#his trauma journey was shoved to the goddamn fucking side

[autisticfangpyreclub]

Gold stained hands, red stained teeth - chapter 2

slight emetophobia warning for this chapter, though nothing graphic and the thing that could trigger it is mentioned very briefly.

-

“Cole, calm down!” Kai struggled to restrain a panicked Cole from lunging with his wooden stake. “He’s not going to hurt us!”

“That’s just what he wants you to think!” Cole yelled at him, frantically trying to break free from Kai’s grasp. “Nya, get away from him!”

Nya stood protectively in front of Lloyd, who clutched onto her arm like a child afraid of getting separated from their parent. Zane pushed Cole back, and yanked the stake out of his hand. “Cole, stop it!” he shouted, “you're scaring him!”

“I’m scaring him?!” Cole gestured violently towards Lloyd, “he was literally dead before I passed out!”

Lloyd whimpered. He let go of Nya’s arm and timidly approached Cole, who drew back in fear. “I… I promise I’m not going to hurt you,” he stuttered, “I’ve never bitten anyone, I swear!”

Cole tried to reach for the stake again, but Nya kicked it under the cabinet. “Don’t even think about it,” she said coldly, jabbing a finger at Cole’s chest.

Cole sputtered, looking around at everyone giving him similarly hostile looks. “B-But, he’s a vampire!”

“Yeah, but he’s like a chill, nice vampire,” Jay said, “and he’s super polite, seriously, you should’ve heard how many times he said ‘please’ after he woke up.”

“Do… I really say it that often?” Lloyd asked, blushing.

“Yup, at least a dozen times.”

Cole threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, let’s say I believe you, just what are we supposed to do now?!”

“Well, uh…” Kai looked down sheepishly, “I was kinda thinking we could bring him back to the dorm-“

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Cole shot back. He sighed, and nervously glanced over at Lloyd, who was fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “And not just because he’s a vampire, but also because I don’t feel like explaining to our supervisor why we have a teenager squatting in our dorm.”

Kai shook his head. “That’s exactly why he needs to come with us! We can’t just leave a fifteen year old here all alone!”

“Hey! I’m sixteen!” Lloyd said with a pout, “six hundred and sixteen, actually!”

Nya laughed, and ruffled Lloyd’s hair. “Sixteen or six hundred, you don’t wanna be all by yourself, right?”

“Well, no…”

“Then it’s settled!” Zane said cheerfully, clapping his hands together, “you can come stay with us!”

“What?!” Cole gaped at him, bewildered at the sudden turn of events. “I didn’t agree to this-“

Zane took Lloyd’s hand and led him towards the door. “I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the couch, it’s a little beat up but-“

“What’s a couch?” Lloyd asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Um… well, it’s like a chair and a bed… combined?” Zane replied, “it’s a little hard to explain.”

“Oh, alright… wait!” Lloyd let go of his hand, and passed a still gawking Cole as he walked towards the wardrobe, “I should get dressed first!”

He swung the wardrobe open, and pulled out a long black cape. “Hm, should I wear this one or… oh!” he noticed the others staring at him, and covered himself with the cape. “If you all don’t mind… do you think you could…?”

Zane nodded. “Take as long as you like dear, we’ll give you some privacy.” They all shuffled out of the room, except for Cole, who had to be dragged out by his shirt collar.

Once the door was shut, Cole didn’t hold back. “Are you all out of your goddamn minds?! He’s a fucking vampire! What the hell are you thinking?!”

“Vampire or not, he is still an adolescent who has clearly experienced severe trauma,” Zane said, “I’m having trouble accepting the reality of vampires myself-“

“And that I was right?” Jay said smugly.

Zane rolled his eyes. “This doesn’t mean I suddenly believe ghosts exist.”

“WHAT?! But I was right about vampires!”

“Vampires I’m sure have a clear biological explanation, I still cannot think of anything that scientifically explains the existence of ghosts-“

“Let’s not get into this again, okay?” Nya cut them off, “Cole, I know you're scared, but Lloyd is more scared of you then you are of him. So please, just… give him a chance, alright?”

Cole was about to retort, but instead just grit his teeth and exhaled sharply. “...fine. But if he sucks out all my blood in the middle of the night, I’m blaming you guys.”

“Deal.”

The door creaked open, and Lloyd stepped out. He was dressed in a green coat with golden accents, and had the black cape draped over his shoulders. He had changed out of his stained white shirt into a black button up that was lined with frilly lace, and he had a green bow tied around his neck. “I’m all ready, how do I look?” he asked, adjusting his bow to sit over his collar.

“You look so pretty!” Nya cheered, “loving that cape, way to bring it back in style.”

“Thank you!” he twirled his cape, “but… I’m sensing I might look a bit… unusual in this time period, if the strange attire you're wearing are anything to go by…”

Kai waved his hand nonchalantly. “It’ll be fine, if it’s really an issue I have plenty of clothes you can wear. You like green right?”

“I love green!” Lloyd said excitedly, rocking back and forth on the spot. “It’s my favourite colour after gold, although I also like black…”

“Wait, speaking of which, how are we supposed to sneak you out of here?” Jay asked, eyeing Lloyd’s flashy outfit, “you do stick out quite a bit… and it’ll look suspicious if we leave with one more person than we came in with.”

Lloyd thought for a moment, then his face brightened with an idea.

-

“You okay in there little buddy?”

Lloyd peeked his head out of Kai’s pocket. He gave a high-pitched squeak as a reply, which Kai assumed meant yes. Kai gave him a thumbs up. “Don’t come out until I give the all clear all right?”

Lloyd nodded and nuzzled back inside his pocket. He yawned, and covered himself with his wings. It was hard to believe he was still tired, after technically being ‘asleep’ for six hundred years.

The ride in Kai’s pocket was a bumpy one. Lloyd tried not to let out a squeak every time he was shaken around, but it was getting harder as Kai quickened his pace. He felt like he was about to vomit up the expired blood he had drunk earlier all over Kai’s pants.

At last the ride came to a stop when Kai sat down. “Alright, we’re in the car, you can come out.”

Lloyd flitted out of Kai’s pocket and transformed back into his regular form. He slumped down onto the back seat. Turning from bat to person certainly hadn’t helped his stomach. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and gazed at his surroundings. “Where am I?”

“This is a car,” Nya replied, “it’s like… a horse drawn carriage, but instead of a horse it’s run by a machine that makes the car move.”

“Like magic?”

Lloyd’s eyes were sparkling, and Nya didn’t have the heart to correct him. “Uh… yeah, like magic!”

“Don’t forget your seatbelt!” Kai said as he reached back and buckled Lloyd in. Lloyd eyed the seatbelt curiously.

“What’s this for?”

“That’s to keep you safe if we get in an accident-which we won’t!” Kai added quickly, “but better safe than sorry.”

They pulled out of the parking lot, and onto the road. It was already getting dark out, which fortunately meant Lloyd didn’t have to worry about the sun. He stared wistfully out the window as they got farther away from the castle. The trees they passed seemed so familiar, and yet so different.

It was night by the time they pulled into the campus lot. Lloyd had fallen asleep during the long journey, so Kai picked him up and carried him into their dorm room. He laid him down onto the couch, and tossed a blanket over him.

“Do you want me to stay until he wakes up?” Nya asked as she waited outside the door.

“I’ve got it, you go get some sleep,” Kai whispered, tucking a pillow under Lloyd’s head.

She nodded, and closed the door. Kai watched Lloyd sleep for a couple minutes, and then went to grab something to eat after realizing that was creepy.  

