relaxed, away from everything reminding her of the impending season. Present your argument then. You may recall a rather wise Bridgerton once said ‘do it, be bold.’ I believe the same words apply here.”

Sylvie snorted, unable to prevent herself from smiling at the memory of late summer nights passed on the swings with Benedict and Eloise, cigarettes passed between the three of them and a handful of secrets too.

“If I recall, you ignored that wise Bridgerton’s perfectly splendid advice because you’re an absolute fool who refuses to see reason.”

Benedict’s eyebrows shot up, but an easy smile held on his face as he shook his head.

“Ah, yes, and there we have your natural charm on display once again.”

#bridgerton appreciation week #bridgertonevent2021 #BridgertonWeek2021 #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #benedict bridgerton #sylvie bridgerton

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 4 years

Note

hi I'm back again. Anyways; as always you don't have to answer if you don't wish! How do you think the residents would react to a young Pureblood MC? (I'm talking about young like a minor.) With that Gen Z in a nutshell personality. Obviously no romantic feelings, just in your opinion how do you think they'd react? all of my questions are just "coincidentally" oddly specific aren't they, totally

Oh shit whaddup I love the idea of Gen Z MC!!! Young pureblood it is, here we go! I’m going to be moving from the assumption that they’re like Comte/Leo; very sympathetic to humanity and sometimes have existential crises (trauma babeyyyyyyyyy). As such, I’ll also be assuming she’s not super close to her family given she rejects the larger vampiric hierarchy/superiority paradigm, memes and modernity, all that jazz

I hope this fits the bill! c:

Under a cut bc is a lonnnnnnng boi~ Click after Napo to see everyone else’s! No explicit triggers that I’m aware of, but if anybody sees anything I missed feel free to let me know

Comte’s reaction:

Absolute baby, he has decided this is his grandchild--no he will not change his mind or take constructive criticism. Get’s ESPECIALLY concerned when he starts to see signs of that “nothing in life matters 😎” nihilism, but doesn’t pester them about it or becomes naggy. Growing up he had similar issues with the prospect of eternal life surrounded by creatures with a mortal lifespan, so he doesn’t judge. He’s more like nah we all hit that vibe, let’s see if we can get their mind off it c: I feel like Gen Z really understand and appreciate the importance of culture and art, so I feel like they would bond a ton over trips to museums/plays/concerts! Invites them to tea time if he ever sees them particularly silent (ah yes, repression) or particularly tired, and does his best to ensure their safety without being intrusive (has briefed the men to escort/accompany her as needed, though Sebas usually does it).

If he sees fangs out around baby he will thrash the shit out of the perpetrator--unless it’s an accident. No excuses. That’s a child. Doesn’t give a FUCK if they’re another pureblood even with all the arranged marriage bullshit. He said what he said. (Remember that biting between vampires or vampire + human relations is considered something that’s only done between intimate partners, so he is having none of that for a minor)

Leonardo’s reaction:

Also certified granddad, but he’s the one that enables shenanigans and is just like “oh worm” when it comes to the existential dread (it’s a Tuesday). At first though Leo is basically that meme like: (Stupidman = Leo, Maddie = MC)

Not all purebloods are necessarily dangerous, but most are either incredibly indifferent to the plight of others (especially humans) or actively range from like playing social mind games to being sociopathic murderers/etc. the list goes on. As such, Leonardo is suspicious to no end until he sees that the kid really doesn’t have any ill will in her. She jokes with Sebas (they quote vines on the daily) and works with him normally; even when Leo asks Sebas he’s just “????? bro she’s just my kouhai, thanks for worrying tho”. One day he’s tasked with escorting her to grab groceries and assorted things for the mansion, and she freezes in place before bolting across the street. Turns out she saw a kid trip in the road and fall, and a carriage was moving fast from the other side--it likely wasn’t going to be able to stop. She scoops up the kid and holds them close, and when the parents try to thank her profusely she just seems more uncomfortable with the praise than triumphant. She didn’t want the kid to get hurt. If she could do something about it, it was as simple as that.

