#anyway WEEPS INTO MY HANDS INCONSOLABLY

[everlastiingiimmortals]

"I've always wondered...."

The words take on a breathless quality as lidded ember gazes upwards, directly at the oldest friend she has ever had. Familiar sunkissed skin now bore smudged ruby petals of her lips, deep sea locks tussled. It mirrored the cascade of crimson hair upon her pillow, the waves of silken dress that remained ruffled. "Why did you still believe in me back then?"

In the heat and drunkenness of affection the thought still lingers between kisses. It stays as she is pressed deeper into her own bed. It remain on the tip of her tongue with ever parting of lips. A hue of coral rest upon Himeko's complexion, almost artfully smugged. It's a debauchery that is only for his eyes, that's Andreas sculpted into her like the rose bud bites that are planted around on her neck.

That promise to extend.

"I know-" She cannot help but wonder if this indulgences spurs her mind further. When was the last time she felt anything but graceful and controlled, the rise and fall of her chest quick and the desire of heart and mind linked. "I know it has nothing to do with anything like our closeness now, we both were too young for something like this."

To want him, to know why he wanted her.

"My Andreas..." Himeko's voice deepened, low yet no less passionate. No less laden with love. The ember dreams in her eyes do not muddle her gaze from him but only incorporates him within those stars. Gentle hands guide him ever closer as the woman's lips curled into a breathtaking smile of disbelief.

"Are you the first to trailblaze......because of me?"

😳 Unprompted. Always accepting! | @chasersglow

The moment they share feels like a secret, a thrill not unlike that when she used to run up to him on the beach and show him something clasped in her hands, a little shrimp she'd caught in the tidal pools left behind by the waves. Not unlike the way they'd both explore the cliffs far past dinner time, or sneak out of bed to catch the sunrise while their parents slumbered, all the more blissfully unaware. She's warm beneath him, and the pressure of their bodies pressed together is, for once... comforting.

He hums idly as she speaks, drinking in the flush on her face and taking his time to duck down and indulge in the blossoming bites on her neck, sometimes worrying away at them further, sometimes soothing them with gentle kisses. The next time he pulls away, he sees the lipstick smudged on his lips left behind on her neck.

How funny.

She has asked him a question, but it's clear that she's not done speaking. He contents himself with continuing to indulge in her, cheekily interrupting her with languid kisses but no less listening intently. She knows he is listening. I know it has nothing to do with anything like our closeness now, we were both too young for something like this.

"Is that what you think?" he rumbles, trailing kisses down her chin, throat, chest, ending right over the beauty mark just above the rise of her breast. If he nips her there, well. Nobody will know. The marks left by his teeth will not last, he's careful to assure that, for her sake. It's a tease, perhaps a prologue of what's to come, perhaps a translation of the omission left behind by his rhetorical question in response to hers. He doesn't explain himself further; there's no need to. He's loved her for a long, long time, longer than Veritas Ratio has existed, long enough for him to fully and freely shed the self the rest of the world knows in her presence. It is a comfortable existence with her, and the prickling unpleasantness against his skin is easily manageable -- quiet. His mind is quiet.

How funny that is, too, for the woman who sparked all the hunger for knowledge in his mind to also be the one to quiet it. Perhaps it's because he has no need to search for her anymore? But he had no need to search for her the first time mention of the Express' revival reached his ears, and his mind was no less noisy for it then. Maybe, then, it's because he's finally caught her, has her in his arms once more. Sensibility is something he prides himself on, but the impression of home is not something even he can ignore. This moment won't last, but for as long as the two of them are intertwined, Himeko is home. And for the two of them, for now, home is a peaceful, quiet thing.

The kisses over her sternum -- never further, never lower -- are chaste, notes left behind in thought as he ponders her question. "It would be too easy for you to die like that," he answers finally, peeking up at her with wine-gold eyes. One more kiss over her beauty mark (for good measure, he thinks) before he's slinking up to meet her lips once again. "I believed in you because you gave me something to believe in. Reason to ponder, ideas to question, an irrefutable truth to discover. Your death was no such irrefutable truth, thus I believed in your survival." You would not so easily let fate sway you, just as I would not let it sway myself. If his smile is smug, it is out of playfulness. "And would you look at us now? I was right."

Gazing down at her, laying nose to nose and chest to chest, he comes to a sudden realization. She's beautiful. And yes, that much is obvious. With her deep red hair and dazzling eyes and figure, Himeko is an objectively attractive woman to just about anyone. But it's an impression that doesn't strike Andreas until he catches his own reflection in her eyes, sharing the depths of her irises with the stars that live in her gaze even when the sky above is obscured.

...How he missed that sight.

How he missed this, though they've never shared this kind of intimacy before, but the timelessness of her company remains as if they'd never grown apart. She's beautiful in the way she smiles, the rise and fall of every breath, the disheveled state of her makeup and clothes and hair, in the way she sees him, her eyes and attention on him alone. She's beautiful in a way that is real and wholly, inexplicably his.

His name spoken in her voice elicits a little shiver that races down his spine, sets his heart skipping. Her hands find his face and that familiar prickle is once again washed away by the warmth of her palms, something to sink into, something safe. What's with that look, Himeko? his eyes ask. You regard me with such incredulity. Do you struggle still to fathom the weight of my faith in you? And then she asks that question, and he understands, and he smiles, as if they're engaging in another secret, a little inside joke known only to the two of them. Really, what else could he be? Though not a Nameless, did he not pursue new paths too? Light new ways not just for himself, but for all the worlds he helped? Did he not undertake a journey to find himself, and her?

"Would you like me to be?" he whispers against her lips, hands cradling her ribs. One kiss, two kisses, three against the corners of her mouth. "The universe may know Veritas Ratio, scholar of the Intelligentsia Guild, but you, αστεράκια μου, will know Andreas, first of the trailblazers under your light."

#suggestive cw #just in some parts cuz they makin out #ratio: my mind is quiet also ratio: doesn't stop monologuing about how much he loves her in his head #who allowed him to be romantic what is this (it's me) #anyway WEEPS INTO MY HANDS INCONSOLABLY #THEM!!!!!!!!! #koi and i pioneers of the himetio ship #definitely don't read too hard into the foreshadowing about home teehee #also good fucking god i'm so sorry for how long this is koi i hope ur asleep #//an answer sought; (ASK) #chasersglow #//everlasting; (IC) #//cogito ergo sum; (RATIO) #save tag #//blaze the trail before us / i'll pull the lost up behind you; (RATIO | HIMEKO [chasersglow])

[scattered-winter]

“watch stranger things,” they said. “it would be fun,” they said

#FUCK MY ENTIRE LIFE ! #tears are literally streaming down my face i am inconsolable weeping wailing crying screaming #i need an entire fucking gallon of ice cream after this #anyway i just finished season 3 <333 #im fuckingksjdflksjdkifjwoij #literally inconsolable. head in hands #winter speaks #stranger things #shoutout to the st gc i love y'all so much <333 but also fuck you (lovingly)

[lesvegas]

New Vegas - Now Under New Management!

With his investigation 'concluded', Auguste returns home for some much needed R&R, and has a chat with his father before making an important call.

Chapter 4: Laplace's Angel [ao3 link]

When dogs ‘cried’, they made these horrible whines that grate on the ears, whether they’re in pain or just feel they’re not being doted on enough. They can’t help it, though; unlike people, they’re only capable of making a few kinds of sounds with their animalistic vocal chords. I still never understood why their whining was called ‘crying’, though. People didn’t sound like that when they cried, did they?

Maybe it’d just been so long since I let myself cry that I just forgot what it sounded like. I certainly forgot how to do it.

When I left the Ultra-Luxe, I started walking alongside Cal, lighting a cigarette to ease my nerves while keeping my head held high. I ignored the crowd that parted for us and dismissed him when he asked again if I was alright, going straight into the Tops without him and being let right in. I didn’t realize he still had my gun until I saw someone else getting their weapons confiscated, but the last thing I wanted to do was go back outside. I’ll have him return it another time.

I did a phenomenal job at maintaining my composure until I got into the elevator. When I was finally in solitude for a moment, I choked again, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth to shut myself up. I held my breath as the elevator doors opened, glanced up and down the corridor to find myself alone, then made a run for my room, slamming the door shut behind me.

Surrounded by childish comforts, I only briefly wondered which of the three stupid teddy bears Dia had apparently given me, then approached my oversized plush bed and collapsed onto it, bundling up the silk sheets in my hands before bringing them to my face and weeping. Finally able to be at ease, I sobbed into the smooth fabric, my face already feeling hot and soaked with tears. Muffled, I whined like an injured animal between gasps, shaking and inconsolable.

A soft, polite knock rang loud throughout my room, startling me into near silence. It was quiet for a half a moment before I realized in a panic that someone might see me like this. “Don’topenthedoor-” I said, quickly sitting upright and rubbing my eyes on my sleeve, taking a deep breath. “Don’t. Open the door.” I repeated, firmly. “What do you want.”

“I’m home.” my father said from the other side. Of course, who else would it be? Housekeeping? “Someone was selling bird eggs in Freeside. And Brahmin bacon.” He continued when I didn’t respond. “I’m going to make breakfast. It will be ready in twenty minutes.”

I heard him walk away from the door. It didn’t sound like there was anyone out there with him, so there was really no reason not to go out and join him. I got up and went into my private bathroom, taking a face towel and drenching it in cold water before pressing it to my eyes. It only took maybe ten minutes of cold compress before it almost looked like I hadn’t been crying. I combed my hair and slipped out of my coat and tie, leaving them on my bed. I wasn’t going out anytime soon anyway.

By the time I opened the door, the suite already reeked of bacon. My father stood in our kitchenette, his back facing me as he stirred something. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked something; we both lived off the local restaurants with a never-ending tab that had no limit. But I do remember that the last thing he made was something he always called ‘Eggs Nevada’. Stupid name for an odd but really good breakfast.

“Could you set the table, please, Auguste?” He asked as soon as he heard my door open. I wordlessly walked through the living area to the dining area, and approached him to see what he was making first. In a glass bowl on top of a metal pot he was whisking a yellow sauce–

“Did they have butter, too?” I asked, retrieving a pair of forks and knives from a drawer.

“Unfortunately, no. This is just what we had in the freezer.” He said. “The sauce would be the same either way.”

Butter made from Brahmin’s milk wasn’t expensive or even difficult to obtain, if you lived someplace where Brahmin ranches were abundant. But we didn’t have an abundance of ranches here, and the few sources of Brahmin butter were sold to the casinos specifically, not individuals. We could get anything slathered in the stuff if we ordered it, but we didn’t normally have much to just use on our own. Not that we really needed it.

With forks and knives on cloth napkins, I retrieved two glasses next, and the jug of apple-pear juice from the fridge, setting it in the middle of the small dining table. All set, I then approached the counter again to watch my father finish preparing the food.

With the butter sauce at the perfect consistency, he took it off the pot of boiling water and quickly poured it over the eggs; four of them, about the size of a golf ball each, on top of crispy greasy Brahmin bacon, on of thick slices of toasted bread, split between two plates. A heavy breakfast, and one of the only meals he could make better than the restaurants. If he made this specifically to cheer me up… I had to admit, it was already working.

I took both plates to the table while he turned the stove off and did some quick cleaning up. I sat on my side of the table; back facing the door, looking to the windows, in the chair that has always been my spot. I didn’t need to wait for him, but I did anyway, because it was ‘polite’, he once said. And I might as well pour the juice for us both.

The second he sat down, of course, I picked up my knife and gently stabbed the egg until it broke. Even under the light yellow sauce I saw the yolk ooze out of the soft white like syrup, golden-orange lava slowly enveloping the deep brown bacon like the sun itself was melting over earth. I gave it a moment to soak into the bread before I began to cut it all into one bite-sized piece.

“I spoke to Callipho on my way home this morning.”

I stopped cutting. So, that’s what this is. He’s done this before; he’ll make or order food he knows I can’t resist, wait until I’ve sat down and started to eat, then ask a hard question I’d never answer otherwise. Only he hasn’t actually asked me anything yet. He was waiting for me to take the first bite. “So?” I asked.

“He told me you went to the Ultra-Luxe together.”

Was he stalling? Or was he waiting for me to break down and tell him everything? I just took my first bite and waited for him to continue. The bacon was a bit thicker than I thought it’d be, which kept it from being too crispy, and the runny egg drenching the crunchy toast was… it was honestly divine. Salty and savoury and as flavourful as a dish could be despite the simplicity of it all.

“He also told me why the Jackals were all riled up when I returned to the Strip.” He went on when I said nothing. He only paused to finally eat, quietly and with his mouth closed, and didn’t speak again until he swallowed. “He insisted it was nothing to worry about, and that he and Fresno could take care of it, but…”

“I’m not scared of them.” I spoke up.

That made him look at me, his expression as unreadable as always. I never knew what he was thinking, but at the same time I wasn’t scared of him. Not of him directly, at least. “Well, I don’t really care how you 'feel' about them specifically.” He said. “What’s done is done. But next time, you should really let Callipho deal with these things himself. It’s why we have employees.”

Fresno has employees. Father’s just their husband. Technically, neither of us had any real authority. I’m not sure if he really understood that, or if he simply pretended otherwise.

“So did he tell you why I did it?” I asked. If he didn’t, then that was a really important detail he chose to leave out.

“He did.” He said, and let me wonder exactly what Cal had said about me as he used his knife to carefully pile on equal parts egg and toast onto his fork, then eating it slowly. Chew, swallow, speak again. “So, how do you feel now?”

Great, he wasn’t even going to tell me what Cal told him. Did he have any idea someone tried to hire a Jackal to kill me? …would Cal want him to know that, or would it accomplish nothing but making him worry? If he really thought my life was in danger, he’d probably keep me locked up in here. I had to assume Cal left out some details for my sake yet again. “How do I feel about the Jackals?” I asked. “No different from before.”

“No, I mean how do you feel now that you’ve killed a man?”

I’d already finished an entire slice of toast with all the toppings, and it began to hit my stomach all at once, making me a little nauseous. That was the only reason I felt queasy, I told myself. “Again, no different from before.”

“Are you sure?”

He stared at me, and I stared back at him. He looked more tired than usual this morning, even though late nights were a regular thing for him and had been since forever. I still blinked first, conceding.

“What do you want me to say, here?” I asked, getting really fucking tired of whatever it was he was trying to pull at this point. He clearly wanted to hear something specific out of my mouth, but it was too damn early in the morning for his mind games. Thankfully, he then decided to get to the damn point.

“I would have preferred it if you’d said it was upsetting.” He said. “That it was simply so horrifying you’ll never kill again. Not that I want you to be upset, but it would be nice if you didn’t derive any catharsis or pleasure from murder.”

Oh, was that all?

“It was more like an execution, but sure, I really didn’t feel much of anything.” I lied. Well, it was a half-lie. I was scared, but it was less because I killed the bastard, and more because someone really wanted me dead. “Nothing at all?” He asked again, firmly, twirling his fork absentmindedly between his fingers.

I set my fork down to take a sip of juice. I wasn’t going to be able to give him a satisfying answer unless I was honest, but I didn’t need him to find out about the bounty on my head, so… “I mean,” I paused again, considering my words carefully, “Look, yeah, it was kinda scary in the moment, adrenaline and all, but… right now? I don’t really feel anything anymore.”

He followed me and had a sip of juice as well, contemplating my answer before asking another strange question. “Do you feel empty?” He asked. “Unsatisfied. Like you hadn’t done enough to him, or… that you lost a part of yourself.”

What the hell was he on about now. 

“Uh… no? To both.” Well, I guess I did feel a little… numb, now. Almost. It was hard to describe the feeling, but it was similar to how I felt not long after Brutus had been shot. A numbness that felt heavy, holding back the weight of emotions that threatened to break my composure. A temporary dam to hold back the tears, strong and unable to crumble until I’ve found some privacy again. “That’s… really specific. Got something you wanna tell me?” I asked, only half joking.

“Perhaps I should.” He said, and set his fork and knife down for now. Oh, this had to be important if he was going to let his food get cold over it. I continued to eat quietly as he spoke.

“I was younger than you are when I first killed a man. Much younger, I believe I was thirteen, possibly fourteen. I used to practice all the time with my father’s gun, shooting rats and birds… sometimes people, but I never killed them…” I held back a grin as I imagined him taking potshots at random people with some peashooter. “...and by the time I was old enough to work for one of the families in Reno, I was very good at my hobby; enough to prove myself a capable marksman, at least. There wasn’t much work for a boy at that age to do besides deliver messages and products, but I wanted to avoid all that. Killing full-grown men seemed the safer choice, if you can believe it.”

My father rarely ever talked about his past. His life back in Reno wasn’t one he liked revisiting, so I listened closely, enraptured. I knew he’d probably never repeat this story again, so I needed to dedicate it to memory. I’ll worry about how he’s trying to use it against me later.

“Now that I think of it, I was definitely thirteen when I took the first job. I’d killed an addict that owed money to the family…” I was only now realizing he would never in a million years tell me which damn family he’d worked for. Maybe Fresno knew. “...out of it when I confronted him, I don’t know if he even felt it when I initially missed the first shot. I had grazed his ear before the second shot landed near the centre of his forehead. Not quite, but close enough to impress my new superiors. For the first year or so, I was only really called up to deal with such simple cases, no one particularly important, but…”

This is where it gets good, I can feel it.

“Then there was a family. Not a casino family, a real family. A father who was about to be on the run after trying and failing to rob his employers, a mother that was in on it, and two young sons that were none the…” I knew it. “...they were playing outside when I showed up. The father tried to defend himself by grabbing a shotgun off the wall, but he was old, and I was faster. He was down before the wife could draw her piece, and she only managed to add some holes to the wall before I shot her. I still remember, it was one in the chest, one in the neck. Even I’d never seen so much blood before. It must have been horrific for the boys to see. They didn’t go in right away, of course, they were just watching at me as I left. Probably too afraid to look.”

“And that’s when you stopped?” I asked. Maybe the boys tried to pay him back, maybe his superiors ordered him to finish the job…

“No.” He said, to my surprise. “Double the targets, double the pay… a whole five hundred caps. It was too tempting not to continue. I killed someone different at least once a month for a few more years, just until I had made enough to leave Reno for good.” He picked up his fork and knife again, and I frowned, thinking that was all. “I always thought it would get easier. It didn’t. But it always left me feeling… empty. Which is why I wanted to know how it made you feel.”

Right, this was probably his idea of father-son bonding, or maybe he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going crazy. And I guess because killing people was something he felt like he had to do to survive, there was no reason for me to do it at all. This was all part of the narrative in his head that anything he had to go through, I should never even know about let alone experience. There’s good but misguided intentions in there somewhere, probably.

“Really didn’t feel any different from the first time.” I admitted, deciding to try and top his story. It was true, but not something I’d ever told him about before. Part of me relished in him finding out I’ve always been as much a killer as he was.

He only glanced at me as he continued to eat. He was surprised, he definitely didn’t know, but he didn’t want to make eye contact anymore. Maybe he was upset. Maybe he was already judging me. It wasn’t going to stop me from sharing my own story now.

“I was definitely fourteen.” I went on. “I remember ‘cause it was after my birthday party and I wanted to play more card games. But you made me go to bed at one o’clock in the morning, so I ended up sneaking out. But, see, I couldn’t play in any of the casinos since they’d just tell me to go back to bed on your orders, so I went just outside of Freeside’s gate.”

He definitely hadn’t heard this story before. He was listening intently, despite not looking at me at all. I had to make this sound good.

“I went alone, just had the gun you gave me.” Already hard to believe, I know; I wasn’t really comfortable leaving the Strip alone, not without Brutus at least. “I found a group of Scorpions just hanging around, drinking whatever, smoking I don’t even know, playing cards. Blackjack, poker, three-card Monte, anything they knew, right? I had a ton of caps, so of course they let me join in. And since you and Cal had already taught me how to play, there was no way I could lo–”

“Who shot first?” He asked, trying to force me to get to the point with an odd sharpness.

I scowled. Didn’t he know anything about storytelling? It’s all about the details, the build-up, the tension. But he was almost done eating now. I huffed. “I won too much and the guy across from me snapped.” I muttered, then cleared my throat. “He was yelling at me, demanding his caps back, but I didn’t wanna give them back. I won. I told him to fuck off and he pulled a gun on me. And he shot first.”

“In your shoulder.” He said quietly, suddenly remembering something, finally looking at me. “You never told me, but I had heard about it. You went to the Fort, when the Followers still occupied it. You must have thought I wouldn’t find out you received treatment there.”

I didn’t. I had no idea he’d found out. I didn’t even have a scar and those doctors swore confidentiality, so who the hell told him? He didn’t even mention it after the fact. “You knew?”

He hummed, and set his fork and knife down, but made no move to get up. He was waiting for me to finish, at least. How polite.

“So, he shot first.” I went on. “He was on something, all clumsy and shit, missed when he should’ve nailed me. Didn’t even hit my right shoulder. I mean, it slowed me down, but not enough for any of them to stop me from shooting right back.”