He pulled a fruit cup out of the mini fridge, and ate it while sitting on the table in silence. Lloyd would probably be hungry when he woke up. Kai didn’t mind letting him have some of his blood, but they would need to think of a better solution for the long term. Maybe he could steal some blood from the hospital… nah, he couldn’t steal to save his life.

The quiet was interrupted by the door bursting open. “Hey Kai, guess what we got!” Jay said as he walked in carrying a mcdonalds bag.

Kai shushed him, and pointed at Lloyd. “Oh, sorry…” Jay whispered, as he laid the bag onto the table. “We got you some fries.”

“Thanks,” Kai grabbed his fries out of the bag, and shoved a couple in his mouth. “Make sure you don’t wake him up, he’s had a rough day,” he said between bites.

“Yeah, I got it,” Jay sat down at his desk, and pulled out his notebook. He wrote down something, and then looked back at Lloyd. “Aren’t vampires nocturnal though? Why’s he asleep?”

Kai shrugged. “No different than one of us taking a nap in the middle of the day, right?”

“True.”

Cole flopped down onto his bed. “Speaking of naps, I’m gonna pass out too pretty soon,” he mumbled, “make sure the vampire doesn’t kill me in my sleep.”

“He has a name, Cole,” Zane said while buttoning up his pyjamas. He climbed up the ladder on their shared bunk bed, and tucked himself in. “We should all get some sleep now, it’s almost past midnight,” he yawned.

Kai also yawned, and nodded his head. “Your right, c’mon Jay.”

Jay didn’t look up from his notebook. “Not yet! I still gotta write down my observations-“

Kai grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him out of his chair. “You can do that tomorrow, let’s get some rest.”

Jay groaned, but didn’t fight back as Kai pushed him into his bed. He tried to keep himself from dozing off, but within a minute he was already out cold.

Kai climbed into his bed on the top bunk. He leaned over the railing to check on Lloyd, who was snoring softly, and had his cape wrapped around him like a blanket. Kai chuckled softly, then laid down and closed his eyes. “G’night guys… night Lloyd…”

-

The doors to the crypt slammed open as a robed figure scurried inside. She threw her umbrella aside, and wrung the water from her cloak. The rain pouring outside had been a setback at first, but given that meant no one was outside to witness a mysterious cloaked lady running through the night, it had turned out in her favour.

The robed figure approached the stone altar that stood in the center of the hollow room. A basin of water illuminated by black candles sat atop it, along with a spell book that she gently caressed with her hands. “Hello, old friend…”

Her servants had already prepared the ritual for her. She could sense them lurking in the shadows around her, watching and waiting for her next move. Time to give them a show.

She opened the book, and read the incantation off the page. The guttural sound echoed through the crypt, inciting excited murmurs from her servants. As she read, a tear in the fabric of reality grew above her. The water turned black, and splashed over the candles, leaving the sickly green light emanating from the portal the only light in the room.

As the final word was spoken, a man fell out of the portal. He landed on the ground in front of her. He grunted, and shakily pushed himself to his feet. His long black hair obscured his vision, but he sneered at the figure in front of him. “Who are you, why have you summoned me here?”

She laughed dryly. “Is that anyway to talk to your queen, Morro?”

Morro swept his hair away from his eyes. His demeanor immediately changed, and he sank to his knees. “My queen… I apologize, I didn’t recognize you-”

“Bow.”

Morro bit his lip, and bowed his head. The preeminent smiled, and leaned down and stroked his cheek. “My dearest follower… i've missed you so,” she whispered, “I have some… unfortunate news, however…”

She yanked him by the hair, and pulled him up to her eye level. “You have failed me, my child,” she hissed.

Sweat rolled down Morro’s forehead. A strangled noise escaped his throat. “My queen… what are you saying-”

The preeminent slapped him across the face, then threw him to the floor. She watched him struggle to get up, and her calm smile returned. “Do you remember the Garmadon family?” she said sweetly.

Morro gasped in pain. “Y-Yes… I killed all of them, I personally staked each of their hearts… but Wu, that wasn’t my fault, I died searching for him-”

He cried out as the preeminent slapped him again. “Do not talk back to me!” she snapped, “I’m not talking about him… I’m talking about Lloyd.”

“The… the boy?” Morro touched his cheek, wincing at the stinging sensation spreading across his face.

“He’s alive,” the preeminent snarled, “you lied to me.”

“No, I didn’t!” he shouted, “I swear, I watched him die, I couldn’t find the body but-”

She circled him like a hawk, glaring daggers into him. “So you didn’t burn him, or make sure there was no way anyone could resurrect him, hmm?”

Morro clutched his shirt in his hands. “No… no that's impossible, you can’t possibly mean…”

Hushed whispers came from the servants intently watching the confrontation from the sidelines. Morro breathed heavily, holding his head in his hands. “No, no… who… who did it?”

“I’m sure you’ll find out,” she crooned. She held out a hand for Morro, who looked at it nervously before allowing her to help him up. “My dear child… go finish what you started so long ago…”

She ran her fingers through his hair. He curled his hand into a fist, and leaned into her touch. “I will, my queen… I’ll kill him… and I’ll make sure he’ll never come back again.”

“Good…” the preeminent stepped away, and turned towards the exit. She beckoned towards the shadows. A servant ran out, and handed her umbrella to her.

“Wrayth here will show you to the armoury,” she said, as she stepped out into the rain. “And as for the rest of you,” she addressed the other servants waiting patiently in the dark, “follow Morro’s orders, he is in charge while I’m away.”

And with that, she slammed the door behind her. Morro stood in silence, feeling uncomfortable with the eyes of the servants now on him. He was their leader now, as he had been centuries ago. He checked his pulse, and shivered when he realized he didn’t have one.

“I’m still dead…”

The servant, the one she had called ‘Wrayth,’ handed him a silver blade. “Our queen told me that this was yours, Morro.”

Morro stared down at the small dagger. It was indeed the same blade he had wielded when he attacked the Garmadon’s, he could still see traces of golden blood flecked on its surface. What it lacked in size, it made up for in its effect against vampires.

Morro narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t wait to stab this blade through that vampire brats heart.

-

“Kai!”

Kai sat up stiff straight in bed at the sound of Lloyd’s scream. He practically jumped down the ladder, and rushed over to him. “What happened?!” he asked, sitting down next to him on the couch.

Lloyd’s breathing was fast and strained. He was shaking, and tears were forming in his eyes. “I-I… they were chasing me… I… I couldn’t get away…”

“It’s okay, it was just a bad dream,” Kai whispered softly to him, “it wasn’t real-“

“IT WAS REAL!” Lloyd suddenly shouted, startling Kai. “I watched my parents die, and all I could do was run away! I watched them burn them, I watched him stake them, and all I could do was… just stand there…”

He sobbed into his hands. Kai put a hand on his back, but Lloyd pushed him away. “Lloyd-“

“You should just kill me!” Lloyd cried, his lip trembling, “I’m useless! I’m just a useless monster who can’t help anyone… not even my own mother and father…”

Kai grabbed Lloyd by the shoulders, and turned him to face him. “Don’t you dare think that!” he said firmly, “you aren’t useless! None of what happened was your fault, you're just a kid.”

Lloyd held back a gross sob and looked down. “But… I’m a vampire, I’m supposed to be strong…”

“No one can be strong all the time, not even vampires.”

Kai pulled him into a tight hug. Lloyd squeaked in surprise, but then squeezed him back just as tight. “Thank you… I don’t understand why you're being so kind to me-“

“Hey, what’s with all the noise?” Jay grunted. His eyes widened when he noticed the tears running down Lloyd’s face. “Shit, you okay Lloyd?”