From that point on they’re hella chill and hang out together, usually just bonding in silence. If they’re an artist, he’ll offer them pointers and technique manuals--will help however he can. If not, they’ll just be reading together in the library now and again. If she falls asleep, he’ll tuck her in and watch over her (cue red eye meme when the door opens, but then it’s just Vincent so he c:). He’ll often pay close attention to her eating habits to make sure nothing’s amiss with her health since she’s still a growing pureblood. If she struggles with what she is a lot (given she’s sympathetic to human beings) he’ll synchronize his Rouge drinking with hers to make sure she doesn’t starve herself ;-;. Even if she’s just forgetful about drinking/eating, he’ll do what he can to make her life easier (that’s how he shows his affection uwu)

He will, of course, also tease her about being a baby until she kicks him in the shin while Comte sighs and tells him to knock it off with a smack upside the head

Napoleon’s reaction:

Not granddad energy, but you better believe he’s in a weird territory between sheer admiration and “I am your older brother now, eat your vegetables” “But I don’t even need vegetables” “Eat your vegetables and I’ll take you to a crepe shop” “............deal”

Basically it’s unlikely MC is super close to her siblings or even has any (pureblood children are a rare feat) so she’s like......wary, but then she just ???? this is.....kinda nice? Just having somebody that cares in a chill way, but still fully encourages her to throw men across the street if they’re hurting women/children (high fives her every time). He’ll often invite her to the swordplay lessons with the kids alongside Isaac’s teaching; she’s free to join in the learning, or honestly just hang out with people closer to her age (he’s v concerned about her having friends that she can relate to and talk to freely).

Protective in a subtle way, like Leonardo. Escorts her places and helps her carry groceries without fail when Sebas is running other errands. She becomes his crepe shop cover buddy whenever he has an intense hankering for sweets: “wanna go to that crepe shop around the corner” “you’re just too chicken to go alone, fool” “do you want crepes or not nunuche” “............BOKBOKBOK” “aight that’s it **gives her a noogie**” (they go anyway and have a marvelous time rating the crepes from best to worst, they got a whole list goin’)

Glares Arthur down if he so much as LOOKS in her direction

Mozart’s reaction:

Mozart is just the “what is with this sassy, lost child?” meme. Doesn’t dislike them, but they are just not remotely threatened by his haughty disdain by any extension. And he HATES IT. The MC is always just “Okay, boomer” and he just ?????? He doesn’t know what it means but it’s openly dismissive, so he mad.

Like idk if y’all know this meme, but it’s the same energy as:

It’s only when he notices she’s always punctual and careful with his requests that he starts to warm up. For example, she makes him a mocha by combining the way he likes his coffee and hot cocoa to perfection when he falls asleep at his piano. (She feels bad for him after Comte explains because--though he’s got a stick up his butt--he’s clearly distressed in his new surroundings ;-; Plus, the kind of perfectionism Mozart exudes is an extension of internalized shame, and when she begins to see that she really shifts her approach.) As such, he begins to soften to her presence. He begins to see that she isn’t indifferent to his existence, it’s more that she sees no need for intimidation and believes admiration is earned (basic respect isn’t a privilege, it’s a right). When he figures that out, he stops being so barbed and terse--starts to relax. Offers to let her stay and listen to his pieces if she wants, and she’s honestly touched given his clear struggle with vulnerability. Cuddles with Schelm at the window as he plays, and they become good friends.

As a result, Mozart becomes fiercely protective despite her sturdier nature as a pureblood and has hissed venom at Arthur about the fact that she is off fucking limits. Doesn’t leave her alone in the same room as the other men unless it’s with Jeanne or Comte; he don’t trust like that.

Arthur’s reaction:

Sweating a lot at the sudden collection of baleful eyes sticking to his back everywhere he goes, but figures he brought it on himself to an extent. That being said, he can’t really get a word in edgewise given she just walks away when he tries to engage in conversation or compliment her.