That had been an unintentionally perfect shot. I wasn’t even looking when I raised my gun, but when I took the shot, there was a split second where his body was still upright. Frozen in place, much like his comrades, staring right at me with dead eyes as blood seeped from a hole in his forehead, before his body fell forward, the dead weight crushing the cardboard box that had been a makeshift card table. Just a foot away from me, I got the perfect view of the back of his head, exit wound having blown his skull wide open. I didn’t know handguns, even powerful ones, were capable of that.

“And it left you feeling numb?” My father asked again.

In the moment, I think it did. Something between numb and scared. I had run away, back into Freeside, straight to the Fort ‘cause I was still too scared of getting caught. More than I was scared of being out there, at the time. I had nightmares about him for years, I still do sometimes, and I remembered him when I shot Rocco. I haven’t even stepped outside of Freeside’s gates since. These feelings, fears, were too complicated to convey to him. We didn’t talk about deeper things like that. “Yeah.” I said simply, and left it at that.

He didn’t ask any other probing questions, and I didn’t feel like telling anymore stories. He’d gotten up to start washing the dishes, and I finished what was left on my plate before giving it to him.

“We ran into Vera and Lun while we were on Fremont Street.” He said as he began to scrub my plate with a sponge. “They asked about you. I told them you were doing well. Vera wanted me to let you know that she misses you.”

Vera was the closest thing I had to a friend my age. We met when we could barely walk after my father arranged a play-date with hers. He had been concerned that I was missing out by not socializing with other children, but he also didn’t want me to associate with any of the typical street urchins. It turns out not many families were interested in having kids in the new raider capital of the world, and she was literally our only option. But despite growing up in Freeside, she was what I considered to be the last classy lady in the whole city… or close enough, at least. I thank her fathers’ paranoia for making her somewhat shut-in and my own class rubbing off on her over the years.

She only officially became my girlfriend two years ago. It only made sense; we were the same age, she was the only girl I liked (or at least tolerated), and she was pretty enough that we looked good as an item. As soon as there’s a good enough reason to, I’ll likely propose to her and maybe that’ll be enough to convince her to move out of that pit.

“I’ll call her.” I said quietly. I may have forgotten she even existed in the last week, but who could blame me? I was mourning. She’d understand. “I could use a distraction.” I added, quieter.

I waited until it was nearly ten in the morning before I made the call. Late enough that there was no way she wouldn’t be awake, but early enough that if she had any plans, she probably wouldn’t have left home yet. Not that she would have any plans; she didn’t exactly have much to do without me. All she did was help her fathers run their restaurant, and in her free time she mostly went out and about, despite how much everyone around her preferred she stay in where it was safer.

The phone in my room was pristine, but I always had to take a moment to brush off a thin layer of dust whenever I needed to use it. I only ever used it to call her; all other calls I just made on the suite’s main phone. I didn’t need privacy to order room service. 

I'm reaching for the phone when it rings first, the blaring bell drawing a startled squeak out of me before I can take the phone off the hook to make it stop. I almost thought Vera had the same idea and thought to call first before I brought the phone closer and spoke. "Yes?"

"They're not happy about Rocco." Cal said, though he sounded more annoyed than worried. "Honestly, neither am I. That was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen you do."

"Tell me something I don't know." I muttered, and laid back on my bed as I continued. "Look, I'm really not in the mood for a lecture, keep it short. I've got a call to make."

There was silence for a moment, and a little whisper of a sound that could only be an exasperated sigh from the other end of the line, with the receiver kept at an inaudible distance. Then his voice returned, loud and clear. "New rules, kid. You're not going anywhere anytime soon. Consider yourself grounded until further notice."

"Grounded?" I balked. "I’m an adult. My father could ‘ground’ me and I wouldn't listen to him, why would I listen to you?"

"Are you fucking dense?" Cal snapped in a way that made me glad we weren't having this conversation in person. Before I could further consider the stupidity of my response, he continued. "Have you already forgotten what your would-be assassin told you? Someone has it out for you and there’s nothing stopping him from just hiring another Jackal. Hell, the Jackals probably wouldn’t even ask for half as much after today.”

I knew he was right, I just really didn’t want to think about death right now. I just wanted to call my girlfriend and pretend the last several days hadn’t happened at all. I missed when the only things on my mind were how we were gonna blow Fresno’s caps and whether Brutus should have a Brahmin or Bighorner steak, too afraid of looking stupid to ask what the difference even was. There were no would-be assassins in the back of my mind just a week ago.

“You killing Rocco made the trail die.” Cal continued when I didn’t say anything. “I have absolutely no leads now. Just… ‘a man in a suit’. So do me a favour and just stay home while I figure something out.”

I blinked at the ceiling. “Figure what out?” I asked.

“Who the hell wants you dead, obviously.”

“A lot of people, I think.” I said, quietly. I don’t really know why I said that, it was just a funny feeling that came out of nowhere. Very few people actually liked me, because I liked very few people. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if many wanted me dead. Too bad for them, then. “Why? You have any ideas? You said the trail’s dead.”

There was a pause before he spoke up again. “Yeah, I do.” Cal said. “But mostly just a hunch.”

I sat upright on my bed, crossing my legs childishly. “What kind of ‘hunch’?” I demanded. “You should really just leave the overthinking to me.” Cal said. “But… fine. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares. Just think for a second, what would happen if you died right now?”

My father would be devastated. So would Vera. Cal, too, I imagine. But no one else would mourn me, not personally. The city would have lost one of its most important residents, but I had no other friends to speak of. “I dunno. What?”

“Not much. Sorry. But the only people who would know that for sure would be the people who actually live around here. The ones who’ve seen how you and Fresno act around each other. Or, more importantly, how you avoid each other. But to an outsider who only knows of you by name, it might be reasonable to assume the Courier of New Vegas was close to their kid. Would be real upset if he died. Might even weaken their hold on the city.”

Oh. That almost made sense. It was hard to imagine anyone thinking Fresno would do anything but party upon hearing of my death, but if someone really didn’t know anything about us, well…

“I don't wanna make you paranoid, but I have a feeling whoever is behind this has, let's say, political motivations. Twenty years is a long time to keep Vegas and the Dam out of reach. I can think of at least one party that's bide their time long enough and feels the need to start chipping away at the Mojave again from the inside out. So like I said, just stay indoors where it's good and secure away from any windows and you'll probably be fine. At least wait until I get in touch with some old contacts, alright?” He asked, his voice softening a little like it used to whenever he tried to explain to me why I couldn't do something stupid; like stand on top of the Tops’ courtyard wall or tell a raider to go away because I didn't like looking at him.

“...okay.” I said, only to placate him. “But who do you think it is?”

His hesitation told me that he didn't want to tell me, because he couldn't control what I did with that information. But he still told me anyway, if reluctantly. “I haven't felt much movement from out West in a long time. It's almost too quiet. And I know the Republic is still bitter about Fresno kicking them out of the Mojave. But again, it's just a hunch. Go ahead and make your call, I've got a few of my own to make.”

The low droll of a dead line played in my ear, and I returned the phone to its hook for a moment. I could listen to him and just stay home, but the thought of staying in my room with nothing but my thoughts made me want to shoot myself (good thing I still don't have my gun, I suppose), so I called Vera anyway. The dial whirred gently as I spun it ten times, once for each number and the speaker buzzed softly as it began to ring.

Her family’s phone, to my memory, was barely functional, and kept together with duct tape and glue. Sometimes it’d stay broken for a week or so until her fathers had the right parts to repair it again. If I could commend them for anything, it was that they were slightly more resourceful than the usual Freeside rabble, but it helped that one of them came from a Vault where he had the privilege to be taught how to read technical manuals. Broken or functional, her phone always took an agonizing minute to even start ringing, but fortunately for me she was too eager to let it ring for long.

“Auguste?” Her voice chimed in after half a ring, her delight always audible through the static of the horrendous reception. She knew it was me because no one else had any reason to call her family at this time of day. Unfortunately, she also sounded incredibly worried, and I knew I had to control the subject before she could ask how I was feeling. “Vera, dear, I’m glad I caught you.” I said before she could go on. “Listen, I…” I couldn’t act like everything was fine. I had to at least act sorry or something. “I apologize for not calling you sooner, I-”

“It’s okay.” She said, cutting me off. She rarely did that, but I forgave her. “You don’t have to say anything.”

I couldn’t help but relax a little. I knew she would say all of this, act like I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong and needed to be coddled, and that’s because she knows nothing. She knows my dog died and that it made me a very sad boy. And that’s all she needed to know. “Thank you.” I said quietly, and pretended to think for a moment before speaking again. “I… I just wanted to know if you’re free tomorrow?”

Today was too soon. “I was going to work, but I’ll get out of it.” She said, and I swear I could hear her smile. “Where did you want to meet up?”

“Oh, I’ll just come pick you up.” I said. I never liked the thought of her going around the city all by herself, even if she was armed. Her fathers and I had that in common. “We can just decide where to go from there. Eleven o’clock?” Perfect for late brunch.

“That’s perfect.” She said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie.”

A pet name I tolerated rather than liked, and only in private. When we were kids we could talk over the phone for hours, but now I could hardly stand it. I needed to see her in person every time. I liked her voice, but I preferred hearing it without the fuzz, and I loved looking at her. Watching her whether she was telling me about some bizarre encounter in the restaurant or listening to me talk about something more important. I could count on one hand the number of people I actually enjoyed being around, and she was one of them. 

So, I said my goodbyes and hung up. And with nothing else to do until tomorrow, I decided to make the most of my time by sleeping the day away, too exhausted to avoid having any nightmares.

#fnv #fonv #fallout new vegas #falloutfun #fnv fanfiction #oc: auguste/augustus #oc: callipho #oc: valoire

[roleplayingspinosaurus]

The crow (short story)

There was a small town near the forest, and in this town, there lived a husband and wife. This husband and wife were happy, but they were missing something, their family still felt incomplete. They wanted a child. They tried and tried, but the wife still did not get to enjoy the pleasures of motherhood. As they grew older and the husbands’ eyes began to wander to other women, the wife became desperate. 

 She went to a clearing in the forest, and she fell to her knees, begging the magic that flowed through the forest to bless her with a child. She knew that the forest was cursed and that the magic it held was dark as the darkest night, and sinister as could be, but it was the only hope she had left. She remained there all day, begging and praying for the Heart of the Forest to help her, but he never arrived, and she didn’t feel any different. The only creature that joined her in the clearing was a crow that stared at her from a branch. As it grew dark, the wife left, frustrated and now fully without hope. 

 A few months passed and the wife began to feel ill when the sun rose, her belly grew bloated, and her monthly bleeding did not arrive. Both the wife and her husband were overjoyed, it seemed that their prayers had finally been answered. Months went by and the wife grew weaker the more her belly grew. She threw up black feathers every morning, and every evening before bed, a crow would sit on the windowsill. 

Then the joyous day finally arrived, the day of the birth. The wife gave birth to a son, then promptly died right after. The baby did not cry. His dull grey eyes did not look at his deceased mother, or his father who was weeping over his now dead wife, but at the crow that was seated on the windowsill. 

As the boy grew it quickly became apparent that he was no ordinary child. While his hands were just as small, soft, and pink as those of any young child, his touch was undeniably deadly. As soon as his fingers grazed something that was alive, be it a flower, a beast, or a human, it would kill them instantly. His father managed to escape death, but only barely, as the child did not place his hands upon the only parent he had left. As soon as the father noticed the curse his child had been born with, he made sure to place leather gloves on his child’s hands, never telling anyone in the town what his son was capable of, keeping it a secret even from his own son. 

 The boy’s father eventually remarried and he gained a brother and stepmother, and all was well, for a while. The boy and his brother got along, they enjoyed playing together and shared all their toys. The boy’s father no longer thought about the curse, for nobody had died in a while and his son obediently wore his gloves. 

 One day, the boy and his brother got into an argument. It was a silly argument, as children so often partake in, about a toy or perhaps a treat and their unwillingness to share. The boy’s brother mocked him for never taking off his gloves, and the boy, in turn, took them off. His hands had turned a dull grey over the years, much like his eyes, and their fingertips were black as coal. The brother made a face in disgust, but unable to control his curiosity reached out to touch the black fingers anyway. 

 When the boy’s stepmother found him, she screamed. The boy reached out to comfort her, reminded of the fact he wasn’t wearing gloves only after it was already too late. It was an accident, of course, and the boy was inconsolable, but his father wouldn’t hear any of it. 

 You are cursed! 

His father said. 

You have killed your mother, you have killed your brother, you have killed my wife as well. You are a monster, leave this place and never come back!

The boy, afraid of both his father and his own cursed hands, ran. He ran into the forest, the forest that was rumoured to be cursed. He ran, and ran, and never looked back.

#the crow

[dandelyle]

There once was a boy named Tator, and he liked to eat potatoes. One day he went to the market and bought a shit ton of potatoes, as happy as can be. He lived in a nice, walkable city so he just put those taters on his back in a sack like ol' Saint Nick and carried them sonsubitches home all easy like. Maybe he also took the bus man idk. But then when he got home, the dog needed to go for a walk like right fucking now. So he put down the sack of taters and got the dog on its leash and went back out into the harsh, potato-less world. The dog did its thing, and they came back home.

Now, I gotta tell you about Tator's apartment. He lived in an average little high rise building in a big city where the weather was always nice. It was a studio apartment because Tator wasn't a rich kid by any means. He had a decent job that enabled him to buy potatoes and pay the rent and dog food but that's about it.

So, he took the elevator with his dog, a slobbery mastiff, to the 10th floor in the 14 story building where his apartment was one of three small units. He jimmied the key into the lock and the door swung open. All the way home he had been thinking about his glorious potatoes. How he would cook them, fry them, mash them, cut them into chunks and combine them with peppers and onions and home-fry them... mmm, his mouth watered just thinking about all the versatile ways he could devour the humble potatoes.

So, the plain white door opened into the cute little studio apartment. The sun filtered lazily through the off-white curtains and cast long shadows on the wooden floor, leading right to where the sack of potatoes had been. Had been. HAD BEEN!?

Tator unclipped the dog's leash and watched as it shuffled off to the sagging, old couch cushion in the corner. Then he fell to his knees by the door, weeping.

The sack of potatoes was gone. How could this have happened? he asked himself. Had he left the door unlocked when he walked his dog? Had a neighbor, jealous of Tator's large and luscious sack of potatoes, climbed in through the balcony and stolen them? Perhaps he would never know. And now he had nothing to eat.

"Hey," someone said. "Whatcha cryin’ for, Tator?"

It was his neighbor from across the hall, Callista. She was a tall, stout woman with laugh lines and a crinkled brow and hair the color of peaches tied into a knot on top of her head. Her arms were almost always crossed and sometimes, when the weather was good and she wore a tank top, you could see the edges of a tattoo on her back, faded from years gone by.

Tator wiped his eyes and looked up at her. "My potatoes," he stammered. "They were right here! Now they're gone!"

Callista tapped her foot, thinking hard. She had not seen anyone come to Tator's apartment nor had she seen anyone leaving with a sack on their back. Wack.

"Callista, what do I do?!" Tator cried inconsolably, his nose turning red and dripping snot. Really, Tator, get a grip, she wanted to say, but she didn't because she had a feeling these potatoes were important to him.

"Let me think," she said instead. She knew she had a couple of potatoes in her apartment, and of course, she would simply give them to him, but they could never replace an entire sack of potatoes. Still, it was better than nothing. Resolved, she turned on her heel and disappeared into her apartment.

Confused, Tator watched the pink headed woman walk briskly away without a word. Well, I guess it's just me and my not-potatoes, he thought. At least he was too surprised by her swift departure to continue sobbing.

Moments later, she returned with a potato in each hand. "Here, kid," she said.

He gasped and gingerly accepted them. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I wasn't going to eat them anyways." She was, but he didn't need to know that.

"But why? Potatoes are simply the most delightful food in the whole wide world!"

She simply smiled and retired to her apartment, satisfied with having done some good for one day. Callista's apartment was roughly the same size as Tator's, but it was far more cluttered.

Tator, while neurotic about potatoes, was fairly simple with every other aspect of life and his apartment reflected this. He had one wooden chair that sat facing the glass doors that led out to the balcony, a bookshelf that contained a potted catnip plant, and three books: one was a potato cookbook, one was a history of potato cultivation, and the third was a poorly written self-help book that he had received for free when he started his new job.

Doorbell and George, Callista's two cats, greeted her enthusiastically. Doorbell was a 10 year old Siamese, and George was a 6 year old orange cat with a tipped ear. She knew they only wanted their dinner, however. During the days when she did not work and kept their food bowls filled, they never bothered her. Today, however, they seemed less hungry than usual. Normally, they meowed incessantly and ran from her to the food bowls and back again until they had been filled. They were such dramatic cats, but then, when are cats not dramatic?

Callista refilled their food dishes, and smiled at their contended purrs as they ate the kibble. But then, before they had finished it off, they stopped eating. What had gotten into these two? She shook her head, too tired from a long day at work as a traffic director to care. She unwrapped her scarf from her neck and headed to the bathroom for a long, relaxing bubble bath--just what a day out in the cold called for. The bathroom door was open, which was unusual. Even more unusual, it was freezing cold! She looked up and noticed the window was open. On the ledge sat a little bird cocking its head at her. Suddenly, a fuzzy orange thing streaked by her, launching itself out the window at the bird! It was George!

"George!!" Callista shouted. She leapt towards the window, her arms outstretched, trying to catch her beloved, yet idiotic, feline, but it was no use. He was darting across rooftops chasing after that stupid bird. Maybe that was why he hadn't been hungry today. Callista imagined him chasing after mice and birds or maybe bumming handouts from some kind stranger and shook her head.

George ran as fast as he could, paying no mind to the human shouting his name. Yes, his name. He knew it, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the prey. The chase. The feeling of the roof tiles under his paws, the crisp late winter air in his lungs. He was a mighty hunter, and he would catch that bird and bring it back. The human was useless, always feeding him and the other cat kibble. Maybe the other cat was fine with that, but George was a true feline king--he required something more.

The bird flew higher, higher, and higher still. George pursued, leaping from rooftop to windowsill to rooftop. Finally, he was as high as the city could lift him--atop an old smokestack. But the bird, not constrained by gravity, flew free. George the cat yowled for a while, upset at the mere thought of not getting to taste that bloody meat.

Ah well, it was only a small bird anyways. And the day had been full of adventure for fat George. Oh yes, the human had left the bathroom window open. George, smart and shiny furred George, had cleverly escaped the apartment and explored the city. He dined on fat pigeons and squirrels, treats the neighborhood children carried for the rare chance a cat would approach them, and grass. Oh how he loved grass.

When George had eaten his fill, he sauntered down the street to the apartment lobby. The doorman immediately recognized him, as of course, George was a celebrity. A handsome feline deserves recognition for his grandeur. So, he escorted handsome George to the 10th floor of the 14 story building and let him out of the elevator. There, the neighbor boy's door was open, and George could smell the foul stench of a canine. He entered the apartment and cased the joint. Someday, that dog may make a move, and when it did, George needed to be ready. Doorbell couldn't be trusted, and she would just have to fend for herself, but George was a warrior cat and nothing, not even a dog, would save him from defending Callista's honor against a dog.

When he had finished examining the nearly barren apartment, he made his way back to the front door, when he noticed an earthy-scented sack. Curious, he pawed at it. It fell open and strange round, lumpy things tumbled forth. They rolled and rattled and rumbled, terrifying!! George yowled and ran away as fast as he could, knocking the potatoes to and fro. The tumbled away from Tator's apartment, down the hall of the slightly crooked building, and the weight of them was no match for the flimsy Emergency Only staircase door. So the poor potatoes bounced and bowled down the black pit of the staircase, never to be seen again.

And the sack? Why, when George finally managed to open the apartment door (remember, he is a clever cat), Doorbell wandered out into the hall and ate every last bit of that burlap sack. She burped when she was done and sauntered quite proudly back to her throne in Callista's apartment, licking her paws as if she had just dined like a queen.

#stories #my stories

[warmblanketwhump]

flight plan: part 2

no planes in this one - just some good old-fashioned sickfic! But if you want the backstory, check out part 1 here.

“A, can you hand me my glass of water? Pleaaaase?” B sticks out their bottom lip in a pout, and A can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, you. It’s been four days and I know you’re getting better, because you’re getting pesky again.” A straightens the blankets and slides their hand up to feel B’s cheek. “Still a little warm, but I think you’re on your way out of the woods.”

“So I should milk this while I can?” B flutters their eyelashes and gives a pitifully fake cough, which slips into a real one, sharp and rattling. Concern flits across A’s eyes, and they help B take a few sips from the glass.

Despite the joking, A didn’t kid themselves about how sick B had been, or how awful they’d truly felt after getting off the plane. The first two days had been nightmarish - B barely conscious, shivering with chills and sweating through their sheets, alternating between terrifying fever dreams and inconsolable moaning and weeping.

