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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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fic: the apprentice year

Here’s something I wrote for a zine, a while back. Maybe someone’s in the mood for quiet s8 angst.

(read on AO3)

It's raining when Sam crashes the car. Middle of the night, Texas somewhere. Not enough sleep, not that sleep could possibly help, and bad visibility, and this numbness that started in his gut but has taken over every part of him. Not the best conditions. Narrow two-lane highway, headlights blurring through the dark wet, and then there's a flash—white-and-brown and small, a dog?—and he swerves hard, and then it's—squeal of brakes, the tires sliding, a smash.

He breathes slow, both hands curled around the steering wheel. Car's still on, rumbling idle. His head hurts. Hard to see through the rain but it looks like he killed a sapling. He unclenches one hand from the wheel and touches his forehead—wet—and the windshield's cracked again, and he turns around in the seat to see the dog bolting off down the road. He opens the door and steps out into the mud and, yes. A broken tree, and a mile marker crumpled, and the paint all scraped up, and the windshield. He wipes his forehead again and his fingers are smeared red. He puts that hand on the car and then has to—his legs crumple—he crouches, letting the car take his weight, feeling the engine in his bones. He can't think, with the rain this loud. His head hurts. He says, out loud, "I don't think I can do it," but it's hard to hear over the downpour, and anyway, no one's there to hear. No one's there.

There's a mechanic down the street from a motel. The windshield will be three hundred and that feels like too much but then, who would Sam ask, who'd be honest. He asks them to repaint, too, so he doesn't have to see the gouges of his fuckup. The mechanic looks at his forehead instead of at his eyes. "You get that looked at, sir?" he says.

Sam walks through the damp morning to the motel. The clerk frowns at him but Sam puts a hundred in cash on the counter and then there's the room, dim with the curtains drawn. Two beds—why? Habit. He's been sleeping in the car so that people won't ask the question. Trying to sleep. He takes off his wet muddy clothes and runs a shower, hot, and there's mud on his hands and blood too and the cut on his head bleeds pink against the white tub, and he's so tired he wants to just sit down, right there in the bathtub and let the water pound against his face and make it so he can't think about anything else, so he can't, so he won't have to—but he can't. He has to pick up the car at some point. He turns off the shower and dries off and walks naked through the dim room to the bed closer to the door and he crawls under the blanket and puts his face into the pillow and thinks that he won't sleep, because how can he sleep in a queen bed in a motel room in a town he doesn't know without his brother. He can't possibly. He can't, but he has to, because his brother is dead.

It took a while to come to that conclusion. Dick was gone. The air, throbbing thick and strange. The room empty. Sam stood alone in that awful building with distant alarms wailing and his head and heart entirely still, because there had been a place where his brother was, and now he wasn't there anymore.

He did research. He asked questions. He prayed, and when there were no answers to his praying he burned acacia and camphor and blood-red petals of anemone and demanded a demon, but none came. He knelt on the road at midnight with dirt caked under his broken nails and was prepared to offer—what little it was worth, that he could offer—but no one arrived to take a deal. It was like the world he'd always known was there, that darker mystery that swirled under the daytime normalcy everyone else knew, had just vanished. Gone. He was finally free to live a life that was average, and safe, and boring, but what did it matter—how could it matter, without Dean.

There was booze but then there wasn't. There was a brief, considering moment when a dealer in Kansas City saw Sam's expression and offered relief, but it would've failed the same way the booze had. There was staying up until he had no choice but to pass out in the backseat and forgetting to eat and driving, nowhere, with no destination in mind, because what was there? A job, a ghost, a brutal and pointless putting of one foot in front of the other, when the only thing that had ever mattered, the only thing that had made the life he'd chosen worth choosing, was—

He drove until he nearly hit a dog, and hit a tree instead. He stopped not because he wanted to but because there didn't seem to be any point in driving more. He got a motel. He slept, because that was all there was left to do.