“I’m fine,” Lloyd said quickly, wiping his eyes, “don’t worry about me.”

“Let me get you some water,” Kai stood up, and headed towards the kitchen, “uh, if you drink water that is…?”

“I do, water sounds nice…” Lloyd laid back down onto the couch, and sighed. “I don’t want to fall back asleep… but I’m still tired…”

“Well, I know what I like to do while I’m trying to fall asleep,” Jay pulled out his phone, and googled ‘funny cat compilation.’ He held out his phone for Lloyd to see. “I just watch cat videos!”

Lloyd gazed at the screen in awe. “How is that… little box doing that? How did those cats get inside?!”

“It’s a video, those aren’t real cats, well, they are but… it’s really confusing to explain…” Jay trailed off.

Kai watched them from the kitchen. Lloyd seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself, laughing and smiling freely and unguarded. Kai wanted to protect that smile.

He brought the glass of water over, and set it down onto the table. Lloyd reminded him of Nya when she was young. She had always tried to act strong, but Kai knew it was just to hide how lost and helpless she felt. They had lost their parents too. If anyone knew how Lloyd must’ve felt, it was them.

In that moment, Kai decided he would watch out for Lloyd from then on. He needed someone to keep him safe, and although Kai was only human, he’d walk to the ends of the earth to do so.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #lloyd garmadon #ninjago lloyd #ninjago kai #ninjago zane #ninjago jay #ninjago nya #ninjago cole #ninjago au #vampire au #ninjago morro #preeminent

[smolslothloaf]

Yo as the only Micheal Crew fan (prolly), can I just say I’m so fucking salty that he died how he did?

Homeboy’s been hinted at since the fourth episode in this entire goddamn series, he’s been repeatedly connected to the Leitner books (which I guess are less important now that we’ve met Jurgen Leitner and we’ve got Gerard but uggggghhhh), he’s got a cool lightning scar and backstory and everything!

And once we get to meet him? He’s so intriguing-he ‘s polite even as he forces Jon to just fall through the air, he has a great voice (both literally and writing wise), and once he explains his backstory it doesn’t dissapoint. You get the image of this scared child whose been searching for protection and meaning his whole life. This creature’s been following him ever since he’s gotten his lightning scar, you kinda get that it’s the personification of his past even if he connects it all back to the Vast. To an extent, he kinda describes his relationship with his scar and his journey in self discovery all as both finding meaning and acceptance in the Vast. The moment he figures out what’s been calling to him is also the moment he accepts his past and his trauma. It all makes sense and comes together.

What I also find particularly interesting the way he laments about never being able to remember the most important events of his life, as I feel it’s something we all can relate to. Traumatic or not, negative or positive, many of us have trouble recalling the most life-changing events of our lives. We feel frustrated over this, we beat ourselves up for it, it’s just apart of life. In Mike’s statement this is such a small detail but it’s one that resonates with me deeply.

They set up Micheal Crew in such an engaging light and make him feel so real. I will admit that I’m not sure how much more they could do with him as this episode tied up pretty much all loose ends in his story. That being said, I would’ve absolutely LOVED to see more of him! He has an intruging personality, a cool backstory, he could’ve been a neat reaccuring character or something.

But no! Daisy Fucking Tonner just needsa bust down the fucking door and be like “YO THIS BITCH HUMAN?” And Jon’s like “uhhh ig not” and Daisy’s like “WELL THAT MEANS HES GONNA CATCH THESE HANDS.” AND JUST FUCKING SHOOTS HIM???

FUCK THAT NOISE.

YOU BUILD UP A CHARACTER OVER THE COURSE OF THREE SEASONS, WE MEET HIM AND HE GIVES US HIS LIFE STORY, THERES STILL SOME ROOM FOR HIM TO GIVE US ANSWERS OR SOME SHIT, THEN YOU HAVE THE A U D A C I T Y TO JUST YEET DAISY IN AND HAVE HER SHOOT HIM OUTSIDE?

O K A Y

LIKE,,, IG THEY NEEDED TO SET UP DAISY’S STORY AND GET MICHEAL OUT OF THE STORY OR SOME SHIT BUT. NOT LIKE THIS PLEASE?? IM FULLY WILLING TO ACCEPT THAT IM JUST UNREASONABLY SALTY ABOUT THIS BUT SERIOUSLY?? SHE JUST. SHOWS UP. SHOOTS HIM. THREATENS JON. BITCHES FOR AWHILE AND WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE OKAY WITH IT?

MICHEALS NOT EVEN BROUGHT UP AFTER THAT HE KINDA JUST GOT SHOVED TO THE SIDE FOR IMPORTANT PEOPLE PLOT(tm). HE GETS. PUSHED. TO. THE. SIDE. IN. HIS OWN. FUCKING, EPISODE. WASNT JON GONNA QUESTION HIM MORE? WASNT THAT WHY JON WAS THERE? I MEAN I GUESS HE COULDNT CUZ MICHEAL COULDDA DEFO KILLED HIM, BUT HE DIDNT EVEN DROP ANY BREAD CRUMBS FOR JON’S INVESTIGATION. JON LITERALLY GOT JACK SHIT FROM THAT INTERACTION ASIDES FOR MORE FUEL FOR HIS STATEMENT KINK. AS FAR AS THE PLOT’S CONCERNED, JON DIDN’T NEED THE CONTENTS OF MIKE’S STATMENT. THE KNOWELDGE WAS GOOD BUT HE GOT NO FURTHER ON HIS INVESTIGATION OF THE STRANGER. HE WAS DIRECTED TO MIKES DOOR FOR THE PLOT BUT THE PLOT AINT THERE, THE PLOTS AT DAISYS HOUSE

TO REVIEW:

THEY

DEADASS

JUST

THREW MICHEAL CREW IN THERE

HAD HIM EXPLAIN HIS BACKSTORY

THEN KILLED HIM OFF

AFTER HYPING HIM UP

FOR

THREE

FUCKING

SEASONS

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???

ARE YOU ACTUALLY FUCKING KIDDING ME???

YA KNOW THATS PROLLY THE ONE BIG BONE IVE GOTTA PICK WITH THIS SHOW. THEY BUILD UP INTERESTING CHARACTERS OVER THE COURSE OF FULL SEASONS, THEN THEY’RE ONLY GIVEN THEIR TIME TO SHINE FOR ONE EPISODE BEFORE BEING ADRUPTLY KILLED OFF AND NEVER MENTIONED AGAIN. I HEARD IT GETS BETTER BUT ITS A PRETTY BIG PROBLEM FOR THE FIRST TWO SEASONS.

JANE PRENTISS COULDDA BEEN COOL! AND SHE WAS COOL! BUT SHE ONLY ACTUALLY DID SHIT FOR ONE EPISODE THEN WAS KILLED WITH LITTLE RESISTANCE. SHE DIDNT EVEN MAKE A COMEBACK OR ANYTHING, THEY REALLY JUST WENT “THAT BITCH DEAD AND DID JACK SHIT” AFTER HYPING HER UP THE WHOLE SEASON. LIKD OKAY SURE GO OFF. THEYRE BUILDING UP BREEKON AND HOPE A BIT MORE NOW, CANT WAIT FOR THEM TO BE KILLED OFF AS SOON AS WE MEET THEM.

LIKE I GET IT I GET IT. MICHEALS STORY WAS COMPLETE. NOT EVERY CHARACTER NEEDS TO BE PLOT RELEVANT. NOT EVERY CHARACTER THATS BUILT UP NEEDS AN ELABORATE PLOT. NOT EVERY CHARACTER NEEDS A SATISFYING SEND OFF.