A did their best to hold them through it, but they had been minutes away from hauling B to the hospital. Thankfully B’s fever had spiked just one final time before settling into general low-grade misery.

“As long as you need me, sweetheart, you’ve got me.” B gives a tired smile and pulls the blanket to their chin, huddling around the new stuffed animal A gave them at the airport.

“Did you call C?”

“Ah, not yet. Too busy with you, ya sick little bean.” A gently fluffs B’s hair. “You rest, and I’ll give them a call now.”

But C doesn’t pick up. Nor do they pick up an hour later, leaving A stuck with the unpleasant task of leaving a voicemail.

“Um, hi…this is A. I just wanted to call and let you know that B’s on the mend. They’re still pretty weak, but I think things are looking up. So…yeah. Thanks for everything you did for B - once they were feeling better, they told me all about what you did. And I…well, I care a lot about them. Obviously. So I appreciate it. I guess you can call back if you-”

The message cuts off, and A groans. Hopefully that was enough. Still, they couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomach.

Later, they settle in with B to watch a movie, B’s head cradled in their lap as A combs their fingers soothingly through their hair, reveling in the sheer normalcy of it all. They both end up falling asleep, and when A blinks awake as the credits roll, they notice a missed call from C. B’s still out, so they click to listen to the voicemail.

“Hey, A….sorry I *coughs*…missed you earlier. Wasn’t able to *sniffs* make it to the phone. So glad to hear that B’s *cough cough* doing better. I think they did a little sharing.” C laughs weakly, but A can hear the sheer exhaustion in their voice. “Anyways, glad they had you. And if you’ve got any survival tips, feel free to pass them along…..I’m just kidding. *cough* I’ll be fine. Anyways, I’ll…see you around, I guess.” They pause briefly, like they want to say something more, but a coughing fit steals their breath away, and the message ends with a click cutting off the rough gasps.

The pit in A’s stomach comes back. C sounds sick.

“Who….who was that?” B mumbles from their spot on A’s lap.

“It was C. They called back and they….didn’t sound so good.”

B’s eyes snap to meet A’s, more alert than they have been in days. “Did they sound like me?”

C pauses. They hadn’t thought about not telling B, but in hindsight, maybe they should have. After all, it’d only flood B with guilt, and they needed all the energy they had to get well. But one look at B’s concern, and they knew they wouldn’t be able to lie.

“Yeah. They did.” Immediately B struggles to push themselves up, throwing their blanket off their shoulders and trying to stand.

“Whoa, hold it there. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To C. If they’re sick, it’s from me, and if any hints from the past four days of living with me are any indication, we gotta help them.”

A throws their hands up, pressing B back on the couch. “Hold up. We don’t know them, we don’t know if someone’s already taking care of them, and we don’t know where they live. I’m sure they’re-“

B frantically shakes their head. “You didn’t hear them. On the plane. From what they said…I don’t think they have anyone. I have to go.”

A chews their lip. “Well, let’s get things straight first. You’re in no shape to go help them. Which leaves me. A random stranger they don’t know. And you want me to check on them?”

The question was meant to be sarcastic, but B nods vigorously and fear fills their eyes with a fevered anxiety. “A, you saw how sick I was. You think anyone’s gonna be able to fight through that alone?”

A sighs wearily. They could blame it on the fact that arguing with a sick B was like arguing with a brick wall. But truthfully, what did their heart in was the thought of B alone on that plane, sick and shivering and miserable, if C hadn’t helped.

Fine. They’d send a text.

You okay? You sounded kinda rough on the phone. B was worried….

A few moments later, C responds.

Eh, I’ve felt better. But thank you for asking. And tell B not to feel bad. They were a better seatmate than most.

A smile tugs at A. At least this C was polite.

Is there anything you need? B said something about you being by yourself.

This pause was longer. The dots appeared and disappeared a few times, before a message came through.

I hate to take advantage, but is there ANY way you could bring over some cough medicine? I ran out a couple days ago. No worries if not - I can figure it out.

C’s heart sank. So they were alone. Sure, they didn’t say it - but any good friend or significant other worth their salt wouldn’t leave someone they loved without medicine for days.

I’ll bring some to you! Want to meet somewhere neutral, or just want me to drop it off?

In moments, C sends a response and an address.

Dropping off is fine. You are an actual lifesaver.

A settles B into bed with blankets, a cup of water, hot tea, and six types of medicine on the side table. “Now if you get worse, call me and I’ll turn around immediately. Nothing’s more important than you, okay?”

B shook their head. “I’ll be fine. They need someone.”

A heaves a sigh. “You’re too good, you.” They give B a quick forehead kiss, and head out into the night.

By the time they get to C’s apartment, their stomach is flip-flopping - C is a stranger. A lonely stranger, but a random stranger nonetheless. They come to C’s door and knock tentatively, gripping the paper bag of cough medicine (plus some cough drops and Tylenol for good measure), and hold their breath.

Nothing. A few minutes go by and A knocks again. They’re ready to break down the door if C doesn’t answer soon, but they realize what took so long right after they hear the click of the deadbolt.

A had seen corpses that looked more alive than C did right now. They lean heavily on the doorframe, sweat beaded on their forehead, a thick grey throw blanket clutched tightly around their shoulders. Their face is hollow and devoid of color, lips dry and cracked, their hair mussed and matted to their head. The cool night air hits their fevered body, triggering a round of chills that make them shudder. Despite their misery, a tiny light of gratitude flits across their eyes, and they stare incredulously at the paper bag in A’s hands.

“C….” A’s jaw drops to the ground.

“A, I seriously owe you one.” C tries to laugh, but it turns into a wheezing chest cough, high pitched and tense as they fight to catch their breath. Their eyes blink slowly, and they start to slide down the doorframe, but A grabs them and they both tumble inside.

Even through the blanket, A can feel C’s every bone. C weakly clings to A as they stumble toward the couch, and A deposits them on the cushions before tearing into the package of meds.

“What have you taken so far today?” A asks, trying to figure out the dosages.

“I….nothing…” C mumbles. A meets their eyes in disbelief before cracking open the blister packet and retrieving a proper dose. Grabbing an empty glass on the side table, they fill it before helping C choke the pills down. C greedily gulps the whole glass, breathing heavily once they’ve drained it.

“Water…water’s good.” C smiles blearily - they’re almost completely out of it. A presses a hand to the side of C’s neck, and C flinches at the cool touch. Their neck feels like a bank of hot coals, slick with sweat, lymph nodes sore and swollen. Their forehead isn’t much cooler either.

“C, when’s the last time you ate or drank anything?”

C cocks their head like A just asked them to recite the entire periodic table. “I….not sure? Days….kinda blurry.”

A’s seen enough. “C, you’ve got to go to the hospital. I haven’t even seen your temp, but you’re burning up even worse than B was.”

C frantically grasps at A’s wrists, sharp panic flooding their eyes. “Please…no…no hospital. I can’t. The meds….I’m fine here. Please.” A shiver wracks their body, and they hunch their shoulders, wrapping themselves back up and pulling the blanket over their nose. “Please. You can go now.”

“C, you need help-“

“I don’t.” Their voice breaks on the last word, cut off by a brief hiccuping sob.

Confusion rises through A - one minute C’s a grateful wreck, and the next moment they’re demanding they leave?

“C, I don’t understand-“

“You don’t get it. You think it feels all nice, having people care about you. Making you feel like you matter. And then they leave you. Get tired of you. Decide you’re not worth it. And it hurts worse than if they were never there at all.” C scrubs their eye with the corner of their blanket and sniffles as tears run down their cheeks. “I can’t let it happen again. I have to be alone. So just go. Please.”

A’s speechless. They kneel down next to the couch, hand tentatively hovering above C.

“C, is it okay if I put my hand on you right now?” C’s still sniffling, but they nod and mumble a weak “yes”, and A gently lets their hand rest on this stranger’s shoulder.

“C, I want to respect what you want right now. But you should know that you’re very sick. And you’ve managed in your own way - how, I have no idea - but you need some help right now. Now I can either call the hospital and let them handle it, or take you home with me. It’s up to you. Otherwise, you need to look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you want to be left alone through this.”

They squeeze C’s shoulder, and it triggers a deep gasping sob from their broken, aching body, sending a fault line straight through A’s heart. The sob turns to weeping, and A can barely make out the words C whimpers: "I don't want to hurt anymore."

God, who broke this poor thing? A bites their lip. C’s losing it. They’re running out of options short of forcing C to come with them, and that’s the last thing they want to do to a delirious, love-starved person who’s known them all of 6 minutes.

“C, I’m not gonna hurt you. I want to help you. Heck, even B wants to help you. I had to practically pin them down to the bed before leaving, they were so hell bent on this rescue.”

C’s red, swollen eyes meet A’s. “You mean….they asked after me?”

“Yes. They did. They could hardly stop talking about you once they came to their senses.” A rubs C’s knee through the blankets. “And they’d never forgive me if I left you here alone - they were very adamant about that. So if you want to save me a lot of arguing with and consoling of a very sad B, you’d actually be doing me a favor coming back with me.”

C seems to be weighing their options, all while struggling to stay awake on the couch. “I mean…if it saves you the trouble….”

A’s the one nodding vigorously now. “Please. It would.” Please. Just come back with me. I can’t leave you here like this. But I don’t know what else to do.

C presses themselves up off the couch with a single shaking arm. “Well, if it’d help you, then I accept.” And then they promptly pass out into A’s waiting arms.

It’s late when A gets back home with a limp C, and B is knocked out in their room, light still on - they’d tried to wait up, but their body still craved rest.

A carries C over the threshold and into the house. They gently lay the bundle on the bed and feel their forehead - still too hot, but the medicine seemed to be working. They manage to wake C up enough to take a few sips of broth from a mug before they pass out again.

For the briefest moment, A lets their hand touch C's shoulder again, making a silent promise they barely know how to keep: I don't know who broke you, but I'm not gonna let you hurt any more. I won't allow it.

A wave of exhaustion floods their body as they feel the effects of several late nights and long days of caretaking. They'd be no good to anyone if they didn't get any rest. A drapes an extra blanket over C’s sleeping form and heads for the couch for the night - they’d check back in an hour or so.

--------------------------

B’s awakened by the sound of sniffling. And it’s not theirs. They blink tentatively in the lamplight, sleep clouding their thoughts. Snatching a blanket from the top of their bed, they wrap up, stuffed animal under one arm, and shuffle across the hall to see where the sound is coming from.

It’s C, swathed in two blankets, holding a wad of tissues and trembling like a leaf. B flicks on the bedside table lamp, and C winces at the light. B can see the tear stains on their cheeks.

“Cold,” C whimpers, coughing weakly. Pity floods B - it’s like looking at a picture of themselves just a few days ago. They reach out and put their hand on C’s head, and C leans into the touch.

“Yeah, this part sucks,” B says softly, guilt flooding their core. Sure, they didn’t mean to make C sick. But they did. And they felt a certain responsibility to make sure they made it through okay - just like C had cared for them on the plane.

“Can I get you anything? Another blanket, tea, medicine?”

“Throat hurts…water…please?” B nods and places the stuffed animal next to C before beginning the long, slow shuffle to the kitchen. A’s asleep on the couch, and they can’t bear to wake them up for something this small. But by the time they get to the kitchen, their legs are trembling with exertion. Easy there. You’re still sick, too.

They brace themselves against the sink as the glass fills, and will themselves to make the final journey back to C. By the time they’ve returned, the glass feels like a lead weight in their hand, and their entire body is chilled and shivery all over. They do their best to help C take a few sips, holding the glass with trembling hands, bracing themselves on the bed so they don’t tip over.

“Thank….thank you,” C’s grateful eyes meet theirs, and in a split second B knows the effort was worth it. But the validation is replaced with a bout of lightheadedness that nearly topples them onto C.

“Sorry,” B gasps. “Still not up to marathons yet. Just...need a minute.” They tug their blanket tighter, closing their eyes. “And this body forgot how to stay warm when I do stuff.” C’s eyes flood with concern - even in their fevered haze, they can see B struggling.

"Want to sit for a minute?" C asks softly, patting the open spot next to them on the bed. “I’m still cold, too.”

B wriggles into the spot, propping themselves up on pillows and pulling blankets over them both. "Just a minute - you need your sleep."

C's already dozing. "S'okay. I'll sleep just fine. 'Sides, you're warm." C's nestled themselves into B's side, head resting on their chest, and B wraps an arm around C's shoulder and holds them close. They’re warm, too. Just a minute....

Many minutes later, A pokes their head in to check in on C - and finds two sick peas in a pod curled up together, C's head still on B's chest, B's arm curled protectively around C, stuffed animal squished between them, both tangled in blankets and Kleenexes.

In spite of their own exhaustion, A smiles. After everything that had happened, they had a feeling C wouldn't ever be alone again.

#sickfic #sickfic whump #whump prompt #hurt comfort #soft whump #caretaking #i just couldn't stop writing #so this happened lol #i don't even know who the whumpee is at this point #everyone is the whumpee and everyone is the caretaker #where is the plot?? who can say #anyways enjoy this soft whumpy mess!!

[bibliocratic]

litany An exploration on endings. Or: all the ways it could have gone wrong and right.

jonmartin, spoilers for 200, content warnings in the tags

--

This is not what she thought victory would feel like.

Basira’s fingers tense and smart with overexerted aching when she stops to stretch them out. There is a geography of broken blood-vessels under the bruising that lies puddle-splotched over her hands which scrabble and claw talon-bent at the rubble. They are scored with scratches and tears where her exposed and dust-ruined skin has snagged on fractured brickwork.

She uncovers a foot first, as she pushes up and over the twisted mental of a window frame with an exhausted clatter. A trainer, the white doused with mud, the trailing laces caked stiff and russet. More heaving and hauling, her breath purging from her faster now – maybe, maybe, maybe, but she has lived too long now to believe in miracles. Overturning a fire-blasted section of what could have been once part of the imperious and grand stone stairwell, she reveals the leg the trainer is attached to, pulverised and off-angled by the weight of the collapse, the fabric of it drenched in soot. She peels back a cascade of plasterboard with a grunt, and there is a twisted pelvis, shattered ribs caved in under an acrid-smelling jumper. She’s not surprised at the dull punch of revelation, when she digs out hunched shoulders, coils of hair turned grey-white like swans’ down with the dust.

Martin is obviously dead. She hopes it was quick, fears it was not. His body lying stringless is curved around something, clutching it to him with his bruised and broken fingers. It takes many minutes of labouring, her spine seizing with complaint, sweat pooling at her brow and under her arms, but eventually she reveals Martin’s tender quarry, bundled up against his chest, blood-soaked from a wound long congealed. His own long and bloody fingers clenched and moored into the weft of Martin’s jumper.

She doesn’t need to check his pulse. She is cursed with enough sentiment to do so anyway. Crouching for a moment in the thick of the settling devastation, the fug of dust coating her nostrils, before she murmurs ‘I’m sorry’.

As she stands, she takes off her coat to lay it over them respectfully, the only shroud she can offer.

When her voice is composed, its cracks flattened out, she shouts the others over to tell them to stop searching.

--

The knife does not go in easily. There is force behind its thrust, a manic wave-shock of hysteric intent, and Jon’s lips part in a gasp as skin and sinew and flesh split. The noise wrenched from Martin is soiled with ruin, tremulous and saw-toothed, and he will never be able to forgive himself.

Jon’s eyes close. Peace of a sort granted to Magnus’ last and most beleaguered of Archivists.

And then they open. All of them, like the unfolding back of petals during blossoming, a meadow’s expanse of sight flowering on his face.

“No,” Martin whispers, the refusal almost lost over the tumult of the building around them. He pulls the knife out, and it drips onto the floor, making damp the material of his trousers. “No, nononononono.”

The wound presses together like lips, and then it is gone.

“I think it’s too late for that, Martin,” the Archivist says in that calm and reasoned voice of his.

--

It is a surreal, poorly-rendered mirror of before. A way the record of the world has slipped, juddered aground in a repeat. For all they have both changed, outgrown the casings of the people they were, for all they have endured both together and apart, it is a sick homecoming of sorts to stand again a second time round at the entrance to his hospital ward.

She’s brought supermarket flowers bunched in plastic, the last of a bad crop and too late to get the freshest, the stalks of baby’s breath drooping, the petals on the carnations mottled slightly and past their glory days. Jon lies submerged in sleep, the focal point in a placid storm of machines and wires. This coma chemically induced with no inkling of the supernatural, a last-ditch effort by the doctors to reduce the swelling on his brain. To give the body a chance to heal from the damage sustained during the collapse, his frame bludgeoned and punctured like a shrike-caught mouse, the smoke that has snarled like brambles in his lungs. The almost comically neat wound punched into his chest, nicking his heart.

She hopes his sleep is dreamless.

It takes him weeks to wake up.

“… Georgie?” he finally gasps out on an otherwise uneventful Thursday. His vocals are ribbed and scored with smoke damage. He’s sluggish as he blinks and turns and groans at the complaint of his body around him. “What – er?”

“Hey Jon,” she replies. “Good to have you back with us.”

She lets him acclimatise. Without his glasses, he squints and peers owlishly, like an inquisitive bird, absorbed by the novelty of his environment, the mundanity; the hospital-blue curtain that’s been pulled back around his bed, missing a few rungs and so hanging lopsided in places. The wilting flowers on the side table. The IV needles threaded into his arms.

“Did it work?” he asks finally.

“We think so.”

Georgie doesn’t add more. The conversation is one she knew they’d have, but it still feels like stepping out on frozen water. She is waiting for it to give beneath him, for the drop and drown in the unmoored cold.

His relief muddies in increments. His brow crinkling with a frown, glancing around again at the other beds. Their occupants dredged up and out and recovering from their private terrors, bringing the lessons of their landscape with them.

“Where - ?”

He looks up at her. The ice cracking.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Jon,” she says.

--

“We made it. L-look, see, we’re – I don’t know where we are exactly, b-but that doesn’t matter, does it, because we’re together, yeah? We’re together and that’s… that’s what we promised.”

The blood is drying on his trembling fingertips, the crevices of his palm, and it flakes off like decaying leaf-fall. The front of his clothes is clogged and sodden, the slick slow to harden. The weight in his arms is making his shoulders scream but he can’t let go.

“We – we did it,” he repeats hollowly. Desperately. “We did it, s-so you can come back now. You can come back. Together, you promised.”

The winds of this new world blow as cold as the old one did, and it is Martin’s only reply.

--

“It’s for the best, Martin,” the Archivist says.

“Shut up,” his furious watcher snarls. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t play st – Like him! Like he would! Using his voice.”

“It’s my voice. It’s me, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t respond to that. Their arguments are cyclical as roundabouts. He tells Martin he loves him. Martin tells him to fuck off.

The place where Jonah Magnus met his End, crumpled up on the dais of the Panopticon, has been cleared of blood. It distressed Martin to look upon, as evidence of his ascension rather than his capacity for brutality, so the servitors saw to its removal. The body he gifted to the mulch of the bone gardens, and the wailing growths flourished beautifully with the nutrients it bore.

The screams beyond the walls of the Panopticon cut off faster as he hastens them towards the End. He observes a world in its twilight. There is still torment, and it is unendurable and unfair but it will end under his reign, for good and for ever, and he will ensure that there is no more.

“You don’t have to stay,” the Archivist says. Considered. Gentle. “I know… seeing me like this is not what you wanted. I want us to be together while it ends, but I won’t force you.”

“And how is it any better out there?”

“It’s not,” he admits. “Here, I can keep you safe. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

“Well, you fucked up there then,” Martin snaps.

His anger is righteous and flint-spark, makes barriers that almost waylay his grieving. He looks at him, and for a moment, his gaze shakes. He will see nothing less than he expects to see, a man, unkempt from travel, a bit grubby. Coarse hands he has held, lines he has attempted to smooth. In many ways, this makes it worse.

Martin turns away, and the Archivist lets him go.

He needs time and they have more than enough of it now.

--

He is inconsolable when they dig them out. A horrible, anguished keening like he’s being struck, a gasping that violently gags and stoppers in his chest. His face twisted, blotching, his eyes swollen, and the picture he makes is ugly, rent-open, decimated, bawling into the body he’s crushed up against him. Rag-doll limbed. Ashen.

They can’t make him let go. His cries transform and degrade into wails, garbled wordless, the horizon of language lost. They aren’t even sure if he knows they’re there. The sound pouring out of him is frenzied, delirious and anguished by surviving the unsurvivable alone. He fades hoarse through the ruin he has made of his throat and then he just weeps into Jon’s chest, and still he will not let go.

Melanie’s the one that stops him using the knife the first time. Wrestling it from his grip more out of surprise than shock at Georgie’s shout, and her anger is poisoned with her panic, throwing it to one side and hearing it clatter, snarling that I’m not going to fucking bury both of you, you hear me, don’t even think about it, fuck you, you think this is what he would have wanted, you think we want to lose you too?

Martin doesn’t reply.

They are not fast enough to stop him the second time he tries.