When he wakes up the room is dim with afternoon. The sun on the other side of the building. A reflection, from the vacancy sign outside, that throws up a white square on the wall. He watches it for a while, tracking how it moves slow over the wallpaper, thinning out as the sun falls. A slow eclipse, until it disappears.

What the hell, he hears.

He sits up, ignores the head-throb from moving. There, boots on the carpet, standing in the way of the bathroom, looking around like the motel's a surprise—six feet (forget the lie about the extra inch) and strong and beautiful as he ever, ever was—Sam swallows, drags in air that feels like it can't fit in his chest with everything that's roaring up in it—Dean frowns, and looks at him, and says, in a voice that sounds distant, Sammy, what the fuck.

Sam stands up and staggers. His head, god. He tries to step forward and it's Dean who comes to him, looking around, saying what's going on, where is this—are you— and Sam braces on the bedside table and reaches out but then Dean flickers, somehow, like a broadcast jolted with static, and Sam's hand curls in the air between them, his body flinching even if his mind doesn't quite get it yet.

Dean stops in his tracks and looks down. Spreads his hands, looking at the scarred knuckles and the more-scarred palms. Sam manages to get himself under control and stands up straight, and takes the step that means he's inches away, but no longer dazed from waking he can see: Dean's not here. Dean's not quite here. There's an almost-shimmery distance to him. A projection, on an inadequate screen. Sam looks at his face and just faintly the outlines of the room present are present, showing through him. A bitter taste in the back of his throat and he swallows, again, but manages to say, out loud, "Are you real?"

Dean looks up at him, brow furrowed. Could ask you the same thing, sport. Sam laughs, sort of, caught in his throat, and Dean's face changes. Jesus, you look like shit.

"Thanks," Sam says. Dean flickers again and it's nauseating to see the blank space where he was, even if he half-solidifies a second later. "God. I—can't believe this is happening."

Okay, but what is happening, Dean says, and looks around again. This isn't… He shakes his head and even half-there Sam can see the confusion, the annoyance at the confusion. His brother. His chest aches. I wasn't here. Where's here?

"Texas," Sam says. He still hasn't caught the name of the town. He reaches out because he can't not and his fingers brush—what? Nothing. The air's insubstantial because it's air. Dean looks down at his chest where Sam's not touching him and he says, very quiet, shit , and then he looks up and says shit, Sam , more loudly, and he reaches up and doesn't touch Sam's face because of course he can't, and it's only then that Sam realizes he's crying.

Hey , Dean says, and Sam shakes his head. "It's fine," he says, although of course it's not fine. Dean's eyes, concerned, and his nose with the bump Sam's so often traced with one finger, and his mouth, full and worried. He passes his thumb over where he ought to be able to touch Dean's bottom lip and Dean's eyelids flicker, his mouth parting. Sam shakes his head again, dizzy. Dean. He didn't think he'd see him again, outside of an afterlife he hadn't yet decided to try for.

Texas, huh? Dean says, after a few seconds. He smiles, fake devil-may-care, the expression that Sam's always loved and kind of wanted to smack him for, in equal measure. He looks Sam up and down, and raises his eyebrows, and says, guess it's true they make things bigger here, and it's only then that Sam remembers that he's naked, and even like this, a ghost or a hallucination or a fever-dream, Dean can make him roll his eyes. Dean's grin widens and he passes a never-there touch over Sam's bare chest. Hey, slugger, can't blame me for—

He disappears.

Sam stands there, alone, for a few seconds. He breathes deep, in and out. He passes his hand through the space where Dean wasn't and of course there's nothing there, and then he sits back down, on the bed, braced on his knees, looking at the faded plaid of the wallpaper and the day through the flimsy curtain. His face is still wet and so he knows—he hasn't cried, since that day, so he knows that something happened today that was different from all the ones that came before it. Dean's dead, gone, and yet he isn't. Sam licks his lips. That means there's—something to do.

He eats. He sleeps. He goes and picks up the car, and the mechanic looks less concerned when Sam takes the keys. He goes back to the room and reads a book, for a few hours, and doesn't remember a thing when he lifts his eyes from the page. He showers, again, before bed, and when he comes out the room is hot, and he taps the air conditioner and realizes, shit. Busted.