BUT IM STILL FUCKING MAD ABOUT IT CUZ I FEEL NOTHING. I LOVED HIS STATEMENT AND IT WOULD’VE JUST BEEN FINE IF MICHEAL WAS JUST LEFT ALONE AFTER THAT OR SOMETHING. OR HELL HE EVEN COULD’VE BEEN KILLED IN A DIFFERENT WAY I JUST HATE HOW DAISY CAME IN THERE OUT OF BUTTFUCK NO WHERE, SHOT A GUY SHE BARELY KNEW CUZ “he spoopy” AND ITS JUST NEVER BROUGHT UP. MIKE DIDNT EVEN NEED TO BE THERE. JON WENT THERE FOR ANSWERS, MIKE GAVE HIM NOTHING CUZ INSTEAD OF HAVING AN INTERESTING LITTLE CONVERSATION, DAISY NEEDED HER CHARACTER ARC. IM REPEATING MYSELF AT THIS POINT BUT IM JUST SO FUCKING ANGY ABOUT THIS.

FUCK DAISY, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I am fully aware that I’ll wake up tomorrow and deem all of this as invalid and unreadable, I just needed to get this all off my chest. In all honesty the main reason I’m upset is because the Vast is my personal favorite entity and Micheal’s statement is a good summation of why

People affected by the Vast are just that-people. Well, all statement givers are people, but the Vast’s statments I find are much more grounded and down to Earth. They aren’t as out there or over the top like the Corruption or the Stranger. They’re just little ‘tweaks’ in someone’s perspective that shakes their core. It takes mundane occurances and pushes them to their extreme. All the Vast did in “High Pressure” was make someone feel as though they were sinking forever and forced them underwater. It’s some you could probably picture happening to yourself more clearly then say, being attacked by War Ghosts. (NOT bashing on War Ghosts btw, they’re just a different brand of spooky.) The type of fear that the Vast victims have is also kinda different to me. I’m not sure how well I can explain it but best I can describe it is that it feels like geunine trauma that someone with that phobia would experience? I still don’t think that’s quite right but take “A Long Way Down” for instance, where the statement giver’s brother suffers from Acrophobia. That’s a real boy with Acrophobia! I feel who he is as an actual person as I follow his life, I know his worst nightmare, and once you see what happens to him, you completely feel both from him and his brother. Or in “Freefall” where you see a mother mourn for her son’s trauma and death. She saw something he loved suddenly turn him so, so afraid then saw the very thing he feared swallow him up.

It’s just any average person greiving their loved one’s trauma or being pushed to a limit you can see yourself being pushed to. It’s all very grounded in reality and makes it all feel that more real. And I feel like Micheal Crew’s statement just summed that up so well. He’s such a perfect face for what I love about the Vast. He’s just a person at his core, who was scared and needed guidance.

It’s just that the way it ended and how adruptly he was killed left a sour taste in my mouth.

#post #text #vent #micheal crew #magnus archives #tma #tma season three #the vast #daisy tonner #jonathan sims #listen man i just needed to vent #fuck daisy tonner all cops are bastards #really thought i could trust her smh #thats my fault tho #this post literally has no direction tho im just keeping it up cuz angy #and micheal crew honestly deserves SO much better #man steals a book and then just deadass jumps off a building talk about a legend #also the vast is so underrated please it deserves more love #also like. im willing to accept this gets better and more understandable later in the season #as im only on like. episode 17. #so idk what happens really #please no spoilers #tma spoilers #tma s3 spoilers #mag091 #long post

[amillioninprizes]

An entirely too long post on how to fix Veronica Mars

So, anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time knows: 1) What a massive Veronica Mars fan I was and 2) how distraught I’ve been over the most recent season that debuted on Hulu in July. I’ve been pretty angry about it since it dropped, but the first month after I was pretty occupied with real life stuff. Now that I’m more settled, I’ve found myself getting sadder and angrier over time with just how terrible S4 was and what an obvious fuck you to longtime fans it was. It feels dumb to be so upset over a tv show, but this show got me through a lot over the past 8 years, and I feel like it’s been taken away from me.

 It’s anyone’s guess as to whether there will be a new season. Ideally it would end here with maybe an alternate ending filmed to avoid alienating fans further. On the one hand, the botched release, overwhelmingly negative response, and silence from the creators after initial interviews don’t look good for renewal chances. On the other hand, Hulu doesn’t have a lot of streaming hits, it probably did relatively decent numbers, and there are rumors floating around that its pickup chances look good. On a personal level, I hate the idea that this is where the legacy of Veronica Mars ends, while at the same time being extremely wary of what the creators have planned. I think a big part of the disappointment with S4 was that the movie and books set up what could have been some really interesting storylines and situations, all of which RT and co. squandered for cheap drama and to apparently turn the show into an entirely new vehicle; additionally I had hope that S4 would be a chance to rectify some problems the show has long had, but again, S4 exacerbated them. At this point I don’t expect anyone higher up in the creative process or at Hulu to give a fuck about the fans or making the show better as long as they hit streaming targets, but here are some suggestions:

Fire Rob Thomas

 While he created the show, it’s become clear that not only has he lost touch with the audience and the original spirit of the character, he doesn’t seem too keen on putting much effort into writing the show (as I will discuss below). Then you have his clear misogyny: his views that women in relationships can’t be interesting, that what makes Veronica interesting as a character is her trauma and how much she can endure, and the fact that basically every female character in the history of the show has a history of sexual victimization. He thought that making the Mexican cartel hitmen “philosophical” was subverting expectations (which says a lot of what his expectations of Latinx characters are). Then this is the way he essentially exploited his long term fan base to earn a new season of the show, only to turn around and tell us that we don’t matter. From a business perspective alone keeping him doesn’t make sense; selling a streaming platform on your loyal fanbase and then proceeding to purposefully piss ~80% of them off would be pretty questionable to me as someone in charge. The sheer cruelty with which he treated not only the fans who have supported him for 15 years (I fucking used to liveblog iZombie y’all. iZombie!), as well as how he callously dismissed long time cast members in favor of celebrity guest stars should not be rewarded. He’s admitted in interviews that he would be ok with younger writers doing a reboot many years in the future; why not just let him have a producer credit and then hand the show over to someone who’s invested in making it good?

Put a woman in charge and diversify the writing staff

A big problem with a) Veronica’s characterization in S4 b) RT’s ideas about what makes female characters interesting c) the show’s long history of problematic treatment of sexual assault is that it comes from a man’s conception of the female experience. The Veronica showcased in S4 and that RT wants to write in the future is very much a male fantasy: hates marriage and children, traumatized, DTF, and is too cool for other women. RT stated in interviews that he wanted to show Veronica at a “crossroads” this season in a way he claimed had been shown for men but not women; many female viewers found this depiction to ring false (few women are spending their time fretting about how committing to marriage after five years in an established relationship will bar us from strange sex going forward). In addition to having RT at the helm, most of the show’s writing staff for the majority of its run has been white dudes, which doesn’t bode well for telling the story of a female PI in a diverse community in today’s political climate. Putting a woman in charge would hopefully help rectify these issues to make the character feel more true to life and put a damper on the misogynistic storytelling. The show has a natural candidate in RT’s second-in-command Diane Ruggiero-Wright (despite her problematic history, never forget #KeisterEggGate), who has admitted to not being able to watch the last episode. Jennifer Graham, who wrote both of the books, would also be a worthy addition to the writing staff; while the books had a mixed reception, most fans agree that she got Veronica’s character right. And with the show’s problematic historical treatment of minority characters, adding more POC writers going forward is also necessary.