Tough nut to crack this one, but he doesn’t let it discourage him. The only way she’ll give him the time of day is to play chess--and she kicks his ass soundly every single time. He’s fascinated by her extensive analytic ability, but she keeps silent about her strategies and thinking. Dazai and Theo always love to watch him get his ass handed to him, but he considers it a really interesting experience; it gives him insight into her mind, no matter how much she tries to hide. Patient, efficient, brutal--this kid has seen some shit, probably.

It’s after that point he just concedes she probably won’t let him in, though it doesn’t diminish his curiosity about the future; and perhaps traces of dread. What does the future look like for both her and Sebastian to be that stoic and aloof? It worries him...

Vincent’s reaction:

Vincent is v v impressed by her sense of self, and honestly sees a lot of Theo in her. She’s a little more reticent than Theo, but she has this same commitment to protecting the vulnerable and penetrating through the lies/shitty convictions of others. She is not a person who bends easily, but even so there’s a quiet kind of gentleness to her: she always chats to him v calmly, asks if he needs anything and is doing okay, doesn’t get impatient when he drops things or forgets his apron for the laundry. I think he would respond very positively to her presence, even if it wasn’t intentional. He just brightens up like a little sun and asks her out to picnics for fun; he has no greater intention than enjoying her smile and silly antics (he doesn’t always understand the references, but the way she executes it with so much dry wit--like Theo--makes him laugh). He just feels the warmth of family/familiarity around her ;~;

Ironically, they’re both exceedingly concerned for the other because they’re too self-sacrificing jkashlgdks like this is 100% a case of “I can’t let a young lady risk getting hurt” “Vincent I’m literally indestructible please just let me do this” “But it still hurts” “But I don’t want you to scar--” (This conversation extends so long that the author felt it would be more beneficial to add an etc. here).

He admires her and trusts in her abilities more due to the nature of her maturity, treats her like a cherished friend and sometimes younger sibling (not condescending but very indulgent; gives her the last of his sweets for example, or pats her on the head when she’s feeling gloomy--more of a wholesome puts her first). But make no mistake, he will throw hands in milliseconds if she gets ganged up on or can’t handle a threat--he just lets her handle most things bc she’s capable~

Isaac’s reaction:

Torn. Because on the one hand, she’s very serious and conscientious about her work--doesn’t want to inconvenience or trouble anyone--and he relates to that heavy.

HOWEVER.

She’s also got insanely chaotic energy when the mood strikes, so when Dazai starts doing his random shitfuckery you better believe MC is upping the ante. (I’m talking AH. ENSLAVED MOISTURE. levels). So Isaac essentially oscillates between thankful for her fortitude to bashing his head against a table for every second he knows her.

In all seriousness though, I would see Isaac as being pretty concerned. Like Vincent, they’re both self-sacrificing to a fault--and he doesn’t want that for her, especially given how young she is. Often tells her not to overdo it or to ask for help if she looks overwhelmed, though it’s not condemning; he says it softly with a neutral look on his face. (He considers it a Certified Mood^TM). He just wants to give back all the care she puts into helping around the house. He doesn’t feel right watching a kid work so hard without reminding her that she should find time to have fun and live for herself too. There will be plenty of time when she’s older to get serious.

He has a fairly easy time interacting with her because of his experience with kids; he takes her seriously (when she’s not clowning) and treats her autonomy with respect. If anything, she’s probably the protective one. She knows he’s an aberrant so she pays laser attention to when he’s suffering and brings him Rouge (not scared because she’s stronger than him and not human lmao, and she sees no need to put Sebastian at risk). When that uni pres pesters him, she goes cold and angry and asks the man to step off when she sees him start to downspiral. They’re essentially on equal footing (he has more life experience, she has more bodily strength/confidence). They're just chill and kind with each other (babies of the mansion, beloved by all).