The clerk in the office is unhelpful. "I can move your room," he says, reluctant to do even that, but Sam's not leaving the room where he saw Dean. "Maintenance guy quit, so we're gonna have to call someone, might be a day or two."

Sam looks at him and chews the inside of his cheek. "You have the last guy's tools?"

He's never fixed an air conditioner but he knows how to use the internet. It turns out it's a little harder than the diagrams make it look. While he's got sweat between his shoulderblades and he's considering percussive maintenance that there's a huff of a laugh, behind him, and Dean says dude, you look like you're gonna have a stroke .

Behind him, raised eyebrows and amusement. A cut on his cheek—new? From what? "Sue me," Sam says, irritated. "I didn't go to HVAC school." Dean's grinning and the irritation washes away like it was never there. Sam steps forward and Dean's face changes, too, looking all over him. "Dean," Sam says, and feels— "Where are you? What's going on?"

Dean shakes his head. You know as much as I do, man. He hesitates. It's like—I've been asleep and I just woke up, but I can't remember what I was dreaming about.

Are you dead. The sentence forms under Sam's tongue and he swallows it. If Dean doesn't know then asking won't help, and if he is then Sam's sunk the same way he's been for the last month. Are you real is the next question, but then if he's not real then that means Sam's crazy, and Sam knows from crazy and, really, if he is, this is the best crazy he could hope for.

Dean's looking at him, not smiling at all, now. I miss you , Dean says, unexpectedly. He flickers—like he did before, a projection cutting out—but he's shaking his head hard when he resolidifies. Shit. I don't—I don't know what that is. I don't get it. You're right here and I'm missing you. How does that work?

"I don't know," Sam says, "but I know exactly what you mean."

The corner of Dean's mouth turns up, but it's not glad. Sam breathes out slowly, the hard knot of grief in his chest barely allayed.

It feels impossible. Maybe it is. He doesn't try to reach out again and neither does Dean. Dean's eyes flick up to the A/C unit and he jerks his chin. You need to take out the compressor , he says. Check the fuse box. I can walk you through it.

Sam's eyes are hot. "I know how to check a fuse," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows at him. "Not completely useless."

Prove it , Dean says. Bitch .

Sam rolls his eyes and turns away so Dean won't see that they're wet, and does.

Dean comes and goes according to some clock Sam doesn't get to see. Most days, Sam doesn't do much. He eats, showers, shits, sleeps. He watches bad daytime TV and not-much-better nighttime TV. He reads. He takes the car out on drives through the country. Flat around here, and what little green there is browning in the heat of summer. The office manager says he can stay at the motel for free if he keeps fixing things and so he does, and sometimes he's got his head under a kitchenette sink trying to figure out how not to dump backed-up foulness onto his face when there's a presence, all of a sudden, and his brother's voice saying why the hell are you using that wrench?

Sam's alone except when he's with Dean. The days smooth out into a routine. He wakes up sometimes and Dean's sitting there, on the edge of the bed somehow even though he can't really touch anything, and Dean'll say took you long enough, sleeping beauty , and Sam will roll his eyes and say, "Look who's talking, didn't you sleep through an actual earthquake once?" and Dean will grin and Sam will stretch out on his back and they'll bicker about the time in Portland, Maine, when Dad tanned both their hides for not being ready for the werewolf hunt at midnight, and they both insisted it was the other's job to set the alarm. I told you , Dean'll say, eyes crinkled like he's trying not to laugh, and Sam'll launch into his theory about how Dean's memory is shot from too much booze, and they'll waste the time, that way, ragging on each other. Other times Dean will be quiet, and so Sam will too, and they'll look at each other with their hands an inch apart on the blanket, and Dean will say, after a while, you remember? and Sam won't know what he's referring to, exactly, but he'll swallow and he'll say that, yeah, yeah. He remembers.