Bring back Logan (alive)

You don’t have to be a LoVe shipper to recognize just how integral Logan has been since the inception of the show, not just as Veronica’s partner but as a character is his own right. Logan’s journey in many ways parallels Veronica’s, and shows a contrast in how different characters respond to similar trauma. The most critical plot line in the show’s history, the mystery of who killed Lilly Kane, simply doesn’t work without Logan’s importance to Veronica. RT and his defenders like to claim that Logan was holding her back from true growth, which is frankly bizarre as he is the only character to consistently challenge her, like when he tells her that she obviously isn’t happy this season. Additionally, Logan’s scenes this season were the lone highlight of what was otherwise a painful slog of a season. Of the people who have said they would watch a potential S5, a good portion are only interested because they believe that the ambiguity of the last 10 minutes of the season means he’s not really dead (despite what RT has said in interviews). Then there’s what Logan’s death does to Veronica’s character, effectively cutting off what would have been an interesting character arc and stagnating her forever. No matter how much they try to shove Leo the pedo creep and other milquetoast RT self-insert love interests on us, no one else can possible measure up to Logan’s level in terms of being able to match Veronica as a character, intellectually or as a result of shared history.

Plus, the fact that we haven’t had a Weevil/Logan interaction since S3 is a goddamn travesty and should be rectified immediately.

Bring back Veronica

As sad as I am about Logan’s death, for me the most upsetting aspect of S4 was the assassination of Veronica’s character. For many viewers (including myself), the character we saw Kristen Bell portray in S4 wasn’t Veronica Mars but a different character with the same name. Between her abusive behavior towards Logan, her general indifference to her father’s medical condition, her dismissal of Wallace, and her racism towards Latinx characters (using a kid’s lawyer to threaten deportation: not a good look!), she was lacking the marshmallow-y center that always balanced out the pricklier aspects of her character and made her compelling. This change in characterization was especially jarring given that she was not this way when we last saw her in the books, where she mused about having children and sent her half-brother Hunter to summer camp (side note, but does he even exist anymore?). Many of us who had grown up with Veronica were hoping to see her grow with us as a character; instead we got an extreme regression lower than we’ve ever seen her. It would be one thing if they were trying to depict a PTSD storyline, which would make sense given her background, but since her change in behavior is never addressed by the narrative, it just makes her look like a cruel asshole and makes it impossible to root for her. This is exacerbated by the fact that RT has made it clear he has no interest in portraying her inner life, as shown by his wanting to avoid showing her grief over Logan’s death because it would be a real downer compared to the entertaining but ultimately hollow banter and quips he wants to focus on. Veronica this season was also just plain dumb: you mean to tell me that the girl who nearly got killed by Aaron Echolls in her back seat wouldn’t think to check her backseat every time she gets in a car?  (And let’s not even start with RT’s bizarre assertion in an interview that she apparently votes Republican). Not helping matters was Kristen Bell’s performance, which felt very flat for me this season compared to S1-3 and the movie; I don’t know if this was due to personal limitations or a reflection of the bad writing. Writers of future installments and KB herself would be wise to revisit S1, the movie, and the books to figure out what makes sense for Veronica’s character, leading me to my next point:

Get reacquainted with canon, develop a show bible, and hire a continuity director

This show has long had a problem with dropped plots, timelines, and continuity issues. Shelly Pomroy’s party has two happened either in the summer, or the fall. Then we have the movie paradox: Veronica graduated high school in 2006, which means her 10 year reunion should have taken place in 2016. The movie was released in 2014 and the books seem to keep to 2014 dates. Then S4 states that Keith’s movie accident took place in 2013, and mysteriously ages Veronica up to 35 when she should be 32 in 2019. Logan mentions an Aunt Naomi in S4--why didn’t she take care of him after Aaron was arrested (and what happened to Trina)? How the hell is Leo working as an FBI agent when he presided over the disappearance of the Lilly/Aaron tapes? Veronica is shown to be tentatively forgiving of Weevil taking the settlement from the sheriff’s department in Mr. Kiss and Tell, but is then shown to be extremely angry towards him for it in S4. This is just a small selection of the inconsistencies within the show. Plus there is the problem of repeated plot lines: Veronica rejects Leo in favor of Logan in S1, then rejects Leo in favor of Logan in Mr. Kiss and Tell, only for her to...reject Leo in favor of Logan in S4 (and RT says he wants to leave the high school plots behind). This sloppiness doesn’t bode well for a series that is supposed to be about mysteries, which require tight plotting. It would behove TPTB going forward to once and for all determine a timeline of Veronica’s life, keep a detailed record of past plot and character points, and have at least one person on staff who thinks to remember this stuff (RT notoriously has only a “solid, not spectacular” memory of the show, no matter what Kareem Abdul-Jabbar says).

Make an effort (and do your fucking research) 

Moving on from continuity issues to more general problems with the laziness of RT’s writing. He has basically admitted that he doesn’t care much about facts or characterization when writing plots--he shoehorns details to fit the plot rather than have it evolve organically from the characters and prior canon. I know that when writing it’s often impossible to make every story detail 100% accurate, but the extent of RT’s sloppiness is alarming. This excellent Reddit thread details a lot of the problems with S4 in particular, but this has been a problem since S2. Did anyone ever understand exactly why the Fitzpatricks were invested in framing Logan for Felix’s death? In the movie, it makes no sense that if Cobb and co. wanted Carrie silenced, they would add the complication of framing Logan for her murder--given her history, it would have been a lot easier just to make it look like she had accidentally overdosed. Given his previous patterns of villain writing fans were able to guess the identity of the S4 bomber based on casting alone. The mysteries in both Mr. Kiss and Tell and S4 are both ripped from the headlines, which indicates that RT wants to turn VM into the next Law and Order. Meanwhile, he complained about how hard including Logan in the story in S4 was, while Logan arguably had the best lines and most interesting scenes this season--apparently when you put an effort into things, they work out! This laziness extends past storyline issues and into factual problems that detract from the quality of the plot. Longtime fandom pals are probably tired about hearing me go on and on about how there’s no way Aaron’s lawyers could have gotten Veronica’s medical records due to HIPAA laws. Logan’s career change from naval aviator to intelligence is highly unlikely (and unnecessary, given that they changed it only to fridge him at the end of the season). Meanwhile, I know fanfic writers who have spent hours on the phone with strangers in order to research what type of firearm would cause a specific type of bullet injury. It’s very puzzling to me that RT wants to take the show in the direction of being mystery-only when apart from that one time he is piss poor at writing mysteries and puts no effort into them. I shouldn’t have to tell television writers to, you know, do their job but this is what we’ve come to in 2019.

Know your audience

A majorly annoying thing about the promo for this season is how in every single interview Rob Thomas did he was always talking about how he wanted VM to be like other shows and movies: Fargo, True Detective, Game of Thrones, Chinatown (which is apparently the only noir movie he’s ever seen). The thing is, if I wanted to watch those shows, I would; I watched Veronica Mars specifically because I enjoyed its unique qualities, and I would say most fans agree. The general perception within the fandom is that with this season Rob Thomas seems to have been aiming to dump the old, majority female, CW fanbase in order to achieve what he perceives as a cooler prestigious male fanbase; the issue is, new people aren’t going to take up a show in its fourth season if they didn’t watch or didn’t like earlier seasons. Also, trying to write a prestigious show doesn’t make your show prestigious. Considering that based on anecdotal evidence most of the people who like S4 seem to be male, he may have succeeded in the first part of his aim. However, this majority female fanbase he was so willing to cast aside are the ones who have run fansites and rewatches during fallow times (i.e. between S3 and the movie and then between the books and S4), so drumming up interest among fans (and therefore streaming views) in the future may be a challenge. Plus, women are a better advertising demographic since they are more likely to be in charge of household purchasing decisions, so maintaining us as a fanbase makes business sense as well. He may have tricked enough people into watching S4 that S5 is given a go, but I wouldn’t be surprised if streams are weak beyond that. If the show is to succeed as a commercial endeavor, better to go with appealing to a known quantity than trying to make a generic show that very few people have expressed interest in watching.