--

There are two men, strangers to these parts, who moved into the village from elsewhere like seeds caught on breeze. They plant their roots in uneasy soil. They talk to no one, versed in polite but guarded pleasantries, their greeting smiles to-the-point and weathered like coastal walls to withstand even the most inquisitive of questioners.

The one who is tall has the pared-down appearance of someone who has lost a lot of weight through some wasting that gnaws upon him. A gauntness that accentuates the furrows and gulleys and crags of his face, worsens the snow-stark white of his hair. The one who is short has been formed naturally sharp in features, although the brown of his eyes is mellow, prone to distance and otherwise unremarkable. The rumour mill, that tumbles in cycles of chatter that rolls from suspicious to musing, supposes some great and devastating fire to account for the injuries on his hands and the exposed skin of his face and neck, the pocked divots like scattered spark burns, ragged scars from shrapnel of some kind.

The one who is short limps on a sturdy walking stick, fashioned from an oak branch divorced from its tree in a storm. Any travel ventured upon is slow and demonstrably an effort. His free hand clasped in the hand of the one who is tall, who decks himself in layers even in the mildest of weathers, whose eyes are biting as hailstones, awashed grey and framed with bruising as though his dreams are rarely kind.

They re-painted the outer walls of their house last summer, when the temperature wallowed sticky and dense and glorious. The tree in their garden has fruited its first pears, few and stunted but a start that promises better crops come next year.

There is the hope that the strangers are happy.

If they are, it remains nobody’s business but their own.

#tma spoilers #tma finale spoilers #tw blood #tw violence #tw mild injury description #tw suicide #tw suicidal ideation #cw death #jonmartin #WHAT ABOUT THAT FINALE HUH?! #ask to tag #this one tends towards the heavy #hurt/comfort #hurt no comfort #angst #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma 200 #the magnus archives #tma

[stuckwith-harry]

Hide-and-seek

A/N: Oh, to be a chicken in times like these. (CW for discussion of death, nothing graphic.)

In the chicken shed it might as well still be the eighties, as though time had only gone on for the humans living in the house on the other side of the fence, but not in here, where the hens are quietly clucking and cooing and enjoying their naps, until Ginny shakes a handful of lettuce in the air like an invitation, a beckoning – then they come hurrying towards her, beaks tearing greedily at the green leaves.

When the hens have had their fill, Ginny looks over the gaggle of bickering ladies and finds her favourite amongst them, Genoveva with her warm brown feathers and clever eyes, who yells and shrieks when Ginny lifts her up by her impossibly soft belly, crouching down in the chicken shed, and pulls the disgruntled hen to her chest.

“Look, I’ll make it up to you”, Ginny tells her quietly. She fishes sweetcorn out of the front pocket of her dungarees and holds her open palm out to Genoveva, not flinching or grimacing when the sharp beak leaves little red marks on her skin as the hen gulps down her treat.

Ginny smiles.

The summer after her first year, she climbed into the chicken shed every day. She was soothed, then, by the arrhythmic clucking and the smell of fresh hay and the fact that the hens allowed her to share their company, that they did not recoil in horror at her sight.

It was her that named them, while she sat here for hours and hours with a chicken in her lap, more often than not Genoveva, who, for all her complaining, was easily the most patient of the bunch, and who nestles into her lap now, blinking slowly in the twilight while Ginny strokes her feathers, the burning inside her ribcage dull and pulsating like that of an infected wound.

Like it was her that took the damn Killing Curse to the chest.

“You’ve no idea how lucky you are”, she mutters, meeting Genoveva’s sharp eyes. “Nothing in those little heads of yours except earthworms and soft hay.”

She sits there for ages and ages like she did that summer, willing the comfort of the soft animal to sink into her like warmth. When she finally gets up to leave the chickens be, she tosses the rest of the sweetcorn into the hay (Genoveva looks utterly betrayed), fills up the grains in the feeder, and climbs out of the shed with the smell of warm feathers and wheat straw still in her nose.

“Chicken-feeding duty?”, calls a voice from near the house as she swings her bare legs over the wooden fence and strolls back towards the Burrow. When she looks for the voice’s owner, she discovers Ron, sitting on the weathered bench below the kitchen window.

“What’re you doing out here?”, she calls out as she comes closer.

“Hiding”, he says dully. “Mum’s crying again.”

Ginny feels something inside her chest take a tumble. “Is anyone with her?”

“Yeah, I’m not that much of a dickhead. Dad and Percy and Bill are all in there.”

“You’re not a dickhead”, Ginny says automatically, surprising them both. Then: “Mind if I stay?”

He shrugs. “Be my guest.”

So she sinks on the bench beside him, joining him in his grim silence. They gaze aimlessly over the soft green hills all around, the shape of the lake like a blue thumbprint in the landscape, where they whiled away so many happier, warmer days than this, and Ottery St. Catchpole’s mismatched roofs in the distance, smoke rising from the chimneys.

Ron finally looks over at her. “Were you with the chickens this whole time? I thought you’d grown out of your obsession with them.”

Ginny musters up a grin. “Never. I love those stupid hens. That was just an elaborate ruse so I could hide in the chicken coop when we used to play hide-and-seek. It never occurred to any of you to look.”

“Well, you stopped growing at about five feet, I figure you fit right in.”

Ginny whacks him in the knee. In a true testament to the severity of the situation, Ron does not retaliate.

She tells herself it’s that, not how much they aged him, the few short months that he was gone.

It’s less blatant now that Mum has shorn back the unkempt mop of hair that was falling into his eyes and growing down the back of his neck like wild weeds when he walked through the secret entrance of the Room of Requirements with Harry and Hermione; now that he’s shaved the patchy stubble on his cheeks and his face has regained a little fullness. But sometimes she still looks at him and wonders how ten years have not passed since she watched him slip away into thin air at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

“Did anything happen?”, she asks. “With Mum?”

Ron shrugs, expression blank. “Some fool said his name again. I never noticed how rarely we actually said the twins’ individual names until we had to break the habit of saying Fred-and-George all in one go. It’s like he’s Voldemort.”

Ginny doesn’t laugh.

“I know”, she mutters. “Don’t think it’ll ever come naturally.”

He nods mechanically. “Anyway – I made a run for it. I just couldn’t do it right then, having to comfort her and everything.”

Ginny looks over at him. “Funny, you’re so good at it.”

“You just say that because I make the best tea.”

“Well, you do.”

The same way that children can recognise each of their family members by the sound of their footsteps as heard through a wall, or the rhythmic pattern with which they knocked on the door, the Weasley siblings have learned to read each other’s silences since they’ve come home. Often now, they appear at each other’s bedroom doors at all hours of the night, shaken from nightmares or too restless to sleep or, rarely, weeping.

Most nights, two or three or four of them eventually find themselves in the kitchen, where Ginny turns on the lights, and Ron puts on the kettle, and they sit there and while away the small hours in each other’s company, in silence, in quiet understanding, in murmured chatter about nothing at all.  It’s good comfort, the idea that even after everything, there’s nothing in this world that a hot cup of tea can’t fix.

Ginny shifts on the bench next to him, pulling her knees to her chest. “Remember when that fox got one of the hens? I was inconsolable, and you were so nice to me when we put her in a shoebox and buried her behind the house, you didn’t even make fun of me.”

“You lot are different, that’s easy. I just can’t take it when it’s our parents.”

Ginny hums in understanding. “I think seeing Dad cry was worse for me. At the memorial.”

“Cheers, thanks for bringing it up again.”

She snorts.

“You’re good with Harry”, she says softly. “D’you miss him at all?”

He rolls his eyes. “He just sleeps two floors below me, it’s not like he died.”

Ginny winces.

Ron does not miss the look on her face or the heaviness of her silence, as they have all learned to do, and asks in an unnaturally light tone: “How’re you coping with him waking up three times a night?”

He seems relieved, for a moment there, when she smirks.

“It’s not too bad, actually. At least he makes for a great pillow.”

Ron looks appalled. “What the hell happened to the camp bed?”

“Oh, we just keep that around for decoration now.” She grins, comforted by the opportunity to tease him. “And he doesn’t wake up as much anymore.”

His face lights up. “That’s good news, at least. Lead with that next time.”

“Oh, he’s just … stopped going to sleep altogether.”

“That really solves that problem”, he says darkly. “The idiot.”

“I don’t think it’s purposeful”, she says. “He’s always pretending to be asleep when I look at him, but I can always tell. And when he does doze off, I’ll just stir next to him, and that’s enough to wake him up again.”

“He’s a really light sleeper these days”, Ron says apologetically. “The worst camping trip in the world will do that to a person.”

Ginny grins faintly. “Yeah, he’s mentioned it.”

“He’s talking, then?”

“Hm-hm.” She wraps her arms a little tighter around her legs. “Which is good, I guess.”

He watches her for a minute, as though unsure what to make of her tone. “Anything on your mind?”

She laughs. “Anyone ever told you you’re turning into Mum?”

“Well, we’re here anyway!”, Ron says, ears flushing. “Spit it out, will you?”

“He, uhm –”

It has not occurred to her, until right now, how difficult it would be to pass the story on, even to someone who has heard it before. Harry handed it to her because she asked him to, and still it knocked into her like a wild animal, pouncing, the weight of it like a Hippogriff standing on her chest, pinning her to the earth.

“He told me about walking into the Forbidden Forest.”

“Ah”, Ron says hollowly. “No wonder you’re hiding in a chicken coop.”

She looks around at him. “It’s not Harry I’m hiding from.”

“But you are hiding”, Ron says wisely.

Ginny shrugs. “I dunno what I expected. Somehow I’d convinced myself I already knew the worst of it. Which, as it turns out, was a bit stupid of me.”

She draws in a shaky breath.

“I thought he was in on it. Ever since I watched him come back to life at Hagrid’s feet … I thought there was some sort of plan. But there wasn’t, or Dumbledore didn’t tell him, anyway. I thought he knew he was going to survive, and it turns out that, uhm – he didn’t know shit. He went there to die, for real.”

Ginny looks back at him, words coming faster now. “And I’m – I’m so angry, and I don’t know why. Or who I’m angry with. It can hardly be Harry.”

“In all fairness, I kind of felt like punching him when he told us”, Ron says quietly, and her mouth briefly twists into something like a smile. “If anything we should be angry with Voldemort, or Dumbledore, even – but they’re not within punching distance, so what are you gonna do?”

“If Dumbledore wasn’t already dead, I would kill him”, Ginny says. “I swear, I would kill him.”

“Yeah, that sounds reasonable”, Ron says good-naturedly, patting her arm.

“And Harry – Harry keeps apologising, and I don’t know what for.”

Ron’s expression is pained. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

He sighs. She handed this to him, and now he is steeling himself to hand something back to her. She can tell.

“My best guess is … for not saying goodbye.”

Ginny does not look at him. Suddenly she is blinking rapidly in the fading light, sitting there as the blow rolls over her, something blunt and violent that should have broken her ribs like the impact of a Bludger; but there is no injury, only an ache that does not abate, that sits all around her, inside her. She doesn’t think it’s ever going to go away, all that hurting, writhing and straining inside her like a second skeleton.

“How could he have? We would’ve dragged him back to the castle by the damn hair.”

“Of course we would have”, Ron says robustly.

For a moment he looks like he’s going to reach out to her, hold her, maybe. He seems to think better of it in the end, and she’s almost relieved, dreading what she’d do if someone hugged her.

It’s another thing that won’t ever come easily: showing up on someone’s doorstep, weeping.

“If it’s any consolation”, he says after a while, “I think that’s the worst of it.”

“I’ve been wondering”, she mutters. “Can’t think of very much that beats walking to your own death. No fucking wonder he doesn’t sleep.”

“It’s funny”, Ron says, “I talked to him less than an hour ago, and he seems alright, almost.”

Ginny shrugs. “Isn’t he always? Remarkably functional, considering.”

Ron makes an attempt at a smile. “It’s such a Harry thing to do, though, isn’t it? Always dying for other people. Or trying to, anyway.”

“Hardly just a Harry thing, it turns out.”

It’s all shit, she thinks when he looks at her. Being the person knocking at the door, and the one listening on the other side, opening it.

“He told me about Malfoy Manor”, she says softly.

“Ah.” Ron kicks at the dirt to his feet. “Well, then you know what keeps me up at night.”

“He said – he said you offered to swap places with Hermione. Let Bellatrix have you instead.”

“And? You would’ve done the exact same thing for him.”

Ginny almost smiles. He might as well still be the boy who stuck stubbornly by her side next to the chicken fence all night, when she couldn’t bear to head back to the house, in case the fox ever came back.

“Yeah. I would have.”

It settles on her shoulders as quickly and unnoticeably as night, rapidly falling all around them: everything she would’ve done, in a heartbeat, in an instant.

“I would’ve taken the forest, too”, she says, more to herself than to Ron. “I would’ve done it all for him.”

It seems significant, somehow, that Ron does not resist this. That maybe he knows what it felt like, to Ginny, when they walked out into the courtyard and saw Harry.

That, too, felt like a Bludger to the chest: the sight of him, a kid in Hagrid’s arms, his glasses askew. How she wished it was her lying there, dead in his place.

“Those two”, Ron says abruptly. “Some day they’re really gonna be the death of us.”

Ginny almost laughs.

“So you won’t strangle him for abandoning the camp bed?”

Ron eyes her for a moment, a sort of benevolent sternness in his expression – and Ginny was right, that’s all Mum. “Yeah, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m sorry, anyway”, she says, half-smiling. “For costing you your roommate.”

Ron sighs. “They grow up so fast.”

“And for all this, too. You were trying to hide, I didn’t mean to …”

“It’s all right. You had to find me eventually.”

#hp #hp fanfic #fanfiction #ron weasley #ginny weasley #jessie writes #at this point if there's typos in this .... exchange 'em for cookies at the till #also i like desperately need a tag for these two but it'll be meta as all hell #brotp: i'm a can on a string you're on the end #told ya.

[dp-marvel94]

Dying in Your Arms

Note:  This is another story based on a post by @ectoblood, with the prompt of “Imagine a clone sacrificing themselves to save Danny from a fatal blow. Danny doing his best to comfort said clone in last moments as he destabilizes in his hands."

Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net

It wasn’t...It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Danny thought as he held the melting boy in his arms. The clone is the one who’s supposed to be inconsolable. Danny’s supposed to be comforting him. He’s supposed to be keeping him calm. His clone shouldn’t...shouldn’t be comforting him. 

 But the clone is calm, resigned to his impending death. “It’s...it’s okay. It’ll all be over s..soon.” He coughs through the ectoplasm in his mouth.

The clone had wanted to die, feeling trapped by Vlad and his cruel demands. He feels worthless, like he has no purpose being the failed clone of another boy. And he doesn’t really have any friends or family who will miss him, nothing and no one to leave behind. But saving Danny, who has friends and family, a home and purpose unlike him, might just give the clone’s short life some meaning. He can do at least one good meaningful thing before his end. 

So while the clone is dying in Danny’s arms, he tells his original. “Hey. Hey. Don’t...don't cry. It’ll be okay. You’re safe now. You can go home now.”

But the words just make Danny cry harder. “No. Hang...hang on. Stay...stay with...with…” He’s already done this once, when Danielle almost died in front of him. And he’s seen too many other clones also destabilize in front of him. But the one in his arms, who doesn’t even have a proper name just the ID number Vlad called him, is the only one, other than Dani, that he’s actually spoken to. And the stupid self-sacrificing idiot is trying to tell him it’s okay. 

The clone’s brow wrinkles, confused. Why is...why is Danny crying? I’s not like anyone has even really cared about him, much less cried for him. And Danny shouldn’t be sad; it’s not like his clone was even supposed to exist anyway. A distant part of him starts to think that Danny might actually miss him when he’s gone. Danny might actually mourn.

That thought makes the clone cry. Danny might actually care about him and no one ever has, and maybe he doesn’t actually want to die. Now both boys are crying and as the clone’s body disappears up to his waist, he starts begging Danny to save him. And Danny’s weeping because he can’t. He doesn’t know how. Danny starts telling the clone that he’s sorry, that he failed him, he should have been stronger, faster. That he wished he’d known about him sooner so maybe he could have saved him then. 

Danny holds the other boy closer. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, 18.”

“Jamie.” The clone chokes out. “My name is Jamie.”

Danny doesn’t question it but just agrees. “Okay. Okay Jamie. I promise, I promise I won’t forget you. You saved me. You saved me and I’ll never forget you. I’ll remember you, okay, always. Always Jamie. I-”

Hearing the name he picked, since Vlad never bothered to give him one, was sweet, even if it was the last thing the clone ever heard. Jamie died in Danny’s arms before he could hear that Danny loved him.

#Danny Phantom #Danny Clones #my fic #Danny Clone

[chrysalispen]

EPILOGUE. of truths sunk too deep for war

it’s done. now i take some time to finish some one-shots and plot out the next arc (which will take us through ARR, possibly to 2.55, though i am pondering making the CT raids its own separate multichapter fic because it’s so much on its own...) anyway, thank you all for reading ;A; i hope you enjoyed it and i look forward to starting on the next part! 

... though i think... maybe not today LMAO i need some sleep

AO3 Link HERE

================================================

(||Feel||))

Aurelia sank into darkness so deep and vast that time had no meaning. It might have been minutes, hours, days of wandering aimlessly, set adrift in a fathomless ocean stretching malms past any known horizon.

And as she drifted, she dreamt.

Snatches of memory caught at her mind’s eye like errant flotsam curling in eddies about her soul.

She saw herself at a dying man’s bedside, a Roegadyn woman weeping inconsolably while watching her kiss him goodbye, unable to save him.

She saw the parting of clouds as black as pitch as Dalamud descended over the fields of Carteneau, a terrible secret still locked within its flaming belly.

She saw her adolescent self curled upon the carpeted steps of a cold marble staircase in the middle of one of Garlemald's eponymous blizzards: shivering beneath a coverlet she'd dragged from the bed hastily made for her, trying to weep as quietly as she could while her new guardians fought over what they felt should become of her.

She watched broken shards plummet to the earth from the heavens, bathed in brilliant fire. An impression of white and gold, sobbing both in rage and in heartbroken agony. Tears seeped into the fabric wrapped about her fading form like rainwater into soil.

(don’t cry. don’t cry, I’ll save you---)

The trail of fire twisted this way and that before it faded into the background of an intricate vine pattern she recognized. Green brocade wallpaper imported from Thavnair. This was a memory from her early childhood.

Aurelia stood silent in her parents’ bedchamber as if she were a neutral onlooker rather than reliving her own memory. L'haiya’s strong hands were braced firmly upon the shoulders of her younger self, expression flat and stoic and sunset-colored eyes dark with grief. They fell upon the dying woman who lay in the bed: a great four-poster carved from Eorzean mahogany.

The figure weeping over that wasted frame, clinging to a pale and withered hand, was likewise one she knew. Julian rem Laskaris, begging his wife not to die and leave him alone. Promising he’d save her if only she’d try to stay with him a little longer.

If only.

If only-

As soon as she thought about her mother the scene was gone entirely. She was, instead, lying in the grass in the middle of a garden she recognized by scent if not sight. Sunlit warmth spread like a gentle embrace over her skin and into her bones, and dappled patterns like leaves rustling in a breeze beneath the summer sun cast their soft furred impressions behind her eyelids.

A burbling noise caught her ears and she listened for a few confused moments before she realized what it was. The fountain, she thought. Of course, that sound was the little fountain with the Doman koi in it. Father had had it installed in the garden as a conversation piece for visiting officers. It sat among the beds of lavender Elle had helped her plant when they’d pulled out the weeds. Althyk lavender, a rare variety and the only kind that would grow in a place as arid as--

Gyr Abania.

Something high and yearning rose in her. Home. She was home.

A cool, dry breeze fluttered in small wisps through golden forelocks that had escaped their confines. Wrapped snugly in her favorite grass-green pelisse, feet bare beneath her muslins, Aurelia sighed. Her fingers flexed, curled into a handful of soft ryegrass, and as she opened her eyes she saw overhead the strangely shaped leaves and heavy twined branches of a persimmon tree. Nearby was the old zelkova that framed the artfully arched parlor windows that faced the Menagerie promenade.

She was propped head and shoulders in someone’s lap. She could feel slim fingers carding gently through her hair and she could smell jasmine and tea rose, a mild and gentle lady’s sachet.

Her breath caught in her throat. That was a scent she knew.

When she opened her eyes to look upon her companion, the face smiling back was not L’haiya’s. She took in a wealth of long auburn curls, soft brows and fair skin, the delicate pearlescent oval in the center of the forehead that marked the woman as a pureblooded Garlean. Dark blue eyes, the exact same shade she saw every time she looked in a mirror.

Aurelia only barely remembered this face. She had been so young, and so many long years had passed that it was one she could now recall with true clarity only from paintings and daguerreotypes. But she knew it well enough to speak a name.

“Mama?”

The word was spoken in a voice that sounded hoarse, almost rusty, as though it had languished from long years of disuse. Vittora cen Remianus only smiled, tracing a small path from her daughter’s hairline to the upper rim of her third eye with the edge of her thumb.