Theodorus' reaction:

Because he is a manchild, he will be chill/generally indifferent until Vincent starts being indulgent with her (bro-con). He won't be violent or anything like that, but he will pout a storm and try to verbally shoo her away. Because she's a woman, intelligent, and likely a feminist--this will become hilarious because she will not remotely take him seriously. She will just ignore him or roast him in seconds before moving on with her day. Otherwise he doesn't care much because he doesn't have time to play babysitter (unless there's no one else to help).

At the most, he'll make sure she's safe and use the excuse that Vincent would be upset if he did anything less. If she likes/loves dogs and plays with King while she's there, he'll soften up and thank her for taking care of him. If she makes hella pancakes, he'll be the proudest about it--ruffling her hair. If she protects Vincent in any capacity, he'll be torn between jealous, grateful and impressed; he likes a kid that can hold their own and take responsibility within their abilities.

So their relationship is v much like a chill uncle with their niece; fond, but not necessarily super close or spend a ton of time together. He has his priorities, but he won't be an asshat (mostly).

Jeanne's reaction:

Jeanne is confused on so many levels. He doesn't dislike her spunk he's just staggered by her level of sheer reckless, righteous rage. (And he's a bit wary in the face of another pureblood as a potential enemy) but after a bit more time around her he relaxes. She's fairly simple to understand when you get to know her; cares about others to a fault, existential dread, overworks herself. Stays watchful, but he just treats her like the younger kids that Napoleon brings by the weapons shop when they need armor for practice. It can get a little funny because he’ll just be like “uhhhh uh kids like sweet stuff right? Here have some of the macaroons somebody brought by earlier, I don’t like ‘em that much anyway.” And she just “??? Thanks???” He doesn’t mind being around her, just doesn’t really know what to say so they often fall into comfortable silence after exchanging small talk. She likes that he isn’t complicated; what you see is what you get with Jeanne. It’s nice not to have to keep her guard up every second of the day,

When he sees her feeling particularly down, he’ll take her to that little field of white lilies behind the mansion during a full moon night. The silver light seems to make the petals emit an ethereal glow, and she makes him a flower crown in thanks. He listens kindly if she wants to talk, and if she doesn’t--that’s okay too; he’ll just give her a head pat.

Honestly he finds a lot of relief in the fact that she's a pureblood, because he feels less nervous about her being fragile or her getting fatally hurt when he’s not around. Will still be very gentle with her and protect her when she’s in proximity

Mission Status: Fucking Wholesome

Dazai’s reaction:

Big brother time? It’s big brother time!!!! He instantly makes it his subtle mission to look after her, though he’s v lowkey abt it. She takes one look at this depressed mofo climbing in through the window and just goes “aw yeah, this guy FUCKS” and they become besties at a glance. They basically make a game out of who can be the most absurd whenever they’re in the same room. Comte and Leo find it utterly hilarious, Napoleon is digging a grave for Isaac in the backyard (we all know his heart won’t be able to take it. Mozart is probably next. A moment of silence for our fallen.)

I just imagine them like that one post (@/acoolguy):

Dazai: You ever have to shake your leg because there’s a rock in it? MC: That’s your bones Dazai: Every day I learn some more

He’ll always share treats with her and brings her along for walks if she’s feeling wanderlust; he knows how hard it can be, how restless the heart becomes so far from home. He does his best to distract her with their ongoing jokes, but one day it starts raining very suddenly while they’re out. He rushes her under the nearest tree with broad, broad leaves and settles his haori/overcoat over her head. He looks incredibly serious as he looks to the sky--almost glowering at the dark clouds gathering, He doesn’t look at all like his usual fun-loving self in that split second, even though he’s back to his good-natured chirping “Guess we’ll just have to wait out the downpour. MC, are you cold? I should have been more careful.” She shakes her head and shares the coat with him, holding it out insistently until he relents. Their hands brush and she notices they’re freezing, but she doesn’t say anything. She seems to sense he has a lot on his mind, and leans her shoulder against his. The silence feels fragile; she doesn’t want to risk shattering it--shattering him. It is often said that it is an act of great courage to wipe away someone’s tears. But it can also be an act of great gentleness to turn away, to pretend one cannot see them fall (whether visible or not).