Bring back the mystery of the week

This is a more minor thing I felt was missing from S4. I think after the criticism of S3 not having a season-long arc RT overcorrected in focusing on one mystery. However, the mystery of the week had the following benefits: 1) giving chances for the characters to interact and telling us more about them 2) helping to modulate the pace of the season-long arc. With better writing a season-long standalone mystery could maybe work, but in the case of S4 specifically the mystery was kind of dull and repetitive and could have stood to include a couple of diversions in the form of a smaller case here and there.

Re-evaluate the creators’ interpretation of the word “adult”

Much of the promo and reviews for this season noted the more “adult” content to be expected this season now that Veronica’s grown. Many fans hoped that meant seeing Veronica act like, you know, an adult with adult problems rather than a teenager less mature than the actual teenager she was. Unfortunately, the show’s interpretation of the word seems to be more in keeping with a television rating sense of the word--meaning sex, drugs, and gratuitous violence (But apparently not the word “fuck.”). Look, it was expected that as the show moved to a streaming service and given the overall dramatic scope that there would be an upgrade in some of this sort of content (and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t looking forward to steamier LoVe moments, which were sorely overpromised), but the way it was included this season felt like RT and co. included this stuff just because they could and not to serve the storyline. For me, personally, the biggest example of this was Veronica’s drug use, which I know didn’t necessarily bother everyone. Given her history as the daughter of an alcoholic as well as someone who had been the victim of two roofie attacks, not to mention the fact that her character never seemed to be into partying, I found it very out of character (and book writer Jennifer Graham agrees). It felt like RT included this just bc they thought it would be funny to see Veronica on drugs without considering whether it made sense for her character. Also, were the beheadings strictly necessary? Plus there’s RT’s little temper tantrum over not being able to use curse words this season--they weren’t present in the original show, no one was going to miss them now, and the “cuss” thing was just annoying and reminiscent of The Good Place. 

Dealing with a parent who maybe has dementia--that’s an adult storyline. Too bad RT ended it with a dumb excuse about “mixing meds” (another factual error! Pharmacy software would have caught it!) rather than actually exploring what it would mean for Veronica to see her father in decline and take over the family business (and give Rico Colantoni the exit he appears to want). This is the kind of adult content I would hope to see in future seasons.

Adult is not a synonym for “unrelentingly bleak” either. The original show, while dark, always had an element of hope that was completely removed from S4 (no matter what KB might claim). And would it have killed the writers to show Veronica wearing disguises and going undercover like she used to? There was nothing fun about this season (and no, I don’t count the multiple partying scenes as fun, more like sad).

Kill your darlings

It’s cliche, but it’s true. Another issue the show has long had is the writers keeping around characters or inserting jokes and references for their own personal amusement rather than for the story. The most notable example of this is the continued presence of Dick, a highly problematic character considering he pushed Beaver into the room with Veronica the night of Shelly Pomroy’s party, among a whole host of other racist, sexist, and generally obnoxious actions over the years. But because Ryan Hansen is so widely beloved among the cast and crew, so he stays. Then there’s the matter of the infamous Keister egg in 3x08, which the writers and KB have all expressed love for, despite the fact that said Keister egg is an example of sexual assault--which, even if the victim is a douchey fraternity president, is never funny. 

Also the constant Big Lebowski references are tiring. Watch a new movie.

Improve Neptune’s gender ratio

Veronica Mars, despite having a female lead, has always been a male-dominated show; other than Veronica herself, the only consistent female character over the original show was Mac (and she didn’t even come back this season). This is unacceptable in 2019, for any show. The books introduced promising female characters in the form of Marcia Langdon and Petra Landros, but Marcia’s character was was watered down for S4 and Petra was nowhere to be found. Additionally, Veronica and Mac have always been written as “cool girls” who looked down on other women for their femininity, which isn’t a great message. Almost every other female character, even the innocuous Parker, is portrayed as somehow bad or incompetent. I would love nothing more than a season centered on the women of Neptune and their interactions with each other. While we’re at it, stop giving every woman on this show a background of sexual victimization.

Treat VM as an ensemble show, not a Kristen Bell vanity project 

A major complaint from Burnt Marshmallows and S4 defenders alike was how little time was given over to the original core cast this season. While Veronica may be the protagonist, a large part of how the show became so beloved was her relationships with the other characters. Yet RT has decided that going forward VM will be a KB solo project, with her traveling town to town quipping and sleeping with strangers. This seems strange, given Kristen’s recent interviews talking about how difficult it is to shoot VM and how she never wants to be first on a call sheet ever again, not to mention how she asked for less screen time all the way back in S2, which resulted in the Weevil-Logan storyline, which was way more interesting than Veronica’s storylines during the first half of that season. (The traveling detective thing also seems weird considering that KB is pretty insistent on shooting in LA to be near her family.) Additionally, if this is truly the last season of VM with all the original characters, then no one got a proper sendoff. 

I’m not sure how willing much of the cast will be to return for future iterations, given how uncomfortable many of them seemed during promo as well RT and KB’s treatment of them (insensitive at best, deliberately mean at worst) this season (shout out to Tina Majorino for recognizing what a shit show this was going to be), but bringing back all the original characters into the fold and giving them significant storylines would go a long way to mending fences with fans, improving the show from a character arc perspective, and would also give KB the break she apparently wants. 

Recourt the fanbase

What has VM always been renowned for above all else? It’s incredibly loyal fandom which not only got it renewed twice during its original run but also put up their own money to get the movie made--I know many people who donated when they really couldn’t afford to. RT basically owes the last 6 years of his career to VM fans--the success of the Kickstarter arguably got him the iZombie show running gig, and the fourth season likely wouldn’t have even happened if not for it. Thus, the blatant cruelty and disregard with which RT and KB have treated fans during the promotion of S4 has been incredibly insulting and hurtful; I still can’t fathom what in the world possessed RT to think that throwing away this 15-year relationship was a good idea. It’s not a good sign when the 2 fansites most active during the post-movie period (VMHQ and VM Confessions) cease operations in the wake of S4, and when at least 3 out of 8 board members of the oldest running fan group, Neptune Rising (who were dormant during the post-movie period but played a critical role during earlier fan campaigns and in the S4 promo) resign. A fandom this loyal that was betrayed will not stand idly by if the S5 RT wants to make goes ahead; given the number of tweets the official Hulu VM account has had to delete in the wake of S4 due to the overwhelmingly negative response as well as the controversy over editing out Logan from S4 promos, I imagine that S5 will be a PR nightmare. Even if future seasons are amazing the trust can probably never be fully repaired, but it would be helpful for RT (or fingers crossed, a new show runner) and KB (as star and EP) to go overboard in reaching out to fans and at least admitting they made a misstep with the entirety of S4. Back in the day, the old Mars Investigation fansite was invited to set to conduct interviews; maybe do that again. Also someone should get KB some sort of VM fandom-fluent media trainer because I don’t think she has conducted a single interview during her entire stint on the show that didn’t anger fans (it might help if she actually bothered to watch the show).