“Hello, sunshine,” her mother said. “It’s been a very long time.”

Why are you here?

Misgiving swept over her in a small flood. Her mother had never seen their house in Ala Mhigo. After Vittora’s passing, there had been a small memorial in which her ashes had been spread over the Estersands. That was several months before Aurelia’s father had put in his transfer request to the XIVth Legion.

She certainly shouldn’t be in their garden.

...Where am I?

Aurelia had to know. “Am... I’m not dead, am I?”

“No, of course not.” Vittora was still smiling, but it had taken on a pensive cast, and she seemed to be looking at something Aurelia could not see. “Not dead. You’re just very deeply asleep. Come and see for yourself.”

Her limbs seemed to weigh several tonzes apiece; merely bracing her elbows against the grass felt like a heroic effort, but after a great deal of strain she managed it well enough to sit up.

She followed her mother’s gaze and her eyes went wide.

The boundaries of the garden she remembered began to fragment at the edge of the fountain, in segments of empty space that were uncannily symmetrical. A few years ago during one of her summer lectures, Aurelia had had the opportunity to watch students at the Imperial Magitek Academy researching Allagan tomestones from excavations further afield. She remembered the same sense of unease at the sight of a screen showing the compilation process.

It had looked very much the same as this. Empty blocks where the tomestone data was corrupted or truncated. Or missing.

Beyond the garden lay… nothing, as far as the eye could see. Shimmering lines of aether lapped at the edges of this facsimile, borders receding and advancing in turns like waves upon an ocean shore moving with a great and ancient tide beyond her understanding.

“Where is this?” she asked, in a small voice.

“A place that you will not see for, I hope, many more years to come.” A pale, slender hand folded over Aurelia’s, and a mote of light caught Vittora’s wedding band as she squeezed. For the first moment since she had laid eyes upon her, Aurelia realized how weightless her mother’s touch felt. Indistinct. “Our souls return here at the end of our mortal coil. They are drawn to the Lifestream and swept away on its currents.”

The edges of the mirage garden trembled with Aurelia’s agitation. She bit her lip.

“Then why did you bring me here?”

“Me?” Her mother seemed genuinely surprised. “Oh, sunshine. I didn’t bring you here. You brought yourself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Most mortals will never see the aetherial sea while they live. A small number may take to its currents only by way of forbidden magicks, and not without considerable peril to body and soul.”

A chill ran down her spine. With an abrupt swish of her skirts, she regained her feet and reached the edge of the tableaux in three long strides. At the lip of the fountain, she held her fingers beneath the running water.

There was no pressure and neither warmth nor chill. Her hand came away just as dry as it had been before.

“But you are different from most,” her mother continued. “Your soul may travel here and can even resist the Lifestream’s call for a time. Because of your gift.”

((Hear. Feel. Think.))

“My gift,” Aurelia echoed. “Is that- do you mean the conjury?”

“Yes and no, although this selfsame gift does allow you to harness and manipulate aether. You should not be able to do that, either. And yet here you are.”

“But why all of this now? Why me?”

“Why not you? Our star holds many mysteries. Some are readily explained and still others have yet to be unraveled, and this may well be one of the latter.” Vittora’s hands folded primly at her waist as she approached her daughter’s side; between thumb and index finger she spun an errant blossom. The petals fluttered with each rotation back and forth. “But I doubt you came to ask for answers I don’t have.”

Aurelia opened her mouth, then shut it, her brows knotted in hapless frustration.

“I don’t,” she wrapped her arms about herself, cupping her elbows in her hands and staring out over the star-shimmer shore, “I don’t know that any of it matters, Mama.”

“Why not?”

“I tried to set out and make my own path. Uncle and Aunt wanted me to make a match with a family of their choosing.”

“Many a soul has chafed beneath the weight of others’ expectations,” Vittora said. “You are far from the first scion of the imperial aristocracy to have put off a betrothal until they felt themselves ready to commit to a marriage, and I sincerely doubt you will be the last.”

“It was never a matter of readiness. I would have been perfectly happy finishing my schooling and leaving the capitol for good.”

“I see.”

“ ‘His Radiance’s Will’ can go hang. It would have done no harm for Uncle to allow me to choose for myself or not at all.”

Vittora’s brows raised. “Something tells me that Janus would not see the matter thus.”

“He didn’t. But he and Aunt could not very well prevent me from serving out my enlistment. I thought it would give me that much more time to decide.” She made a helpless gesture at the wide emptiness of the sea. “Instead, I lost everything.”

“Endings are as much a part of the vagaries of life as aught else, Aurelia. Your father rejected that truth. I would not see you do the same.”

Aurelia did not answer for a long time. Her mother moved closer, and with her drifted the watery, delicate scent of her sachet.

“Mama, I’m worried.”

“Why?”

She didn’t have enough left in her to dissemble. “Because I don’t know if any of the choices I've made have been good ones.”

“Sometimes there is no good choice, sunshine. Sometimes there are only choices.” Vittora bowed her head. The expression she wore was something like sadness. “But be they for weal or woe, the one thing you cannot do is be so afraid of making a bad choice that you do not let yourself make any decisions at all.”

The rebuke was gentle but pointed.

“If I were stronger then perhaps I would not concern myself so much with the outcome.”

“You are strong. I remember the girl you once were. And I think you are far stronger than you have been given cause to believe. You will make the most of what you have been given- as our people have ever done in hard times.” A pale hand patted her cheek. “It could be that you were meant to come to Eorzea all along.”

“Perhaps. But I think I could just as easily have elected to follow Uncle Janus and Aunt Marcella’s wishes, then called it destiny if the outcome were personally beneficial,” Aurelia said. “Life is what we make of it.”

Vittora laughed, the sound of it somewhat dry. “That rather sounds like something a certain Dalmascan would say.”

“What do you believe, Mama?” Aurelia watched the lavender blossom spin out of her mother’s fingers and float in lazy drifts to the grass. “Do you believe in destiny?”

“That is a difficult question to answer. But I think- I hope- that it is both. And in any case, I think a lack of belief in a higher power makes your capacity for kindness all the more precious. Please, sunshine, don’t ever lose that compassion.”

“Mama, I became a chirurgeon to help others. I should hope that compassion is the least virtue to which I could lay a claim.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the scattered petals of the blossom. “...But you have my word.”

The shade released a long, soft sigh, something that sounded very much like satisfaction..

Before her eyes, the outline of that slim, graceful figure began to warp into something that reminded her of heatwaves upon stone in summer, the facial features becoming slowly and steadily translucent. Aurelia’s heart lodged in her throat.

“No,” she said. She thought she had cried it aloud, but sound did not carry in a place like this. “No. You can’t go yet.”

“I must.”

“There’s so much more I want to talk to you about. Please.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“But-”

“No, sunshine. Your place is with the living. Go back to them.” Vittora’s gentle smile returned, and she reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her daughter’s ear. “You are very young yet and your future is still uncharted. It waits only for your pen to fill its pages. Take the new life you have been granted, and live it.”

The steady burble of the fountain had ceased. Flowers and trees and stone all began to disintegrate, leaving in their wake only the otherworldly glow of shining white-capped waves.

Her mother’s transparent hand fell to her side, and Aurelia felt its withdrawal as the faintest whisper of a breeze against her cheek as Vittora cen Remianus stepped forward into the line of stardust foam that surged onto the shore. Aether washed around her ankles and lapped at the hem of her skirts but she did not appear to mind or even notice as she took another step, and then another, and another.

The cascade of bright auburn curls Aurelia recalled so well turned to sepia before fading entirely as that lonely figure drew farther and farther away and disappeared, leaving her daughter to linger upon the edge of mortal consciousness.

Leaving her alone again just as she had done all those years ago. Aurelia’s eyes burned.

“Remember me,” the shade of her mother said as it walked out into the aetherial sea, drawn back into its vast currents. “Remember me, and I will always be with you.”

No, she thought. No, you can’t just leave me alone like this-

She made to step into the sea, to follow- and was soundly denied. A deep, resonant chime echoed from somewhere within the living currents of her own soul as her feet defied her mind’s order to move.

An unknown and unseen Something was pulling her back.

I can’t-

(Remember.)

There were words. Words that

||Hear. Feel||

echoed like a mantra as her eyelids, suddenly heavy as lodestones, fell shut once more.

(Remember-)

=

She could hear birds.

For a long moment, she did not move. Her eyes shifted beneath the curtains of her lids, following the dapple-pattern of shifting leaves while she turned her attention to the nearby trilling. A warm breeze brushed her cheek like a mother’s touch, soft and soothing, and water burbled steadily from someplace not too distant, and she knew she lay upon something (a bed? a lap? She wasn’t certain) soft and yielding.

Mama, she thought, and opened her eyes.

There was no sign of her mother. She lay on a small infirmary bed barely larger than an army cot, tucked under a light blanket. Someone had taken the trouble to wash her and dress her in a plain hempen robe. Her gaze peered through the fine folds of a transparent cloth the likes of which she had not seen in so long that it took an embarrassing few moments to realize it was some sort of protective netting- probably, she thought, intended to keep out midges and chigoes. High overhead a canopy of leaves danced in the gentle wind, turning like troupes of tiny dancers upon their branches.

On the right side of her bed, she sensed a soft weight. Aurelia blinked slowly, once, twice, and the world came into focus as she looked down.

A small Miqo’te girl dozed with her head pillowed upon the edge of the mattress. Her short dark hair spilled over the blanket in an unruly mess, eyes shifting side to side beneath their lids, and one ear flickered in tiny erratic twitches even as her tail lay curled limp and unmoving on the grass. In that brief moment of silence, Aurelia heard a tiny snore escape her slack lips.

Despite the sorrowful ache that still lingered in her own chest, she smiled and carefully slid a hand from beneath the blanket to rest it upon Vahne’s shoulders.

“The conjurers said she’s not slept since we arrived here.”

The voice came from the infirmary bed next to her. Its occupant sat atop the mattress with her back propped up by a pile of pillows, a tome in one hand with her fingers marking the page. Her right arm was in a sling and, like her leg on the same side, it was encased in plaster. More pillows cushioned the woman’s heel, and like Aurelia she was clad very simply in a hempen robe. Her auburn hair had been cut short.

“She’ll be happy to see you up when she awakens,” Rhaya Wolndara said. “She’s been very worried about you. She was furious with me when she found out I’d sent you packing. Wouldn’t talk to me for the better part of a sennight.”

“I-”

The word came out as a croak. Without further prompting Rhaya set her book aside, reached for the tin cup and water pitcher on the small stool between them serving as a side table, and poured. Aurelia accepted it gratefully and took small sips, sloshing the water around her dry mouth before swallowing as Rhaya watched.

“Take your time. You’ve been asleep for the past two suns.”

“Where is this?”

“You don’t recognize your own guild?” Aurelia squinted through the netting and canvas and finally spied the huge old tree where she had conducted much of her training. As Rhaya had said, they were in the Stillglade Fane, abed in the infirmary area reserved for patients that were not in dire need of treatment. “The Wailers dragged us out of that ruin. Brought all of us here for treatment. You collapsed. From exhaustion, I suppose.”

“The last thing I remember was-” She paused, straining to recall. The taste of soot seemed to linger on her tongue. “...The fire. Did-”

“Sergeant Epocan told me what happened. One of the village Wailers - a Lieutenant Daye, I think he said - was able to sneak out and run to the Druthers for help. It was fortunate he did. Their commander set a brushfire from the creek embankment that spread very quickly, but the Wailers and some conjurers from Quarrymill were able to put the fires out. With the village’s help, of course.”

Aurelia watched a grimace flash across Rhaya’s face as the other woman shifted in her bedclothes.

“On that note,” she said, her voice curiously brisk, “I owe you an apology. ‘Tis like my captors and I would have died in that fire without your intervention.”

Sewell.

“Sewell didn’t make it, Rhaya.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I was told. He came through in the end, though, didn’t he? Poor man. To have come so far only to die like that...”

Aurelia stared down at the small, spindly shoulders under her hand.

“He wanted me to tell you he was sorry for everything that happened.” The ache in her chest intensified, crept up her throat. “I did try to save him.”

“Come now, I see those tears. You’re only one woman; you can’t bleeding well save the realm entire, you know,” Rhaya chided her, taking the emptied cup from her hands to set back upon the stool. “Not a soul could reasonably ask more of you. You helped run the Empire out of a village full of people who could well have turned on you the moment they found out what you were.”

“Sergeant Epocan told you about that?”

“Only because you had told him that I realized you were a Garlean. That was a very brave thing you did, you know. You took a big chance on all of them, revealing yourself like that.”

“I like to think that most of them would at least have the sense to see I was on their side. Although I imagine,” Aurelia said dryly, “that stealing a flash grenade and using it to incite them to riot didn’t hurt.”

“I’m sorry for my part in it. I shouldn’t have said those things to you- no, let me finish. I knew when those men fled that they’d be back, and at the time I… well. Your friend set me straight on a great deal.” She eyed the small girl. “And this one too. If she hadn’t run to you for help, I don’t know that I would be here now.”

“She’s a good girl.”

“She is. She still has some growing to do yet, but she is.” Rhaya’s smile faded. A pained expression tightened the corners of her mouth. “My youngest sister Kheni got herself mixed up with some bad sorts when Vahne was younger. The one sensible thing she did was to leave the girl with me. I never meant to raise children of my own, and it’s been bloody hard going it alone.”

“Sergeant Epocan tells me that Keeper families are often large,” Aurelia frowned. “Did you not have other siblings who could have helped you?”

“Aye. Two sisters and a brother, all younger than me. We weren’t on speaking terms.”

She did not miss that past-tense had. “You talk as if something happened to them.”

“They answered the Twin Adder’s call to fight the Empire last spring. My brother was cross with me when I didn’t do the same; I suppose he had grand notions of the Wolndara family fighting the Garleans in the same unit, or somesuch. Anyroad, I felt it were naught but folly to risk my life and leave Vahne without anyone to look after her, and I told him thus. And he- they,” Rhaya took a deep and visible breath, “they all three of them marched off to join the main force at Carteneau and - just like a lot of other folk - they never returned. Vahne is all I have left so I feel responsible for her safety. But… mayhap I have been a little too strict as her guardian. Just a little.”

Her gaze on Vahne’s slumbering form softened.

“I’m proud of her.”

"So am I.”

"Good." Aurelia lay her head back and shut her eyes again. She was still very tired. “I think I’ll let her be a little while longer.”

“I’ll call for one of the conjurers,” Rhaya said. “Rest. You still need it.”

She thought she nodded her response, but she wasn’t sure. The other woman’s words seemed to float into her ears and spin in small drifting circles, like lazy eddies of water, as she lapsed into another light doze.

This time her sleep was peaceful and dreamless.

~*~

27th Sun, Fifth Astral Moon, Year 1 of the Seventh Umbral Era

“Up!” the voice shouted. “Put your backs into it! Mind the bleedin' base!”

Summer was winding down, but something of it lingered still in the air. A flock of sparrows descended upon the nearby fence with a great flutter of wings, trilling beneath the afternoon sun’s warm and benevolent gaze, and Aurelia Laskaris listened in an absentminded way from her vantage point in a fallow field. She was watching the villagers' combined efforts to raise the walls of a new house. The ropes went taut as a section of wall lifted by ilms, ash planks and iron nails to be lashed in place as the joints met.

“Hoist!!” the voice shouted again, and among the ensuing calls to coordinate the teams, she could hear the steady clattering clamor of tools working the wood.

“You lot have made an art of this,” she said. At her side Frieda Miller let out a small cackle.

“We work quickly,” the weaver shrugged, gently jostling the infant girl in her arms. “It’s the neighborly thing to do. Though if you told me this time last year we’d be doing something like this outside the village...”

She trailed off, hesitation crossing her features, but Aurelia thought she knew what Frieda meant. The people of this small and secluded forest village seemed to have taken if not a kinder view of outsiders, at least a slightly warmer one. They had unknowingly harbored a Garlean for moons and when Aurelia’s countrymen had attacked she had sided with them against her own kind: something none of them would have expected. Not only that, the hamlet’s entire defense against imperial incursion had been spearheaded by a Keeper Miqo’te: a man whose people were so often jettisoned to the fringes of the Shroud, and treated with suspicion and disdain by many.

Their familiarity with him, and with Aurelia, had forced many people to re-examine their assumptions about their world, and while some still clung stubbornly to old grudges and commonly-held wisdoms, others had made friendly overtures one by one. For better or worse, change had come to Willowsbend, heralded by the fall of Dalamud, and it appeared to be here to stay.

Whatever they might think of her, or of the surrounding events, Aurelia could only hope that their attitudes towards their neighbors continued to soften.

“So,” Frieda continued, “you two are to leave on the morrow.”

“So I am.”

“Are you sure you don’t have any plans to stay here? The Guild could always take Trevantioux back instead.”

She smiled, a little ruefully.

“Hardly any need for a third wheel, now that he and Noline have called things off.”

“He seems to be taking it rather well.”

“Ah. Well enough, all things considered. I’m still sorry I couldn’t be there with you to help deliver Isa, but-”

“Oh, never you mind that, Aurelia! What you did gave me a safe place to bring her into the world and that’s just as important.” Frieda grinned. “At any rate, no harm would have been done, I can trust Trevantioux to do his work properly. The man might be a bit of a jackass and a fool in love besides, but he’s a good conjurer, and he’s earned his place in the village.”

“Then it seems to me that you’re in good hands.”

Despite her words, Aurelia couldn’t help the pang of sadness she felt.

It was likely she could have remained in Willowsbend did she wish it, but there had been Trevantioux to consider. The events of that fateful night had changed him. Ever since he had made the hard decision to break his betrothal, he had seemed a shell of his previous self, rendered nigh desolate by Noline’s infidelity. His work was all he had left- and he had been tending to the village under Ewain’s tutelage for four years.

As fond as she had become of Frieda and Hugh and all the others in her own short stay here, Aurelia couldn’t bring herself to take his home from him on top of everything else. Thus, it seemed trivial to contact E-Sumi-Yan and explain the situation - and even more so to formally request an end to her current assignment, seeing as there would now be no open position to fill. It was an olive branch, but one Trevantioux had accepted with a great deal of grace. These days there were no sour remarks about her origins or sullen glares when she went on rounds. He had even been the one to offer the village’s assistance in rebuilding the Wolndara homestead, something that had surprised everyone - not least of all Rhaya herself.

Maybe that was the most important part of the whole outcome. If someone as stubborn as Trevantioux could change his tune, it should be no hard task for the rest of them.

In Frieda’s arms, little Isa made a loud blatting noise and swatted at a stray lock of her mother’s hair- and was thwarted by the casual sidewise tilt of Frieda's chin. “Be that as it may, know that you’ll be missed by myself and the boys, at the very least. Do you promise to come and visit us when you can?”

Aurelia smiled. “You wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t at least make the attempt.”

“I’ll make sure to have my best pies ready and waiting for you to take tea with me. Speaking of which,” Frieda said, “it looks like you’ve a friend coming up the hill.”

She followed the woman’s pointing finger and saw a willowy figure loping towards them across the empty field. The Miqo’te had grown a good two or three ilms over the season and showed no signs of stopping, but she was still more child than adolescent yet. She nigh vibrated with excitement, her tail lashing against her leg as she drew to a halt.

“Miss Aurelia, Shadow’s having her kittens!”

“Be well, Frieda.” She patted the woman’s shoulder. “Give Rauffe and the boys my love.”

“I will.”

At the foot of the incline, Vahne fidgeted, rocking from side to side as she waited for Aurelia to reach her. Some yalms distant, another section of heavy oak beams began to lift from the newly packed ground, and carpenters’ hammers continued to mark increments of time and progress in short beats.

“They’re moving very fast,” she said, smiling. “I daresay they’ll have your house finished in the next fortnight.”

Vahne nodded, in a vague sort of way - she supposed the particulars of housing construction didn’t much interest a young girl. That small face looked troubled despite the tranquility of the day and after a moment, she burst out,

“I don’t want you to go back to Gridania!”

“Vahne, darling, I must. It’s not up to you or me.”

“Can’t you just stay here? With me and Aunt Rhaya? We have plenty of space and since you two patched things up she'd be happy to-”

Aurelia sighed. She had been dreading this. “I can’t. It’s not that easy.”

“But I don’t understand why,” Vahne protested. “You could just leave the guild and go anywhere you chose if you wanted to, couldn’t you? You could become an adventurer! People do it all the time!”

There were a great many things that she thought she could have said in that moment. She could have lied, spun some bit of fiction she knew Vahne would accept. She could have attempted to tell the truth, to explain all of the sordid details and confluence of events that had brought her to Willowsbend, and hope that she might understand.

Instead, she reached for Vahne’s hand.

“Part of being an adult means having to make choices. Sometimes it means hard choices, even when you know it’s the right thing to do. Do you understand?” At the girl’s nod, she said, “Those choices don’t ever stop coming to your door. I would love to stay, Vahne, but I can’t. My choice to leave Willowsbend for good lets a man keep his home and it keeps the rest of you safe from the Garleans besides.”