One day, after MC returns to her own time, Dazai returns to his room to find two shadows hanging from his window. Though a little crude--they’ve obviously been made by a beginner--it’s clear what they are. Rain ghosts. (Sebastian later explains it was MC’s wish that he have them, and Dazai only smiles very, very gently in response.)

Shakespeare’s reaction:

MC gets one look at him and knows something’s off. She can’t quite tell what it is, but he doesn’t feel like the rest of the family. She can sense something behind him, something lurking; but she can’t quite place it. (Comte has mentioned before that purebloods can sense each other, so I imagine MC knows right off the bat he isn’t a normal sired vampire--she just doesn’t know enough to identify exactly what it is.)

That being said, she is sus. He keeps talking like some kind of weird ass court jester/fae, and she hated his work when she had to do it for school (only enjoyed the Hamlet memes because, let’s be real, that shit is uproarious). When he tries to coax her to see Vlad with him, she says “'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.” And he just freezes in place before he starts laughing. Considers their battle of wills well-played, and warns her not to go out alone--doesn’t bother her again. Though sometimes enjoys listening to her conversations with others for good roast material. (No he is not taking notes, no this new chara is just fire and feral for no good reason--nothing to do with MC)

Sebastian’s reaction:

The l o r e, MC. Give him the forbidden pureblood lore. Will be incredibly curious and ask about what vampires are like outside of the mansion, for science of course. If he senses discomfort though his questions will die down completely--it’s not his intention to make her uncomfortable. He’s just curious!

Despite his stoicism he’s actually a very, very understanding and warm person. Will listen to any teenage jadedness or hopelessness with fond patience, recalling the days he was similar. He’ll offer what advice he can. He’s not one to be preachy, but if he sees someone at a loss, he’ll offer what he thinks might be a productive direction for them. Given her removal from her home and parents--even though she’s already well into high school--he’ll sympathize deeply with her position. Will be a firm but gentle guardian (hello Mansion Mom #2), offers her candy every time she does a chore exceptionally well or offers assistance without prompting. She’s sus and takes it reluctantly at first, but after she tries one in private secretly loves them. Sebas is just silently “you like krabby patties don’t you, squidward”. If she’s honest, she’s comforted by the sense of normalcy and care he gives, the harmless joking and easy respect for others (unless otherwise provoked).

When she finds out about his hobby considers him to be a Fucking Nerd^TM and wants to shove him into a locker, but in reality is endeared by how much he genuinely cares about the men. She thinks it’s a harmless fascination, and she senses the oddest...ephemerality about him. Because of this, she becomes pretty protective; he’s a human and he’s too nice for his own good. While she identifies in one sense, she worries in another. Pureblood are sturdy, but humans can’t necessarily sustain that kind of constant self-giving for long...

Also bc my tag game too strong adding it here: #i love the prospect of pureblood MC trying to bring Sebas and Napo together #MC: bruh i got this #Sebas, full of gay panic: wait, MC nO--

Meme tl;dr in the tags also for your enjoyment! I’m sorry this one took a little longer than most to finish!

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp headcanons #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp leo #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp theo #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp jean #ikevamp dazai #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp shakespeare #ikevamp sebastian #gen z pureblood mc #i had a lot of fun writing this! I hope this met your expectations friend! c:#comte and leo: uwu grandparents #mozart: okay BOOMER #napo: HAHAHA shithead siblings i love it #arthur and shakes: wouldn't you like to know weather boy. 'where are your parents??' (parts one and two)#vincent and isaac: BRUH S A M E S I E S #theo: **meme voice** 'is there anything worse than a rapist?' BOOM 'a child.' 'N O!'#jeanne: endearing but out of touch uncle while dazai is WOOOOO LET'S DRINK BLEACH uncle #sebastian: ah yes ty for the modicum of brain cells and competence that also shatters gender norms my good bi bitch #**Gilligan's cut to MC and Dazai wearing sunglasses and matching hats that read 'i put the (me) in disappointment'**

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