Map out an endgame

Look, this can’t go on forever. As long as RT keeps leaving every installment open ended with the hopes of maybe getting renewed again five years down the line, the story is going to keep running into the issues the movie and S4 faced with having to shoehorn the characters into nonsensical plot lines to reconcile those endings and deal with actor availability issues. Either plot another 2-3 seasons to wrap the show up with a satisfying conclusion, or map out a greater timeline of Veronica’s life with spots where a mini series or movie here and there could fit in.

#Veronica Mars #still angry #mainly written for personal catharsis #need to stop being angry about this and focus more on studying synaptic transmission #Burnt Marshmallow #we use to be fans

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: blood, violence, and death (NOT any of main characters), injury, some cursing, references to past character injuries, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.

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AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

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Chapter III: The Puppet

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As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.

It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.

Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.

The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.

And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…

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For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.

It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.

Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.

It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.

They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.

“How much farther?”

To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.

Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?

“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.

Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”

Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”

“…Seriously?”

“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”

Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”

“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”

“You sound like Adira.”

“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”

Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.

Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.

Typical.

Varian scowls harder.

He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.

The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.

Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.

In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.

“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”

Varian directs his bleary frown to her back.  Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.

Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”

Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”

“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.

“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”

…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”

He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”

He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.

“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”

Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”

“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”

“…Isn’t that illegal?”

Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”

Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…

He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…

He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”

“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”

Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”

“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”

Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”

Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”

His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”

“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.

He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”

Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.

“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”

Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”

“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”

Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.

Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”

There is a beat of silence.

“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.

Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.

…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.

That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.

Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…

His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.

One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.

All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.

Don’t go.

He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.

Don’t go there.

His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.

“Are you alright?”

He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.

Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.

As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”

“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’

“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”

In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?

Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”

Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”

“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”

She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.

Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”

It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—

It’s just too dark, now.

It’s just too much.

“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.

“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”

Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”

“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”

.

Eugene leaves the castle that night.

His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.

That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.

The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.

By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.

He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.

The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning.  

She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.

“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”

Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…

She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”

Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”

She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”

Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.

Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?

Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.

They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.

He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.

He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.

“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”

“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.”  He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”

The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”

“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”

“When it was funny.”

“Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”

That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”

The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”

“Still sucks, though.”

She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”

This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.

Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.

“I’m leaving.”

He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”

“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”

“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”

“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.

Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.

Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”

Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.

Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”

She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”

She glares at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”

Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…Will it help?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”

“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”

He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.

Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.

“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”

At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.

Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”

“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”

She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”

Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.

It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.

Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?

He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.

He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.

He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.

His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.

He’s got work to do.

It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.

He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.

He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.

Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”

The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.

Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.

“...Surprise?”

Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.

Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.

“Hey!”

“It’s Fitz!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”

Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”

“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”

“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”

“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”

“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lanternlight and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.

“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”

Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”

“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”

Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been awhile since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.

Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”

“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.

Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.

“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”

This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.

Gods, he’s missed him.

Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.

.

“What do you need?”

The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.

“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”

“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.

Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”

Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is stillbeating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”

Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”

“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”

“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…

“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”

“Crystal?”

Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”

“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”

“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”

He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—”

Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”

“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”

Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”

Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”

Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.

It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.

Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.

“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.

“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”

“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”

The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”

Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”

“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I’ve a few like that. Take your pick.”

Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”

“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”

Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”

“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”

“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”

“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”

He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”

Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”

“I—”

He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.

Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.

“…Come here.”

He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”

Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”

He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”

He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.

He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.

“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”

Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.

She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.

It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—

His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.

The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—

He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.

Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.

Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.

And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”

“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”

“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”

“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”

He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”

“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”

Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple months before you’ll have to remake it.”

Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”

Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”

Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”

Something like pride smarts in his chest.

“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.

There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”

“Alchemists,” Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”

“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”

Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”

He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”

“Tsk. Green? Violet?”

Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.

“…Yellow?”

Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—

Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”

Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.

“…Pink would work.”

“Pink it is.”

The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”

They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.

He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.

And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.

.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”

“I know. I just—”

“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—

Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—

Cassandra is right back where she started.

She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.

It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.

“I just… I want to be sure.”

Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”

It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.

“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”

According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.

Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”

Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”

“Like a deal with the Moon?”

“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.”

“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”

I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“Will it help?”

“It’s something.”

“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.

King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.

In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—

But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.

Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—

And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.

When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?

But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.

When did I become so weak as to be used against you?

But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”

Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”

“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”

“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.

Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”

The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”

“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.”

The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”

“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”

Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”

“Only if you do.”

Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.

For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.

I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…

If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?

Cassandra has never been readier. But still—

For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.

She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.

She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.

Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.

The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.

The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.

She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.

It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…

Well.

She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.

Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.

Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.

They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?

But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.

She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?

She wants to help, but this—

It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.

Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.

She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.

The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen.

Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.

And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!

Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just the little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…

Even after everything, she’s still weak.

Cassandra stops mid-step.

She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.

That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?

“…Cassandra? Is that you?”

She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.

She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”

The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”

“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”

His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”

Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

The guard is glaring.

Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.

She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.

Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.

And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”

Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.

“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”

.

For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.

He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.

Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.

The harbor is under attack.

A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.

The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?

Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.

A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”

“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”

The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.

The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.

He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.

Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.

“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”

“Yasmin—!”

“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”

“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”

“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”

A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.

Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…

Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—

And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.

Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.

The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.

He looks right in their direction.

Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.

Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”

“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—

He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.

His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?

He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.

Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.

And behind him. Behind him—

The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.

Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.

All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.

The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.

Hello, child.

The pirate swings.

Did you miss me?

His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.

And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.

They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.

In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.

His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.

“—get up!”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.

“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”

At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.

“Varian!”

Yasmin.

His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.

“Hurry!”

This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.

Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.

Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks behind him anyway.

People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.

There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.

His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.

Something worse.

Hello, child.

Varian looks away.

.

.

.

In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.

Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.

It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.

She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furious across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”

She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”

She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.

Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”

A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.

“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”

Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.

Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”

Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.

“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”

#tts #tangled the series #varian #rapunzel #rta #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tangled #cassandra #eugene fitzherbert #tangled varian #tangled rapunzel #iza fanfic #fic: labyrinths of the heart #fic series: the long road back to home #fic: faults of the mind

[fluffmugger]

introspectivenavelgazer said: I’m curious about your thoughts OH HOLD ON BB I GOT OPINIONS. ITS BAD. 

sabacc said: ah, the disturbing things bingo movie oh no. nononoo. Make no mistake. This was not a “nooope” situation.  There was precisely one moment in a teaser that actually triggered me, and that was so fucking poorly done in the end product I ACTUALLY ENDED UP LAUGHING. I’m  not exaggerating, check the post. First time I saw that it pulled a very hard visceral cord, and when the Kersh scene came up in the movie, I was huddled up in my chair, hoodie on, ear blocking ready to ride out that wave of programmed fear.   Instead, I fucking laughed because the whole thing was so fucking ridiculous. What was a deft, vicious piece of editing got completely fucking wrecked.  And that’s pretty much what happened to the story, that film was a hot mess of absolute bullshit.  It not only completely fucked up the overarching themes of the original story, it made no fcking narrative sense in and of itself as a movie verse Lo, there be spoilers...