“Safe from what? Those men are gone. You killed their leader and now-” Aurelia was slowly shaking her head, and Vahne’s lower lip began to tremble. “Please don’t go. You’re the first real friend I’ve ever had.”

“I will visit when I can, but life is taking me elsewhere. I can’t say when I’ll be back to stay,” she said gently. “It’s quite possible the answer is never.”

“I hate this! I hate saying goodbye. I feel like it’s all I’ve done my whole life.”

“It’s true that sometimes life feels like nothing but goodbyes, but sometimes in order to have a beginning you have to have an ending.” Vahne, to her credit, didn’t cry, but the hand around Aurelia’s felt almost crushing. “When I leave, I want you to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Visit Goody Miller when you can? She’ll be in need of a friend herself and now that the villagers know you and your aunt, I’m sure you’ll be able to make even more friends.”

Vahne didn’t look altogether convinced, but the nod she gave Aurelia was slow and solemn.

“In the meantime,” the Garlean righted her posture, her tone briskly cheerful, “let’s cheer up, shall we? Tomorrow hasn’t arrived just yet, after all. It is still today, with plenty of light left in it, and I believe you were saying something about your barn cat.”

The Miqo’te brightened; her rain-grey eyes seemed to come alive at the reminder.

“Oh, yes! Have you ever seen newborn kittens?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, no.”

“Good! That means I get to show you your very first litter.” She squeezed Aurelia’s hand and began to tug her arm in the direction of the reconstructed barn, rather impatiently, in the way a girl half her age might have done. “She’s made her nest in the back of the chocobo pen.”

Feeling unexpectedly light-hearted for the first time in what felt like forever, Aurelia followed her young friend. The grass parted for their passing and concealed their steps as though they had never traveled through the field at all.

What the villagers built here wouldn’t replace Rhaya’s home nor the memories that had formed within its walls. No force in the world could turn back time to recover the things they had all lost, she thought. Not truly- and perhaps that was for the best. A new home blessed with companionship would provide ample space for new memories and the promise of new friends. It was a symbol of renewal as sure as any spring.

In short order the pair had retreated into the stable, itself still smelling of sap and fresh-cut hay, to bear witness to these small new lives. And as men rebuilt and the forest resumed its vigil, time turned its inexorable wheel into the cusp of a new Age.

#reborn by fire #epilogue: of truths sunk too deep for war #aurelia laskaris #garlean warrior of light

[charlottemadison42]

On Good Omens and Faith

Here follow personal thoughts on what Good Omens has meant to me as an Exvangelical. There’s a lot of healing & hope here, but it gets a bit dark first, as worthy stories do.

CW: I wasn’t badly spiritually abused in church, but I’ll be discussing things that are spiritually abusive: purity culture, sexphobia, queerphobia, abortion, mild self-harm, failure to treat mental health appropriately, ableism -- plus the special ways church authority makes all of these especially hard.

I’m personally an atheist but this message is not an argument against faith itself, rather against the specific subculture I grew up in. If you are a person of faith you’re welcome here.

I grew up in the American Evangelical subculture of the 80′s and 90′s, in the Keith Green/DC Talk/Left Behind/Veggie Tales era. I got saved at a Carman concert in sixth grade, and re-pledged my faith just to be extra sure every year at summer camp and youth group retreats.

This upbringing is not unusual. Doesn’t make me special. But its effects were real.

I’m finally engaged in a reckoning with it, in the “I should maybe talk this over with a support group or therapist” sense. I was a worship leader and youth leader at a Vineyard church when I left my faith abruptly in 2007*. It took me ten years to tell my family and friends that I was an atheist. For that decade I didn’t think about it -- but when I confessed to my loved ones two years ago, the processing began in earnest.

If you came up Evangelical, you already know how literal our belief in angels and demons can be in certain strains of the church. Until I was 26, I believed they were real entities genuinely and invisibly at war all around me. The End Times were real and we were in them. The Antichrist was whatever high profile democrat could be weaponized at the moment, the Rapture was nigh, and Armageddon was imminent (which explained why tension kept building in the Middle East).

My church community regularly discussed friends and neighbors’ problems in the language of  demon possession or harrassment: depression was a demon, addiction was a demon, promiscuity was a demon. I was part of casual and formal exorcisms and the occasional healing. No holy water, but there were hours of fervent prayers and tears, speaking in tongues and anointing with oil. It’s like a fever dream looking back at it now.**

Shout out to my other teens and tweens of the Frank Peretti era, forbidden from reading books of fantasy any later than Lewis or Tolkein -- Xanth was forbidden, Hogwarts was demonic. We were given instead (retrospectively) horrifying books about spiritual warfare, Christian takes on historical fiction, and end times fantasies. But they weren’t sold as fantasy to us, it was all real. Adults in positions of power confirmed it over and over. Narnia might be allegory but This Present Darkness supposedly illustrated spiritual truths.

I remember telling a trusted church teacher at age 10 or 11 that sometimes I would get scared at night, in the dark, and feel a palpable terror that kept me awake. They told me with no hint of comfort, “That means a demon is visiting you and sitting on your chest, trying to oppress you with fear so you will sin. Don’t wake your parents or read a book, instead you should pray or read only the Bible until the demon is compelled to leave, either by an angel or the presence of God.” This adult was affirmed by amens and mm-hmms.

I took this teaching to heart. I also understood, by implication, that if the bad feeling stayed with me then I was praying wrong -- that no angel would rescue me that night. I knew that my fear as it compounded in the dark was itself a sin that made God harder for me to reach.

These are not things that should be told to children.

Then there were the prophecies. (read more if this resonates with you, if not I’ll clip it here so I don’t take up your whole screen)

Anyone could prophesy in most churches I attended. Dreams were prophecies, visions were prophecies, vague feelings were prophecies. (That gave nightmares / being hormonal / being really hungry an awful lot of sway at Bible study.)

I had a woman prophesy over me weeping, with her hands buried in my hair, that she felt overwhelming grief for my future child. I was 23.

I have no child, and I harbored the secret at the time was that I didn’t want one -- a rebellion for me as a married woman. I feared she was prophesying an abortion in my future, and I was inconsolable for months at the damning choice that would visit me someday. (As of this writing at age 38 I’ve never been pregnant, for which I give all thanks to modern birth control.) I still wonder what happened to that woman’s child, or pregnancy, or perhaps her desire for a child, that this was her prophecy for me.

I heard much darker things prophesied over other people. I remember career changes (ill-advised) and marriages staying together (they shouldn’t have) and mission trips undertaken (that assuredly should not have been) because of prophesies.

Last, of course, I didn’t know it yet but I had many queer friends at the time. Some of them didn’t know it. We had no context in our small town -- and no corners of the internet to hide in and learn context, because the internet didn’t do much more than access our local library catalog at the time. I was told that demons sat on my chest to oppress me as a child, but I was shielded from understanding what a lesbian actually was until I was sixteen.

I remember feeling vaguely guilty when we prayed over this or that person in youth group, entreating God that they could resist their base urges. We prayed that they could choose a life of abstinence if they had to, rather than enter sexual sin and be cast out. I felt guilty but I still joined the circle to pray.

I’m sorry. I was wrong. Part of me knew it at the time. I wish I had listened to that part of me because that it was correct. There are fragments of my former faith I still treasure, but those prayers were rotten to the core.

Sidebar: Luckily that feeling of guilt bloomed quickly into rejecting queerphobic doctrine. By age 20 I decided I could only attend churches that did not preach homophobic takes on scripture from the pulpit, and that did not advocate/imply advocacy for any particular political party. The reason I mention this: if YOU are currently a person of faith in this position, uncomfortable with what you hear from your leadership, go find a church that’s queer-affirming, gives to the poor, and advocates for immigrants. Live in a conservative area? Create or join a home church. That’s what the early church looked like anyway. Don’t shrug off this responsibility. Shine a light.

Anyway. Several years later, I fell.

I had to step down from multiple church leadership positions in one day. My entire life changed in two months; marriage, job, home, friends, everything uprooted when I could no longer pretend to believe. I didn’t tell my family why everything fell apart, even as they let me crash their couches.

I had wanted to be a good believer. I read apologetics, the mystics, eschatology, theophostics. I taught and attended study groups, I took troubled teens out to coffee, I served the homeless, I waited til marriage. I was in church as many as thirty hours weekly. When I first felt my faith slipping I said “not yet,” and I read the entire Bible straight through twice, in different translations, while journaling through “My Utmost for His Highest.” Then, unsatisfied, I read and annotated the New Testament in interlinear Greek. I gave it my everything.

What could replace all that?

Time, it turns out. And freedom.

Freedom to not think about it was perhaps the kindest freedom. The constant labor of self-evaluation and thought policing that goes into Evangelical Christianity is exhausting. Letting it go of it felt like getting my mind back. Or owning it for the first time, since I never knew this freedom before. I had even been seeking counseling because I was hearing multiple voices in my head at once, all mine, often arguing. That problem vanished the hour I deconverted. I heard only one voice anymore, and it was my own.

For ten years I was free to just not think about it.

When I decided to remarry I realized that I didn’t want to explain to anyone why my ceremony would not include prayers or communion. So I told my loved ones at last that I was an atheist, a decade late. They received it graciously, and I’m sure they had known-but-not-acknowledged it for a long time. I hope they don’t worry about me or pray behind my back for my salvation. But if they do I can’t accept responsibility for it anymore.

Since that confession I’ve finally felt compelled to back at what all actually happened in church. It seemed so normal to me at the time. But wait, it wasn’t:

I exorcised people. I laid on hands for healings. I encouraged episodes of religious rapture, falling out, and speaking in tongues, and as a worship leader I knew the music cues to bring them about (yes, there are certain chord and tempo changes for that). I was present for prophecies that changed people’s lives and might have issued some myself, I don’t remember. I alienated people who didn’t fit in, whether because they were queer or just because they didn’t conform to church culture. I witnessed abuse and had no language to report it or even comprehend it. I hurt people. I was hurt.

I was told there were real demons in my room and I had to pray them away all by myself.

The work of undoing this mindf*ck (sorry friends of faith, that’s how it felt) suddenly turned urgent after being ignored for a decade. I can’t afford therapy, but thankfully Twitter chats and message boards and podcasts exist (thank you, @goodchristianfun​ and @exvangelical​).

And then -- out of the blue -- along came my own personal angel and demon, along with Frances McDormand herself. I watched it on a whim. (Actually no, David Tennant’s hair made me.)

Apparently Good Omens had a few things to say directly to my mindf*cked subconscious:

1) Are you scared of demons in a pathological childhood trauma way? Here, have a helping of this amalgam of your favorite Doctor and scariest ever Marvel villain tearing it up as the demon Crowley.

2) Does your mild bookish personality and respect for the culture you grew up in keep you reflexively deferential to authority, even as it gaslights you and hurts others? Enjoy some Michael Sheen as the angel Aziraphale.

3) Are you stuck still mentally assigning a male gender to the god you always claimed was beyond gender? Boom, meet Her in all Her ineffable wisdom.

4) Are you terrified of the End Times, both as a Biblical horror of childhood and as an adult who reads the f*cking news? Let’s fantasize awhile about a solvable apocalypse (because what would that even look like, yo).

5) Do you keep reflexively binarizing good and evil? Still giving in to the temptation to characterize humans as righteous or fallen, especially celebrities and political prospects? Spend some time on Our Side with Adam, the utterly human Antichrist, as he makes choices that matter -- some goodish, some baddish, all with mixed consequences, because that’s what humans do.

6) Do you need more queer love stories in your life? Yes you do. Yes. YES. Here it is. The good stuff. Whether it’s gay, trans, genderfluid, asexual, agender, metaphysical, whatever (I’m enjoying reading all these takes and more on AO3) it’s a hell of a love story.

Good Omens was a f*cking revelation.

I’m not sure why the show hit me as hard as it did in the Exvangelical feels. It’s not that it’s a perfect show, but it was the right thing at the right time for me, and it brought a truck full of dynamite to the excavation I was just beginning with a trowel and a makeup brush. I finished watching ep 6 and thought “why do I feel like I’ll be thinking about this every single day for years?”

And then I looked down, and lo and behold I had an open chest wound -- inside of which I found the banished memory of a child trembling and praying in terror in a dark room.

There was a lot that I forgot about in the ten years it took me to hike away from Evangelical life. It all came rushing back.

I had forgotten the sweat and cries during exorcisms and the heat of laying on of hands. I had forgotten fits of ecstatic tears of self-hatred and self-denial so strong they were almost blissful, as I sang and chanted mantras like “I am nothing, You are everything.” I had forgotten giving away ten percent of my income until I was 26. I had forgotten the constant mental effort of Being A Proverbs 31 Woman, about submission and complementarianism and feeling responsible to guard the virtue of men by never tempting them. I had forgotten the pressure to not even masturbate before marriage and to become a sexual athlete the night after.

I had forgotten the hours and hours of daily prayers. Every phrase was carefully carved in language my superego ran by my doctrine, to make sure no hint of rebellion ever bled through. I washed words of need and doubt and frustration from my mind so they could never slip between me and my Heavenly Father. I didn’t just want to hide thoughts God wouldn’t like, I would have cut them out with violence if I knew how. As a result I picked and ticced and cut and exhibited symptoms of OCD.

It hurt to remember all of this at once during a BBC Amazon Prime miniseries. It confused me. It confused my spouse. I looked at all these feelings, exposed and piled in a massive dirty heap -- and I spotted the straps I used to haul it around with me for decades. Who knew I could carry all that? The weight of faith?

But I don’t have to pick it up again. I had a new story to help me frame my story. I felt equipped with a flaming sword to face my past and a new syntax to describe the old ideas I'm ready to let go of.

I got to recast Heaven and Hell. I was invited to ask myself whether a cozy cluttered bookshop doesn’t beat them both hands down.

I got to reimagine angels and demons, good and bad, intentions and consequences. I was invited to live in the reality that we’re all of us humans in between, and that I’m probably still overinvested in the value of Good and Bad as yardsticks.

I got to reimagine western history. The show’s perspective of history is very limited and Eurocentric, but it’s also the version of history I was taught at an early age, which made the story a useful lens to deconstruct what I learned before I knew much about critical thinking.

The opening of Episode 3 in particular f*cked me up. First Aziraphale lies to God and She vanishes, then Crowley starts poking holes in the story of the Flood, then at the Crucifixion -- I started breathing hard on my first viewing, experiencing a real physiological threat response. I was loving it, of course, but distressed panicky love.

The second time I watched it I realized what was happening: I was going back to Sunday School to revisit ideas I absorbed before I was fully sentient, and examining them in the light of fully formed adult secular morality. They look different from here.

When God withdraws Her presence from Aziraphale in the first few moments of Ep 3 as he prevaricates (well, lies) I remembered the one great fear of my faithful life: that I could sin a particular sin and as punishment I would be cut off from God’s presence. As a believer in the End Times, that meant the Rapture could occur at any moment and I might be rejected, be left behind to experience the Tribulation.

Now, from some remove, I realize that I always had one fear larger. It’s a thought I never allowed myself to entertain consciously. Good Omens unearthed it like a vein of flowing lava:

If the Apocalypse as my church describes it is real, how could God want it to happen? And if God does, is this a God I want to worship? If I don’t, but I’ll be damned for that, is my faith freely chosen?

Whose side could I really be on, in the End Times, if not Heaven’s or Hell’s?

These are not small questions.

I’m relieved that I answered them a long time ago for myself.

But even after the answering, there’s fallout; a million little knots to untie and ideas to unlearn. We all get to spend our lives doing this sort of archaeological dig through our childhood baggage, I suppose. My Stuff is certainly not unique. It’s just a lot. Same as everyone’s.

But once in awhile a story comes along and helps us with the process. A sharper spade, a better tool for the work. In my case, through Good Omens I received demolition-grade explosives. It gave me a framework, characters, and a personal shorthand to speed my own digging and contextualize what I find.

If your history is kinda like mine -- whether you’re still in the faith or not -- be sure to talk to someone about church stuff from your past. The weird stuff, the dark stuff, the things you did/people did to you that now seem “off.” Even if you’ve grown past the point of “mental illness requires an exorcism” there are still dangerous ideas buried like land mines in our moral matrices. Self-hatred, intolerance, fear of abandonment, fear that failure is damnation, presumption that “we’re” on the “right side” of everything and “they’re” not, fear that we the apocalypse Is Written by powers above and so we can’t change it.

I’m so happy I know a story with an Our Side now.

I’m so happy I know a story in which the true test of devotion to God’s Ineffable Plan is turning away from the dictates of Heaven and turning toward the World.

I’m so glad I met Aziraphale -- so like me, still seeking Heaven’s approval far too late in the game. I’m so grateful he found the courage to walk away, and I’m so glad I did too. I love that I know Crowley now, self-pwning lovelorn disaster demon of minor inconveniences and imagination and free will. I’m so happy Crowley was there to tempt his friend with questions from the start, and to receive him when he was finally ready to break away.

I’m so proud to know Adam and the Them and Anathema and Newt, inept humans trying their hardest against unstoppable cosmic forces, getting it right not just despite their flaws but through and because of them.

I’m so grateful I’ve finally managed to completely swap to female pronouns for God (thanks, Frances). I still love stories about Her, I still enjoy talking theology and religion. And after 20+ years of insisting God is above gender but masculinizing him, it’s about time I switch to thinking of God as Her for a spell to even things out.***

I’m so thankful for the nicest fandom I’ve known in ages and all the glorious queer beautiful amazing body-positive art and writing growing in this fabulous garden.

Confession accomplished.

CM

P.S. I might not have the time/resources you need to chat with you if you’ve had similar experiences or want to discuss. If you need help be sure to reach somewhere healthy to get it. If you witness abuse, online or in church or otherwise -- report it, block it, mute it, shut it down, whatever is in your power.

P.P.S. If you have words of rebuke for me from a churchy place, and/or critiques about gender or politics, sorry, don’t give a f*ck. This is my story to tell and I am secure in my spiritual status. I am free indeed.

++++++++++++++

*Re. Deconversion: Or rather, I had my faith zapped out of me in what turned out to be the truest rapturous religious experience of my life. It happened in a church service; I almost fell out and spoke in tongues with the tingling power of understanding that I was truly and finally faithless. It’s an interesting deconversion story if you're familiar with charismatic church stuff, ask me sometime over tea. It felt like this.

**Re. Exorcisms: Most disturbing was the regular practice of exorcising people who clearly needed professional help for their mental health. I was present when prayers against demons happened over cases of depression, manic depression, epilepsy and other seizures, addiction, schizophrenia, and psychotic episodes. My particular church did acknowledge the role of modern medicine, but felt that the true core of these issues was spiritual and that medication ultimately could not solve a problem of demonic infestation. Looking back now I shudder and weep to think that this happened, that I was part of it once, and that it still happens daily at churches everywhere. It can be unspeakably damaging to the people being prayed over. If this practice happens in your church, leave. If it happens at a church where you’re in leadership, end it.

***Re. God as She/Her:  I encourage you to find your own appropriate pronouns for God, whether you believe in Them or not. For me personally, still reeling from the Proverbs 31 upbringing, She/Her is very healing for now. But gender is a construct etc. etc.

#good omens #good omens analysis #aziraphale #crowley #exvangelical #ex-christian #neil gaiman

[wayward-musings]

Weeping Willow

Noon was the laziest time of the day for anybody who lived in my neighbourhood. It was the time of the day when streets were empty, roads deserted and, instead of children, lizards lay on the small rocks in the park, basking in the sun. But had anybody chanced to stroll by churchyard street that windy afternoon, they would have seen a greatly dejected figure shuffling along the lane, under the bougainvillea. Shoulders sagging, gait heavy and a small bunch of purple wildflowers clutched in one hand, they would have seen Tom Wylde walking to the cemetery.

It was a peaceful place, the cemetery. Long stalks of grass swept across the lush expanse, dotted in neat rows with headstones of granite and marble. The sun did not glare as it did in other areas, and the wind itself seemed to stand still - A cool draught sometimes chanced to ruffle the stalks of grass.

A tree here, a tree there, a grave in the shade. Another under the willow tree.

Tom Wylde looked across the field and began pacing.

First row, second row, third and fourth. Sixth from the left.

He stood there, looking down at the smooth, simple marble stone, the only mark his mother had left on the mortal world. Etched into the stone were the words :

Jessica Wylde   

May her Soul rest in peace.

He brushed off a few stray leaves and sat down. Placing the wildflowers on the headstone, he began.

"Afternoon, Mother," he said, "It's exactly the kind of day you would have liked. Weather's fine, too. Except my day's gone all wrong. " - he gave a shaky laugh - "I got fired, which means I'm unemployed. Unemployed - do you hear that, Mother? I've got no money for food - the landlord's been demanding rent and I've got no money to give him."

He sat quietly, his head between his knees.