Moonlight makes Dean's face a strange, alien blue. In the day he's golden, gorgeous, cracks jokes and makes fun of the way Sam holds a screwdriver. Sometimes he has bruises; sometimes there's blood dried on the angles of his eyesocket. Once he shows up holding his ribs like something got him, wherever he is, and he just sits with his back to the kitchen cabinets while Sam fixes a garbage disposal and rambles about some time in Tulane when he dropped a ghoul and then banged a supermodel, that same night. "Oh, really," Sam says, pulling open the gears while he tries not to think about splintered bones, about the fragility of lungs, about the soft vulnerable edge of Dean's beating heart. "Tyra Banks or Kate Moss?"

Okay, Dean says, and does it sound thin? Hurt? So maybe not a 'super' model. But she was hot. He rolls his head to look at Sam and winks. Not as hot as some people, though. Don't worry .

"I was in a panic," Sam says, dry, and Dean chuffs laughing and then coughs, pained, and says, nodding at Sam's job, you're gonna want a 5/8ths for that , and in the next second he's gone. Sam braces his hands on the counter and breathes deep for a solid minute, bleeding inside his chest, before he goes into the toolbox, and gets the 5/8ths wrench.

The first time they were young, even if at the time Sam would've said otherwise. Their dad was gone and they were alone, really alone, for the first time in their lives—only, they weren't. They'd never been. An argument and a bad night and going out and finding Dean sitting on the hood of some wreck in Bobby's junkyard, and they'd said—he can't remember. Not everything. He does remember very precisely the moment when he gripped Dean's wrist and Dean looked up at him like he was surprised and Sam had said, you know, Dean, you know what I— and Dean had covered Sam's mouth with three fingers like it wouldn't be true, if he didn't say it. But then he tugged his hand away and he leaned up and kissed Sam, anyway, so it didn't matter so much, if Sam said it or didn't. That was the first time.

Over the years they fell closer together and farther apart. They hurt each other, sometimes so badly Sam thought it'd be forever broken and he'd just have to live that way, with his ribs split apart, bleeding where anyone could see. When they came back together it felt like nothing could ever split them up again. Not demons, or angels, or death.

The last time, they were in a cabin in Montana, and they were going to do something nuts in the morning. What else was new. It was quick, and then it was slow, and afterward Dean lay half-sprawled over Sam's chest, the two of them sticking together with sweat and worse, and Dean tipped his forehead against Sam's collarbone and sighed. This is such a dumb plan , he said, and Sam drew two fingers up from between his shoulderblades to the little soft hollow at the top of his spine, where his hair was shorn to velvet, and where Sam tended to bury his nose, when they slept in the same bed. When they let themselves do that. Yeah, Sam said, after too long, but when has that ever stopped us? Dean snorted, and rolled away, and Sam curled behind him that night in the too-small bed, and in the morning, for once, Dean woke up first, and he smacked Sam's shin and said come on, sleeping beauty, time to ride , and Sam groaned and got up and didn't think about it, much, and then that night Dean was dead. Gone, or dead.

He thinks about it, now. What he would've done, if he knew that was the last time he'd be allowed to touch his brother. What he might've said, if they'd had the chance. Before hell—before hell for both of them—they'd known what was coming down the pipe, and they'd been scared, and they hadn't screwed either time, or slept together, even. They sat, shoulder-to-shoulder, staying awake past midnight and through to dawn, and when it was time—they'd gotten in a goodbye, each of them, and Sam had ached to know how little that was. How it wasn't enough. This time—he didn't get a goodbye. He gets to look, but not touch. He gets to smile at him nearly every day and he gets Dean's jokes and his ridiculous stories and his safe, sure guidance, his eyes on Sam's speaking the promise they always gave each other—and it isn't, it isn't nearly, it isn't close, to enough.

Summer passes into fall, and fall into winter. Sam doesn't reach for the wrong wrench as often. He takes a drive through a cool twilight and when he opens the motel room door with a six-pack in hand, Dean appears one second later, looking out at the car through the window, and he says hey, how's the carb treating you?