While some parts I can understand for expediency - such as sidelining Audra and shifting Bill’s obsessive run to IT being based on a local child that he ultimately fails to save, why the fuck have Audra in it in the first place? A five second appearance so ...wha, you can make a running joke on Bill sucking at writing endings that’s just an endless sledge against King? What was the fucking point of that?     Likewise the inclusion of Silver, stripped down to a single cameo that only got vaguely saved because it put him in the place where he could meet aforementioned kid (now living in Bill’s old house in a most contrived of plot points but I will allow it because it works) and form an emotional connection. The whole reason for them standing to face IT is shifted from the pact they formed - the childhood vow they could never break - to Beverley instead somehow magically seeing the future while trapped in the deadlights, and realising that if they didn’t finish IT once and for all, even after the cycle they would all eventually take their own lives like Stan did, unable to live with the taint.  While this could be a interesting take in and of itself - if you do not face the demons of your childhood, they will destroy you one way or another - it completely shifts the core motivation to one of self interest.    Initially the Losers (especially Bill) did actually take on IT from a position of self interest (and young Bill actually has a moment of self agony over it, is he only leading  his friends into a deadly crusade because he wants vengeance for Georgie? Does he have that right? Is he nothing but a “selfish little shit waving a tin sword”), but it became so much more, and these children became monster slayers.   It’s the hero’s journey.   And shifting that makes it a corruption, not into a subversion.   It was also so damned messily handled - it could have been interesting , the idealism of childhood shifting to pragmatism of adulthood, but it was reduced to a handwave threat, and they didn’t need to be threatened.  The original story had a whole intertwined creep that was fucking beautiful, this veneer of adults in control of their own lives and destiny being stripped away in thin layers, with the Losers gradually beginning to dimly perceive they are simply parts  of some great cosmic machinery and their illusions of control and indeed  their entire lives are all just that - illusions. The undermining of reality and stripping of power were great Adult Fears that played fucking beautifully in the book.  The silent unspoken Imposter Syndrome, hinted at, but never directly addressed, that all their successes were simply due to being touched by IT.  In the movie? Oh man we’re all gonna kill ourselves if we don’t fix this and it means ...nothing to the characters. Seriously. They all still walk anyway.  And   way too much fucking time is wasted on characters abruptly deciding to leave only to Not At The Last Second.   It’s just a big fat clumsy mess.

They completely chunked out Bowers taking Mike out of the final battle, yet still included him in the film - Why? what was the fucking purpose?  They also intimated that IT was responsible for killing his father - ironically the one fucking murder Bowers did commit -   and adult Bowers was delightfully played, but he served  no fucking purpose whatsoever. Not to drop them to the lesser number of power (5 as opposed to 7), not to drive them into the sewers, what was the fucking purpose of having him there? He shows up, doesn’t even break Eddie’s arm (so there’s your other purpose of resetting the gameboard to the positions of the last confrontation) gets stabbed, gets killed, and they go on la de da.

Michael’s story is absolutely fucked into unrecognisability.  I’ve already ranted about killing off his parents - it’s a dumb fucking decision and I will never fucking excuse it. William Hanlon is a key player in the books, inadvertently preparing his son for his role of watchman.  This is completely lost to the most basic of fucking racial stereotypes.   Holy shit they actually refer to his parents as fucking crack heads  at one point (although this is later revealed to be a fake out by Pennywise), but what does it serve?   While you can argue that removing him is what destabilises Mikes character THERE IS NO FUCKING REASON TO HAVE AN UNSTABLE MIKE.   In the sequel, Mike is clinging to sanity by less than the skin of his teeth, drugging Bill against his will at one point, actively leading everyone into danger with a false promise of victory and generally acting like a desperate fucking madman. Why take a dignified black character and turn him into an unstable Kassandra?  You don’t need a fucking unstable Kassandra, the very nature of what IT is, and its horrific, aeons-long parasitic relationship with Derry is so fucking unbelievable in and of itself it does that for you.   

Likewise Eddie’s adult career  is suddenly changed to being a ...investment? insurance? boring person thing? what the shit? Why not have him own the goddamn largest fleet private chauffeurs? Why change? that one tied back into his navigation skills at least, and there’s serious coin in that shit.   And fucking hell do not get me started on fucking Myra fucking hell if you want to touch a complex and fucked up relationship like that, you don’t handwave it. His entire rampant hypochondria is shifted to  something closer to ...smart arse with some small neuroses?  Ok, but you’re telling me this..why? what is the purpose of this?

Completely out of left field, Richie is heavily intimated to be Queer. Ok.     But they then go on to jam in additional homophobia (and this is on top of Mellon’s death that to be fucking honest is shot way too fucking far on the side of “lookit the smartmouth gay get stomped”)  and Pennywise threatening to reveal Richies Great Secret to the point I literally leaned over and asked His Lordship “The script writer does know this is set in the fucking 21st century, right?”   It could have been a fascinating side story of a man whose trauma keeps himself in a cage even when he doesn’t have to, but it’s not. It’s a hot mess of what the fuck let’s throw a gay (but not too obviously gay we’ll do it so we can claim he’s not so it still sells in china and we have plausible deniability hide your queers, hide your queers!)  in just so we can kill the object of his affection.  YOU DON’T NEED TO AMP UP THE ANGST OVER EDDIES DEATH. WE ALL KNOW ITS COMING. AND IT HURTS.    You know what woulda been ground breaking? You’ve laid the groundwork with Beverley already, have Richie in the deadlights as he is, have Eddie do his Big Damn Hero Save, and then have richie see what’s coming and shove eddie out of the way.  Having Richie die instead of Eddie? Holy crap, no one would have seen that coming. It would have blown up fucking everyone, film, telemovie and book fans alike.   (Also holy shit adult richie, far from being the smart, funny man we all know is a wanker. His comments at the chinese dinner party have none of the genuine humour of the book or even the  Curry adaptation, he comes across as a mean spirited bullying dickhead that you’d all go to the toilet at the same time and climb out the window to avoid. In a kid it’s funny. Kids have no filters. From an adult, it’s fucking poison)  

We also have all these elements of childhood coming back, but there is no purpose to them in the film.  In the book, it’s the wheel turning, the gameboard sliding back to where it was last time they faced IT, a very real embodiment of unfinished business and an inability to escape your childhood - a fact the characters are very well aware of and in varying ways horrified by their own regressions -  but in the film it’s just leaving the audience wondering why are they doing that? why’s that there. what the fuck man. why have bill stutter? So you connect the adults to the kids by using the broadest fucking flanderised tropes possible?  It doesn’t even stand on its own two feet, it relies on way too much back knowledge from other sources. And it reeks as it they bolted on large chunks of some other horror movie script that was presented to the studio and changed the names.  There’s no psychological implications, there’s no deftness, hell there’s no fucking chemistry with any of the fucking actors.  It’s reduced to a jumpscare gore fest. It doesn't even compare to the first half.  It got so bad that by the second act I was literally pointing at the screen and BAM right on cue, there was the jumpscare. That’s how fucking predictable it is.   The CGI was shithouse (I actually burst out laughing during the Paul Bunyan scene as well as the Kersh one it was so fucking bad) the ending is..my god they literally prance around him screaming “fucking clown” until he shrinks, they pluck his heart and crush it. Fuck me, the Curry adaptation had its problems but the savage, ritualistic destruction of IT as they all fell to their knees around and tore it apart with their bare hands had fucking balls at least.  And BTW, it’s only the caverns and the house on neibolt street that get destroyed, the rest of the town is just fuckin’ dandy and it’s like DUDE THE TOWN WAS LITERALLY BUILT ON IT. DERRY CANNOT SURVIVE WITHOUT IT.  IT’S A PARALLEL FOR THE HORRIFIC CANKER  AT THE HEART OF EVERY “LOVELY” AMERICAN SMALL TOWN. THIS IS ABSOLUTELY SOMETHING TO PLAY WITH.  and then, THEN they end it with a letter from Stan. See, Stan didn’t kill himself because in one brief, horrific instant he remembered everything, and even as a child knew he couldn’t face it again and bailed, no... he knew he was going to buckle and killed himself so..he wouldn’t die they wouldn’t all die what. the fuck. was the purpose. of THAT.

In short, it was a phoned in, badly written, badly edited piece of shit, completely purposeless and not even worthy of its predecessor. 

#IT