"What did you use to say, Mother? 'This too shall pass.'  Well, Mother, it seems that this damn well won't. I shall have died of starvation in a few days." He began rocking back and forth, veering on the edge of hysteria. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. "Say something, Mother! Why won't you? Where are you when I need you? You left me when I was so young." - voice faltering - "Come back - I just don't know what to do." He dissolved into tears, and shook fiercely as his body was wracked by sobs.

Anybody who might have chanced to pass by the churchyard that Tuesday afternoon would have seen a man, broken by grief and misery, shaking and drawing in ragged breaths amid heart-wrenching sobs.

Tom Wylde wept his heart out, and just when he thought that he could not produce any more tears, he felt a small hand on his shoulder. He looked up, startled.

It was a young girl - no more than twelve. Her shining golden hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and she wore a spotless pair of dungarees over a bright yellow shirt. Tom Wylde watched, entranced, as the girl smiled, dimples denting her rosy cheeks, and then proceeded to sit herself down on the grass next to him, as if it had been her spot all along.

"I'm Willow Hillman. I heard you crying," she began cheerfully, as if she had not just borne witness to a mental breakdown. "And some of the things you said. Although I shouldn't have been eavesdropping. Everybody tells me it's a bad thing to do. I'm sorry for that. Although I suppose it's a good thing I heard, though, probably, otherwise I wouldn't have come here to cheer you up. Anyway, don't worry. It'll all get better. That's what my mother says . Here," She thrust a large, fluffy dandelion into Tom Wylde's hands. He looked down at it, slightly dazed, wondering why this little girl had suddenly decided to talk to him, of all people. Hadn't he scared her off with his breakdown? All the same, what was a twelve-year-old doing in a cemetery?

He looked at the dandelion and then turned his head to thank the little girl, but she was gone.

***

True to Willow Hillman's word, things did get better for Tom Wylde. For once, he decided to quit moping around and actually get some work done. He sent out applications for jobs and ran various errands for people to make ends meet.

Each day he went to the cemetery, and each day he was greeted by the same toothy grin and the same small hands holding a dandelion for him. 

He learnt a great deal about his little companion, too.

"Do you know how to make a daisy chain?"

Willow and Tom sat on the grass, plucking bits of it and throwing it at each other. Willow flashed him a grin. The sunlight turned her hair to liquid gold, and she looked as if she were made of the woods herself - a little nature spirit. It was just in the way she looked wholly at home in the meadow - regardless of it being a cemetery.

Tom smiled as he laced daisy stems together - the first smile of his in many months.

And truth be told, anyone who would have passed by the cemetery that day would have seen a tall and lanky man, running after a little girl, who curiously resembled a wood sprite- in the way the sunlight illuminated her frame; daisy chains tipping precariously on both their heads.

***

"Do you like trees, Willow?"

"My favourite is the bougainvillea."

"Why?"

" 'Cause it reminds me of myself. It's sweet and strong and it can stand anything."

Tom remained silent.

***

"You know, Willow, my mother - she left me when I needed her most. She died when I was eight."

"Really? Mine too!"

***

"I don't like cars."

"Why?"

" 'Cause one killed my mommy."

***

"It'll get better, don't worry."

***

A warm day.

A tall man, sitting next to a pint-sized child.

A young girl, with hair the colour of the golden sun, silhouetted in the evening light of the waning sun next to her newest friend.

Daisy chains, strung with threads of friendship.

Bougainvillea trees - delicate, yet strong.

Wispy white weeds, laced with self-discovery and blown on with gratitude for the existence of Nature.

The silken bonds of Friendship.

Peace.

Affection.

Hope.

***

Days turned to weeks, the sun rose and set each day as the moon waxed and waned through the nights - and it all led up to that one day when Tom Wylde was once again seen striding to the churchyard, this time with a spring in his step, a white envelope clutched tightly in one hand.

Tom Wylde had had none to share his happiness and sorrows with until a few weeks ago, when a little girl named Willow had waltzed into his life like the sprite she was, and he was bursting with joy and anticipation.

His days of sending out job applications had paid off, and Messrs. Barn and James had replied in the affirmative, offering a top-notch managerial position, saying that they would be 'glad to have you in our company', and that he was to start on this Monday the seventeenth of August.

Spotting a field of wispy white weeds - dandelions- he stopped to pick one for the little twelve-year-old who had brought so much joy into his life. He would never forget this day - the fourth of May- when things in his life took a different turn.

However, the moment he set foot in the cemetery, he sensed something was wrong. The air no longer stirred with the cool draught, birds remained mute and immobile, hidden among the dense foliage of the tall, lush trees. The whole meadow seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation.

All was silent, and no sounds reached Tom Wylde's ears - except one.

The heartbroken, gut-wrenching sobs of an inconsolable child. 

Panic and fear filled Tom Wylde's heart. The lone dandelion clutched in his hand, he felt as if he was in a daze. He felt his legs move quickly towards the source of the sound.

Later, he remembered seeing the sunny face that greeted him every day twisted into an expression of profound grief. Some distance away, Willow Hillman had looked up at him with a tear stained face and large, wet blue eyes. Her golden hair had glinted as it always did in the sunlight, and with one last smile - and one last tear trailing down her rosy cheek, she had faded away before his very eyes.

He stood, stunned - entranced, as the only thing that had brought light back into his dull life faded into oblivion. He felt himself walking, running to the spot where he had seen Willow. His head spun ; his mind was reeling. He was shell-shocked, screaming her name until his throat felt hoarse and raw, as though shards of glass had been poured down it. He felt wetness on his cheeks, his eyes smarting, the sun brash and burning against his face, the very last remnants of hope ebbing away from his soul.

He had never felt so heartbroken in his life. His bones no longer felt like bones, his brain felt useless and unable to comprehend this strange reality; and the world collapsed around him as his knees hit the grass.

His eyes fell upon a lone headstone of pure white marble before him - the very one he had been weeping over. Etched into it were the words :

Willow Hillman

Beloved daughter and friend.

You shall forever live on in our hearts.

Taken from us on this the second day of May.

Anybody who might have passed by the churchyard that bright, sunny Sunday morning might have seen a tall, young man, collapsed on his knees, staring dumbstruck at the grave in front of him as a lone bougainvillea petal fluttered down to rest on his coat-clad shoulder.

***

Fin.

A note: This is something I wrote a long time ago, when I had just started seriously trying to improve my writing. I think I've developed in some ways since then, but I think this is a good starter piece when it comes to posting my originals on Tumblr! (I'm on Wattpad as TheWodehouseAddict). I'd really like to thank @parkerpeter24 and @kelieah for encouraging me to post this! (Thank you so, so much for helping me break out of my comfort zone 😅)

#my writing #mango writes

[tellywoodtrash]

Sanjivani - Week 6

Overall Plot

Holy shit, what a fucking week. Lots of interpersonal developments (read: dhamakas!) Shashank ousted Juhi all those years ago (on the request of Rahul) because he was in love with her?!?!? Shashank is also possibly Sid's father, or somehow personally associated with him?????? Rishabh's background is revealed too!!!!! Phew. I am dizzy.

The Medical Stuff

Not that much focus on the medical stuff this week. Neil's dad is quickly diagnosed with Legionnaire's disease and I assume cured (since we didn't see him after that, and Neil happily went along to Sid's for Ganpati.) There's an old friend of Shashank's whose wife had a nasty fall and is showing some pretty bad effects of concussion. Sid's injuries seem to be the priority right now.

The Acting

Dude. Sayantani, what a stellar actress. I could not take my eyes off her in the the scenes where she's at Juhi's house. Her eyes glittering with a strange sort of determination, almost like a suicide bomber, as she presses the button to detonate life as Shashank and Juhi know it. Fucking amazing. She blew (pun unintended!) even Mohnish outta the water, with her ice-cool, unperturbed performance, standing up to him so ably! Gurdeep too, had a nice couple of scenes, alternating between Juhi being disturbed at what she found out, as well as having to take charge of one crisis after the other, and she played it with such grace and poise. Surbhi had a more toned-down week (other than the scenes when Sid gets injured.) I particularly liked the apology scene and the scene where she's praying for Sid. I'm watching YPNTKH rn, and find Namit to be waaaay more polished in that than he is here? How did his dialogue delivery and acting regress a level or two, when he’s so damn steady there? Now I'm legit suspicious of the director(s) of this show, coz if they're not extracting the best out of their two leads, who have proven to be much better performers than they’re exhibiting in this show.... What are they even there for?  

The Characters

Sid: Watching YPNTKH has given me a new appreciation for Sanjivani!Sid (he's called Siddhant in that show too!) because he's a much better character here. He's a soft boi who isn't hyped up on ego and toxic masculinity, and I really really love and appreciate that. His admonishment of Ishani (during her apology) underscores his true character; he glossed over her poor behaviour towards him in public and even the fact that she slapped him, to focus on how she was ready to blow up her own career and throw it all away over a past she had nothing to do with. He's an excellent mentor who truly cares for his team and wants to make them the best doctors that they can be. Also, I'm so, so heartened to see how accommodating he is of Ishani's germophobia. Everyone else treats it as a quirk or inconvenience, but he truly takes it into consideration, asking for consent before coming in contact with her (at almost every instance they're close by - not just once for effect and done - I hope they maintain this aspect for good), or protecting her from unwanted contact from others. His crush on her is just so adorable - checking if she’s okay while he’s carrying her, remarking he’s glad that he didn’t punish her for her insubordination because he likes seeing her all soft and contrite; his bashful glee when she gives him a flower, the (mischievously) proud grin as he watches Ishani walk off to give Rishabh what he deserves; gently guiding her to where the best views of the Ganpati fest are, all the while shielding her from unwanted contact from strangers; semi-consciously dragging himself on top of her, to protect her from the gunde!!!!!! What a good, good bean he is. He's truly so beloved that seeing him brought in injured paralyses the whole hospital in shock, and they all unite in both dawa-and-dua ways to ensure he pulls through. Please show, I am fucking begging you; do not ever ruin this character by making him a typical Tellywood hero. Keep him soft and respectful and lovable forever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I deserve a male character like this after all the fuckery I’ve been through the years!

Ishani: Ishani finally comes around to seeing Sid for what he is. Even before she learns that he wasn’t the one to blame for the poster drama, she opens up about her emotional issues to him, perhaps the first person she's let in for over 20 years now. Not only him, we see she lets in his mom as well; letting her smear colours on her face, hug her, and feed her sweets from her hand, even asking for more. Really sweet and shows the willingness to make progress on her part, for people who really matter. We also see the side of Ishani that's fiercely protective of those she considers her own; lambasting Rishabh for trying to play with Asha's career, and taking on a whole group of rowdy men who were harassing her, but as per usual, her impulsive side creates more problems than she ever accounts for. Couple that with her tendency to self-blame to a destructive degree, and our girl has a lottttt of work to do, mentally. I really liked the scene where she's praying for Sid, and she says that Sid is her friend, he's everyone's friend here, and they all really need him in Sanjivani. That's all the emotional development that's appropriate for now; what the fuck is this sudden realization of "love" that's coming outta nowhere acc. to the promo for next week???? Please! It's too fucking early for love and all. Friendship, maybe a confusing infatuation of sorts because he’s been her saviour multiple times now, that's it. Not CAPITAL L waala LOVE and all. Also not a fan of how she was just paralyzed and clutching at Sid and weeping after he got injured, instead of doing something helpful. Like, it's hard to believe she's a good doctor when she reacts so emotionally in scenarios like these. I think her skills extend only to diagnosis and she should maybe focus on that, instead of the surgical part.

Asha & Aman: Asha's woes against the patriarchy continue. First with Rishabh threatening to derail her career by bringing her family into the picture, and then those random drunkards at Ganpati. She does pull together nicely though while Ishani is panicking tf out, and manages to insert a chest tube for Sid to alleviate the internal bleeding. I’m glad that she finally opened up to Ishani about why she’s so competitive and bullheaded at work, which in turn leads Ishani standing up for her against Rishabh. A solid girl!love bond growing there and I am thrilled! Aman toh... Lol, continues being Aman. He offers to beat Rishabh up for Asha, roams around the hospital like an errant 10 year old, just generally having a gala time, unlike the others who are there to focus on work. I really cannot read the vibe between these two; are they just really good bro-sis type friends, or is there a romantic undercurrent? I can't tell. Either way, they're good together, and I don't mind whichever way it develops.

Dialogue(s) of the Week:

Asha [when Ishani freaks out that she threw away the literal white flag she was carrying to make up with Sid]: Ab ke ho gaya???? Wapas se teri overacting; dekh, sahi dustbin mein daala hai (iss baar.)

Aman [literally rolling into the scene on a razor scooter, seeing the yellow rose that Asha suggests Ishani give Sid]: Chee, chee, chee chee; itni gareebi aa gayi, ki yo peela phool dene laage tum log? Arre, manne bol diya hota, english waala phool mangwa deta, phoren se. Lekin [scoffs disdainfully] tumhari marzi... [scoots away]

Rishabh: We finally conclusively know who the worst fucking person in this show is so far. Ding ding ding! Winner winner, chicken dinner! This dude is just something fucking else. He threatens to fuck up Asha’s career if she tells anyone about the poster drama. He is a classist fucker who puts down Asha’s background to Ishani, saying she has “gaon waali harkatein.” He doesn’t give a shit if Sid dies of his injuries, to the point that even Vardhan is taken aback with how vitriolic he is. A truly vile creature, this one. We finally find out that he’s the son of the canteen waale chachaji, which explains the confrontation on the day Sid was called in for his investigation (Sid says that only he knows Rishabh’s “asli aukaat”, before Rishabh rudely pushes past him and the canteen chacha who came to offer them both chai.) All his LV belts and fancy car and show-shaa is just to hide his actual economic background and as such, he prevents his father from interacting with him while in Sanjivani. He’s terribly rude and dismissive of him, to the point where the dad wishes it was Rishabh who was battling for his life instead of Sid, who’s always been more of a son to him. Yiiiiikes. Anyway for all his bluster, I am happy that he’s properly terrified of Ishani, who threatened to fuck. him. up. if he steps out of line as far as she and her friends are concerned.

Neil: I was hoping we’d see more of the Neil-struggles-with-medicine-and-his-father’s-expectations plot, but it was done away with for this Ganpati wala track. Maybe next week? Shout out to him for his adorable wardrobe filled with cartoon characters, even a Tweety Bird waala kurta that he wore to Ganpati!

Rahil: Ride or die for Sid, and I’m so glad these two soft boys are best bros. They deserve each other. He seems to be pretty close with Sid’s mom too, which makes me wonder what his family situation is? It was nice to finally see Rahil integrated into the group of residents, teaming up with Asha and Aman to get the truth out of Rishabh. I also like that despite his own terrible injuries, he takes charge of the situation when Sid is injured and gets him the first aid he requires at the moment by instructing Asha/Aman/Neil what to do. Nice progress from that first case where he was panicking and Ishani had to step in. He’s inconsolable when they reach the hospital though, and unwilling to leave Sid’s side to get his own injuries looked at. Best boy, all the love for him!!!!!!!! 

Shashank: Lord above, what a week for poor Dr. Shashank. All his children are spontaneously combusting and giving this poor man the worst week of his life (probably.) Anjali unrepentantly blew up his personal and professional relationship with Juhi, Juhi is freezing him the fuck out (I refuse to believe that he has any romantic feelings for her unless he says so himself, out loud), Sid has been brought in at the brink of death, and Ishani is on the verge of a breakdown blaming herself for what happened with Sid. For godssake, this poor man is still recovering from a VERY MAJOR BRAIN SURGERY! Could y’all cut him some damn slack, you terrible little brats!?! He’s trying his best to manage; diplomatically addressing the issue with Anjali, trying to engage in conversation with Juhi, comforting Ishani and friends about Sid, but gosh, he’s really struggling to keep his head above water. Also, the overwrought reaction about Sid......... We’re supposed to think he’s Sid’s father right? But would they really do that to this character???? Make him romantically involved with Juhi AND have an illegitimate child with another woman? Very unlikely that they’d make him such a horndog. So one of these plotlines has to give up, and I really hope that it’s the Juhi one. I can begrudgingly tolerate him being Sid’s dad, but being in romantic love with a woman who was canonically a daughter-figure to him for all these years? Un-fucking-acceptable.

Sid’s mom: We don’t have a name yet, but Aarti Bahl (aka Ekta Sohini) also played Nurse Padma Bansal Gupta (Shashank’s second wife) in DMG after Shilpa Tulaskar left. So is she Padma here too, or a whole new character with the same face? As for why the previous actress was replaced, I have a feeling it was because she didn’t look age-appropriate and/or conventionally “attractive” to be paired against Mohnish for this “is Shashank Sid’s father?” plotline. I’m not sure what to make of Aarti’s acting, she seemed very stiff with that forced smile throughout the Ganpati function; and wasn’t too impressive in the scenes where she was panicking and hiding from Shashank either. The scenes I really liked her in were when she was lovingly fussing over Ishani, and later in the hospital when she remarked how proud she was of Sid for standing up to protect the honour of a woman. She has a very soft and calming voice, and her dialogue delivery is really pleasant and soothing, so I’m hoping I grow to like her in this character.

Juhi: Juhi’s not really having a great week either, but she’s a boss bitch who has everything (mostly) in control and I am so fucking happy to see that. I’m glad she didn’t fall apart over the “truth” or try to leave Sanjivani over it - curtly stating to Shashank that she’s signed a contract and intends to honour it, unless he fires her again. She has a brief confusing moment with him while conducting a motor function assessment to determine his fitness to do surgery again, but other than that, she’s all pulled together. She’s mostly brusque with Shashank, trying to prove that she deserves to be here because of her capabilities, and trying to break out from under his shadow to be a proficient COS in her own right; but she’s also gently firm with him when he emotionally barges in trying to help with Sid, insisting that she has it under control and assuring that she will not let anything happen to him. It’s so great to see her balance both her medical/admin skills as well as the firm-yet-empathizing demeanor so ably.

Anjali: Oh Anjali. I love you but you have some serious daddy issues that you need heavy-duty therapy for. On one hand, I understand why she is so resentful and passive-aggressive the way she is (Sayantani’s portrayal compels us to peek beneath the layers!) but on the other, she really had no right to throw Shashank under the bus like that. But I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the way she did it - so bloody spectacularly; unfazed at getting slapped by her father in front of her “rival”, chugging down a whole glass of wine and insulting Juhi’s cooking before she left for the night. So tragic, yet so fucking hilarious. On a professional front, I’m predicting that she’s gonna tire of this Luxury Ward COS post real soon, since it only seems to have her stand around kowtowing to rich assholes like a receptionist of some sort. I can only hope that she wises up to Vardhan’s BS soon enough, instead of serving as collateral damage and falling into the quagmire he’s planning with Rahul to target Shashank/Juhi.

Vardhan: Not much of Vardhan this week other than him entering that secret room he’s built for Rahul in the Luxury Ward. Good. I prefer him in small, controlled doses. And at least we have some clarification that even with all his shady crap, he’s not as horrible a human being as Rishabh - stating that even though he doesn’t like the way Sid operates within Sanjivani, he hopes he pulls through in surgery.

Overall Rating: 4/5

#sanjivani #sanjivani (new) #tt reviews

[i-writeandread-blog]

Wonderland - Chapter 11

I’m on a roll tonight... maybe even 3 chapters if we are so lucky. Anyway authors note - going forward for a few chapters there will be talk of drug use and the like. This may be upsetting to some, so please proceed with caution.

I had a really long night at the hospital. I saw Gemma's mom Paula only once and all she could tell me is they were taking Gem to surgery. That was hours ago. I had long forgotten what patience was and paced up and down the hall a few hundred times.

Gemma was a friend whom I had seen battle her share of demons over the past seven years. She came into my life during a time when we were all experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Her situation made her experimentation a little more severe. Her stepfather had been having an affair and the woman he was seeing held her and her mother at gunpoint for reasons none of us will ever know. She had her man, what more could she have wanted?

At any rate Gemma had been through some tough shit and when we had all decided drugs were overrated she had just kept spiraling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.

We had a strong group of friends that no matter what we always got together every weekend and hung out. Nicky was handsome and the life of the party so when he and Gemma started seeing each other it wasn't a surprise to any of us. I had had a crush on him but he was much more suited for her than me.

Nicky also had his share of trouble. When he was a baby his mother used smuggled drugs in his diaper from South America to North Carolina. One time a boyfriend of hers thought it'd be funny to prick him with a used heroin needle. He was sent to live with his grandparents at the age of three.

When we all stopped chasing highs for more suitable adult activities, Gemma and Nicky just continued doing drugs like it was normal. I had reluctantly left her behind for a life in tinsel town and I was regretting it more and more by the minute.

I stopped pacing and made my way back to the waiting area and saw a text from Jared. I had responded immediately but he hadn't responded back. I was beginning to wonder if he had changed his mind about coming. That would be okay although I really needed a good distraction.  At that moment I heard a cough or rather a clearing of the throat, I looked up to see the man I was so very much in love with.  I darted out of my seat and into his arms.

"Jared, thank God.  I need you to stop me from panicking."

"It's okay, I'm here now.  Shhh."  He said as he rubbed my hair and allowed me to nuzzle into his chest.

He suggested I get something to eat and a cup of coffee, I agreed.  We made our way downstairs to a cafe near the emergency room and he ordered our food.  To my surprise he also ordered a cup of coffee for himself.

"Rough night Jared?"

"Yeah I didn't get any sleep.  I don't imagine you did either?"

"No.  I can't sleep until I know something.  I saw Gem's mom earlier, but no news yet.  My friends Darlene and Heather are on their way.  They needed help with gas money to get here.  Silver Lake is 100 miles away.  The rest of our friends are probably coming too, but I haven't heard... sorry I'm rambling."

"It's okay.  So what exactly happened, do you know?"

I told him that they had been in a car accident but the details were unknown, except that Nicky died on impact. Then I told him about their sordid past and how drugs and alcohol probably played a part.  I weeped into my hands explaining to him how I felt like I could have prevented it if I had only stayed here and tried to convince her to get clean.

"Ali, there's no way to know that and besides, you're not they're keeper.  I had to learn that a long time ago with Shannon.  They seek help when they're ready.  Forcing them into sobriety only makes them angry and less likely to be successful."

He was right.  I had this mother hen persona and if I had inserted myself I may have pushed her away.  I finished my sandwich after he insisted I eat every bite and we started making our way back to the waiting area.  A few people stopped and stared at Jared while we waited for the elevators, but just as he was about to ask them for privacy or whatever else would be appropriate the doors opened.  Paula was inside.

"There you are dear!" Paula said as she grabbed my arm and tugged me forward.

"Is she out of surgery Mama Tate?"

"She is, the nurse came to tell me 5 minutes ago. She said the doctor would be out soon to let us know how it went.  I couldn't hear the news if it were bad, by myself."  She said as she looked Jared up and down and smiled in recognition.

"That's that actor guy... ya know the one, right. Am I right?" She said in a whisper.

"Yeah I think so Mama Tate.  You should ask for his autograph." I smirked and whispered back.

I noticed Jareds lips form a small smile, and he extended his hand to her.

"Hi, Mrs. Tate, I'm Jared Leto. Nice to meet you."

"What are you doing here at Duke Hospital?"

"Mama Tate, he's with me."

Her eyes got big as saucers and she shook her head.

"This is what you brought back from Hollywood?  I figured I'd get a snow globe or a shot glass.  But he'll do." She said jokingly.

She was in good spirits knowing her daughter made it through surgery and I was hoping that the news wouldn't be bad. If it were I know we'd both be inconsolable.

The doors to the elevator opened on the 5th floor and we stepped out into the unknown. Would Gemma be in a coma? Would she be a vegetable as they say? Would she know who we were? Or would she be bright eyed and bushy tailed awaiting us to see her?

"Oh no!"

"What is it dear?" Paula asked, as Jared became stiff next to me.

"Does... does... she..." I couldn't get the words out.

"I'm not sure, if she knows about Nicky. I'd imagine not." Paula hugged me and we both broke down in a fit of tears.

Poor Jared didn't know what to do. He just leaned against the wall while we had our moment of grieving. No matter what the drugs had turned them into, they were still two very beautiful souls just trying to find their way. They deserved a chance at happiness. Marriage, babies, growing old together. These are things Nicky will never know and it was overwhelming to acknowledge that.

I reached out for Jared's hand which he immediately responded by grabbing mine with a gentle squeeze. The electricity was still there every time I touched him and I wondered if it would ever go away. The minute he entwined our fingers together I knew it was going to be okay. As long as I had him there with me.

"Mama Tate, can I have a minute with Jared, if you don't mind?" She nodded and stepped away.

"Jared, I don't understand us. We have only..."

"Don't worry about that right now."

"No let me finish... just listen, please. I know how I feel about you. I expressed it back at Camp a couple of weeks ago. I've had years of admiration for you. Years of watching your movies, years of being a devoted Echelon. As time went on I actually fell in love with you. I knew you would be exactly who I thought you were when I would fantasize about you, but what I can't wrap my brain around is how you came into my life and so quickly every dream I had ever had would start to be realized. It's beyond too good to be true. It's almost as if this is just a dream, albeit one ripe with its share of nightmare. Anyway, the point is... you don't have to be here. I can't be the only girl you've had a connection with in the last 17 years, but I can't imagine you would have dropped everything to be with them during a time like this. As much as I do need you, I wonder if I won't end up hurt here. Your life is so full and when exactly will the ball drop and you realize this isn't the life you desire?”

Jared listened as I had asked and then carefully and calculatingly he responded, "Ali, I told you how I'm drawn to you. I don't understand it myself, but what I do know is that we are like magnets. I'm drawn to you just as you are to me. When I saw you in June, then again in August, I watched you. The way you would run your fingers through your hair, or smile at something someone was saying. I saw you that night you took a walk with one of your friends all by yourselves on the trail. It was funny watching the two of you get spooked at the deer running in the woods. I wanted to make my presence known but you weren't alone and it wasn't the right time. At first I thought it was because you were strikingly beautiful and we all know I'm a horny son of a bitch, but I couldn't stop looking for you in the crowds. I knew I needed to know why. The reason Ali, I truly think is that we are meant to be exactly here in this moment together. So what if it's happening fast? So what if people don't understand? Hell, so what if we don't understand? Let's just see how this plays out? Because I may not have dropped my life for others, but Ali, you're not other girls. Okay?"

I closed my eyes and listened to his every word. When he was done, I felt his lips on mine. My eyes opened wide as I looked around to see if there was anyone there watching us.

"Jared, what if people see you here? I mean they already have. Don't lie and say you don't care."

"Ali, I really really don't care. I have nothing to hide. Do you? Are you ashamed of me Alice LeFaye Foster?" He laughed.

"HOW do you know my middle name, Jared?"

"I saw it on the hospital papers."

"This is so embarrassing!"

"Not really, I think it's beautiful. What you should be embarrassed of is that your initials spell Alf. Maybe you're an alien?"

We both were laughing hard and forgot for a moment where we were. It was blissful to have this time with him. Reality came back when we noticed the doctor come out into the hall.

We walked a little closer to Paula but stayed back a few feet.  The doctor began explaining the severity of Gemma's wounds and I knew Paula wanted me closer.  She wrapped her arms around mine tightly and we listened.

"Gemma suffered a head wound and has a concussion.  When she was brought in our main concern was internal bleeding and the head wound.  We opened her up and it was clear that her spleen would need to be removed.  We scanned her brain and noticed nothing of concern.  Her head was sutured.  She has a broken arm, a shattered pelvis, and a broken ankle.  We had to continue surgically to set her bones and are hoping they will heal without the need for additional surgeries.  Unfortunately we can't tell how long it will be before she is able to walk again.  We are again hopeful she will recover and be on her feet very soon.  I have to tell you Mrs. Tate, an accident as badly as the one she was in, well she's very very lucky.  You should be proud of how strong she is.  She's a fighter."

All three of us blew out the air we were holding.  This was good news.  The doctor told Paula she would be able to see her in a few hours, but only family at this time.  He also told us that she wasn't aware of Nicky's death and that none of us should tell her until she was released which could be weeks.  We all agreed.

Darlene and Heather showed up about ten minutes later and texted to find out where I was.  Jared wanted to meet them, but I wasn't ready to share him with anyone else.  He stepped away to book us a hotel room for the night.  In sweet Jared fashion he booked them a room too.  I explained Gemma's situation and we all agreed to leave the hospital for the night.  Heather and Darlene insisted I ride with them to the Hilton Garden Inn.  I felt bad for Jared because he was left to take a cab, but if he only knew the kind of hell these two would give me if they saw him.  It was better he be kept a secret a little while longer.

As soon as we checked in, I made my escape with the excuse of being extremely tired, which I was.  I entered the room and was immediately attacked by Jared.

@burritoverload @branded-with-a-j @msroxyblog @nikkitasevoli @llfd1977 @snewsome756 @lolainblue @lady-grinning-soul-k @letojokerownsme

#thirty seconds to mars #jared leto #30 seconds to mars #jaredandali #jared leto fic #jared leto fanfic #jared leto fiction #jared leto fan fiction #jared leto fanfics #wonderland chapter 11

[selenelavellan]

honesty is (some kind of) policy

Treachery AU (part two)

Part One

Dirthamen, Falon’din, and Sairal/Deceit belong to @feynites

There is a new face in the workshop today.

Selene makes a mental note of them, before continuing on with her usual business. They do not draw attentions to themselves, and their appearance is, by most standards, quite plain. Mousy, almost.

In fact, she forgets them entirely until Melanadahl decides to invite them to lunch.

“Selene, meet Sairal,” Melanadahl says almost dismissively as he gestures towards the brown haired elf beside him. “They're gonna be working with us for a little while.”

“Nice to meet you,” She smiles. “Are you new to the castle?”

“No,” They say.

They don't break eye contact when they speak.

They barely crack an expression, in fact.

Selene blinks first with a quiet “Oh.”

Enastaren slides onto the wooden bench on her left while Des mirrors the action on her right.

“I got a written summons today,” Enastaren gripes, taking a large bite out of his poultry leg. “Doesn't even say why. Just 'be in my office at the end of the week'. Gods forbid he should give anyone a reason for why he does something. Fuck the rest of us I guess, right? ”

“You shouldn't have pissed off our illustrious leader,” Des teases, delicately cutting apart his own piece of meat. “That's what happens.”

“I didn't even do anything!” Enastaren argues. “I haven't even seen the man outside of a run watching in centuries. What could I have possibly done to piss him off so suddenly?”

Selene takes a careful bite out of her roll and keeps to herself the mental list of things they've done that would justifiably upset the Lord Dirthamen.

A long, long list.

But nothing recently that would be out of the ordinary, she thinks.

“Maybe you're getting promoted,” She offers instead. “Have you done anything particularly well lately?”

Enastaren tilts his head slightly away from her in consideration.

“You think our parents presented the new warding ideas you had for uthenera shrines to our Lord?” Melanadahl pipes in. “That could bag you a couple steps up the ladder, if he's decided to implement them.”

Selene is fairly certain that the changes Enastaren has been working on are not responsible for his unlikely promotion.

Largely due to the fact that she had done most of the work on them, and implemented a subtle redirect of the energies to filter out from the recently-sleeping and into Lord Falon'dins designated sections of the dreaming. Subtly enough that Enastaren hadn't noticed them, despite his numerous revisions.

Lord Dirthamen, she supposes, might have a keener eye.

Selene frowns, realizing that she may have inadvertently doomed her near-friend, if his parents have indeed presented their unfinished concept to the god himself.

“Is something wrong?” Sairal asks, still staring at her from their space across the table.

“Just a bit jealous,” She lies with a quick smile. “It's always a lucky sort of honor to be chosen by one of our great leaders.”

“Enastaren has always been lucky,” Melanadahl nods, breaking off of his brothers still-ongoing tirade about how this must be a promotion now that he thinks of it, and that he'll be sure not to forget the rest of them when he's rubbing elbows with the Evanuris at parties and orgies.

Her appetite quickly leaves her at the topic, most of her tray of food still unfinished as she excuses herself for some fresh air.

He would not be so eager for the experience, she thinks, if he knew what it truly entailed.

–

It's not a promotion.

She knew that, of course. She's known the truth of what Enastaren does behind closed doors and in hidden places for centuries, now. But she had never thought he'd be caught.

A foolish naivete on her part.

Melanadahl is in inconsolable shambles when the news breaks.

His brother has been branded a traitor and sentenced to judgment by labyrinth. The same labyrinth they've been working on for years now.

She stands awkwardly behind him while he weeps onto Des's literal shoulder at the cruelty of the Lord Dirthamen, wondering at how he could make such a mistake as to think Enastaren was ever anything but loyal, after millenia of service by their family.

Selene does not think she would aid the situation by pointing out the truth of his brother. Sometimes it is better to remember people the way they exist in your memories, and not in the way they existed in truth.

It is the most kindness she can manage.

She debates the merits of sneaking him out; she knows the passageways out of the dungeon, knows how to slip into the dreaming and back into the lands of Lord Falon'din undetected. 

But it would require her to go back with Enastaren, and there is no guarantee Lord Falon'din would not simply kill him himself for his failure anyway.

It is terrible; but she doesn't have the strength to go back.

She may as well have killed him herself, she supposes.

“Were you close?” Sairal asks from behind her, snapping her out of her reverie.

“I'm sorry?”

They nod towards the sniffling Melanadahl. “His brother. Were you close?”

Selene hesitates.

“We shouldn't talk about it here,” She says quietly, leading them out of the room and away from the pair of elves.

“We were friends,” She admits, once they are in the hallway and safely out of earshot of the others. There is a window behind her, and there is a gentle breeze blowing through the trees outside of the castle. The sun is beginning to set, and painting the sky a dazzling array of colors in its journey.

The sort of view Enastaren likely has a limited number of, now. Because of her mistakes.

Sairal shifts their weight from one leg to the other, and seems to be pondering their words carefully before finally announcing. “He was a spy you know,”

“I know what he is accused of, yes.”

They shake their head, light brown hair falling over dark brown eyes as they do. “No; it is a certainty. We found several notes of matters outside of his standing, as well as an eluvian hidden in a pond on the castle grounds that led into Falon'dins lands. Upon inspection, we discovered a long hidden burrow of some of his informational scouts. The people there had several memories of Enastaren selling confidential information to them that were taken as evidence.”

She feels her mouth go dry; memories.

They had searched memories.

Will she be summoned to the labyrinth next?

Will they even wait for Enastarens blood to dry before her own run begins?

“That sounds...” She trails off, head shaking in disbelief.

“It is not uncommon,” Sairal says with a shrug. “Falon'din is often attempting to seize whatever power he feels his brother should not be permitted.”

Selene shakes her head a bit more, fingers clutching at the long sleeves of her robes.

“What will happen to Enastaren?”

“He will either survive the labyrinth and win the prizes awarded to those who do, or, more likely, he will perish within its walls.”

Selene swallows.

“How do you know all of this?”

Sairals lips purse slightly, and they appear to be having some sort of internal monologue again.

“You're a spy for Lord Dirthamen,” She says before she can stop herself, because of course they are of course they are. Quiet and unobtrusive and easy to forget the face of. 

That explains why they had been sent to Melanadahls side; if anyone had been working with Enastaren, who more likely than his own brother?

Perhaps she has been spared, if only by the luck of preconceptions.

“You should not say that aloud,” they respond.

“Sorry.”

“...I am sorry,” They begin, eyes looking down at the ground and for a moment Selene feels her heartbeat race. Do they know, then? Is this the part where they kill her, or arrest her, or drag her into Lord Dirthamen's chambers unwillingly for their own sort of 'justice'?

“For the likely loss of your friend,” they finish.

Selene breathes out.

“You were just doing your job,” She assures them.

They nod in agreement.

“You have been given pardon from your duties for the remainder of the week,” They inform her, and she feels her eyebrows go up. “As have Melanadahl, and Des, and Innovation though she chose to refuse it.”

“...Why?”

“It is a customary mourning period,” They say. “Lord Dirthamen does not wish to be cruel to those who do not deserve it. And he feels it would be cruel to force you all to finish the very creation that will likely kill your friend.”

Selene almost laughs.

“He must be very thoughtful indeed,” She says, trying for sincerity rather than the biting sarcasm she feels in her chest.

“That is...an uncommon assessment to make,” They admit.

This time, she does laugh.

“Well,” She says, finally catching her breath. “Tell him I said thank you for the mourning period, I suppose. A little kindness is still far more than that given by most in his position.”

“I will,” They nod.

Selene gives them a polite bow and begins to walk back towards the room containing Des and Melanadahl, before she feels a hand wrap around her wrist.

Her adrenaline surges, and the rug beneath her feet catches fire.

Sairal quickly releases her and dismisses the sudden flames with a wave of their hand, looking at her more curiously than she likes.

Shit.

“I apologize for touching you without permission,” they say with a much deeper bow than she has ever received in her embodied lifetime. “Des has mentioned your distaste for physical contact, and I had a momentary lapse in judgment. I hope you can forgive me.”

Selene rubs gently at her wrist, warm where they had grabbed her, but not in a way that is...entirely terrible.

“I forgive you,” She tells them slowly. “But please do not do it again.”

Sairal nods and seizes eye contact with her. “I will be more careful in the future. If you do not find me distasteful, I had hoped to ask if you would spend one of your newly freed days with me.”

Selene blinks once.

Twice.

“What?”

“Ah...” They stumble. “Perhaps I have done this incorrectly. Would you...accompany me into town? Or around the grounds perhaps? There is a beautiful trail into the mountains we could traverse as well if you would prefer.”

...what? She repeats internally.

And then it clicks.

Oh.

Oh!

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“An outing,” They insist. “Unless you would like it to be a date, of course.”

Selene opens her mouth- and finds herself without words.

She's never really...considered the option of dating. It certainly isn't something she'd ever been permitted. Lord Falon'din doesn't share, even with legions worth of toys. Having a viable romantic partner, or being seen as one is...an embarrassingly new concept.

Definitely a completely terrible idea.

...but also a surprisingly thrilling one.

And with Enastaren captured and one of the larger scouting groups likely dead, it's not as though she is without time. It could take months, possibly even years for a new message to reach her now. The number of contacts he has in these territories has been waning; he will need to have new ones trained or bought at this juncture, as well as a new eluvian built, likely farther from his brothers eyes.

She should probably take the opportunity to run. To make a real attempt to cross the ocean or the borders into the territory of the Nameless while he has lost track of her.

But it would mean leaving all of the friends she has made here. Des, and Melanadahl, and Innovation, and even Sairal.

...She should run.

“Let's call it an outing,” She says, heart racing at the surge of freedom she feels just from making the choice “And see how the day goes.”

Sairals face brightens considerably as they agree to her terms-her terms, she thinks almost giddily-and agree on a meeting point for the following day.

It is probably some sort of betrayal to go out with the elf who turned in her friend, she thinks. Surely it is selfish and terrible and awful of her to do this while Enastaren is waiting in a warded dungeon cell below the castle. But it is also an opportunity, and one she doesn't want to waste. Enastaren certainly had no troubles seizing each and every opportunity that crossed his way during their partnership.

A day out, with a regular elf possessing no ulterior motives or hidden secrets except that, for some reason, they seem to genuinely like her.

She smiles all the way back to her rooms, humming beneath her breath.

#treachery au #dirthalene #selene 'oh boy a nice elf with no secrets likes me thats so wonderful!' #deceit 'oh boy a nice elf with no secrets that likes us thats so wonderful!' #<__< y'all got some big storms coming #BUT FIRST SOME FUN DATING SCENES I GUESS #I was gonna skip to a further point but #I think I'd like to let Sairal and Selenes relationship breathe a little first

[queenofnohr]

anyway roso is a cute way to shorten doloroso. red 🥺

aside from constantly weeping black sludge & huge edward scissorhands clawsies i have been Thinking.

Kind of want his hair with a sorta Ragyo Kiryuin under-light but instead of rainbow it’s a deep crimson (maybe the under-light only “lights up” when he’s powered up?) with his hair normally being black/such a dark red it might as well be black with an ever so slight gradient to reddish tips for a sorta “black cherry” look (in contrast OG Aias’ hair his wine red with a gradient to black tips to give him a cherry-cherry look)

I like thinking of him as Xaela but with obsidian scales with no red gradient + horns to contrast Aias’ bleached/marble-statue white. Also playing with the idea of him being closer to face 3 au ra to give him a more delicate appearance? idk yet though (all his stuff is gonna be custom so shruggggg but if i tried building him in character creator, yaknow)

actually building off the black cherry hair and xaela scales, maybe he should be, like, palette swapped aias? like. pale, corpse-like skin so you can really see the black sludge tears he’s constantly crying. and then for his eyes, hmmmmmm. on one hand I was thinking of inverting the colors (aka blue eyes with gold limbal ring) but i kinda like the idea of his eyes being pitch black with no difference between sclera, iris, or pupil, but with his limbal ring still being Aias’ blue........ resembling the Grail

and since im talking abt his appearance here ill reply to this here tooooooo

@night-of-wallachia​ uuuuuuuuu see I was actually gonna have doloroso’s eye covered (by an eyepatch not a mask bc......... i was just gonna slap him with one of my old OC’s designs) but then i was like but would that get in the way of both his eyes being visible and overflowing with tears, black streaks constantly spilling down his cheeks......... maybe......... since he’s Sometimes Normal-ish and I imagine him as a gentlemanly figure........ maybe he can wear a sort of masquerade half-mask when he’s “Normal”........ but as he devolves into being inconsolable, the mask comes off....... 

#reply #technically speaking #mumumu or maybe it's a whole mask? and then as he becomes more unhinged it cracks and half falls off...... #and then when he's full-blown weeping & inconsolable he knocks the other half off with his claws as he reaches to cover his face..... #seems like A Lot tho and i kinda like at least part of his face being visible even when he's gentlemanly... cool & suave.... like a prince #long post #doloroso tag