He sits at the table in the room, taking the carburetor apart piece by careful piece. Dean looks over his shoulder, leaning on the table (somehow), pointing out where Sam's screwing it up (constantly). "Maybe if you weren't breathing down my neck," Sam says, and Dean snorts and says wouldn't have to if you'd ever paid attention to anything that wasn't Eskimo poetry , and then Sam tells Dean that Eskimo isn't an appropriate word to use, and Dean tells Sam that he need to clear the sand out of his vagina, and—it's not enough, but god if Sam isn't happier than he's been in—how long? Since the last time Dean was sitting right there, with his arms folded over the back of a chair, grinning at Sam and getting under his skin and just being—everything. Everything that mattered.

It starts to rain, before Sam's done. He leaves all the parts spread out and clean to dry on the table and sinks onto the couch with his beer, and Dean looking at him still from his backwards perch on the chair, and his grin softened down to something else. "What," Sam says, tipping his head against the wall. He's feeling mellow. In pain, maybe crazy. Content. Desperate. The usual. He's gotten used to it. Thinking maybe it'll be this way, ever after. Thinking he can handle it, if that's so. Dean's here even if he's not here, and that means that Sam doesn't want to be anywhere else.

Dean's got a bruise on his cheekbone, again. A cut on his lower lip. He looks tired. He flickers, precursor maybe to disappearing, but he stays. In the dim light he looks almost real. Almost present, like Sam could reach out and get his hand around his jaw and tell him everything he's ever thought, everything he ever wished for the two of them. How he meant it, when he told Dean there was nothing he wouldn't do. Even live, if that's what it came down to, just for the hope to see Dean's face, one more time.

The rain's loud, on the eaves of the motel. Dean hasn't said anything. Still just watching, his eyes steady. His mouth that soft curve. "What?" Sam says, again.

Oh, Dean says, quiet. You know.

Sam does.

#wincest #my writing #the formatting on this keeps feeling fucked but i'm just going with it #if i can't write right now #i can at least post stuff i wrote like six months ago

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thegeneralguy · 3 years

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The Champion of Olympus - Ares’s Arrogance

By thegeneralguy

Revised by @amalianetwork

The chariot of the sun was finishing its daily round over Mount Olympus, leaving a crimson trail in its path. The beautiful sky was painted red, the golden rooftops of the monumental temples and lavish palaces reflecting the majestic sunset´s light. In the inner circle of heaven, the faint sound of metal clashes resonated through the cloudy hills, where all the Olympian´s residences stood proudly watching over the vast extent of the celestial realm. The furious battle cries were coming from the dominion of the god of war. The magnificent mansion stood out of the rest of the buildings due to the dark marble composing its solemn columns, along with a vibrant bronze rooftop that illuminated the surroundings in a permanent hue of carmine.

The aggressive cacophony was coming from the inner courtyard, which occupied the biggest part of the palace. Ares was in the middle of a fierce battle against two other gods, wielding his giant golden spear to strike them with fury over and over again. His extremely muscular body did not impede his battle prowess, as he gracefully danced with the spear as an extension of his limbs. Both lesser gods brandished two identical golden swords, masterfully avoiding and countering the bigger deity's attacks. With the might of his enormous arm, the god of war planted his weapon on the ground propelling himself into a somersault and successfully jumping over the two surprised beings. Suspended on the air he then knocked down both his foes with a fast sweep of his powerful leg, landing gracefully on top of them.

"Again."

He said in a gruff bass voice, his fiery crimson eyes glaring down at the two defeated gods struggling to get back on their feet. Just as they were getting ready to clash weapons again, a bright pink flash replaced the bloody red atmosphere for an instant, leaving behind the most beautiful woman in existence. Ares put down his spear and walked towards his past lover, Aphrodite. She stared seductively at her forbidden object for desire. After all the eons resisting the urge to touch again, the mighty god of war still looked as imposing as the first time they fell for each other. His white robe was perched over one shoulder, exposing one half of his titanic chest. The enormous arms he once used to crack the skulls of his enemies rippled with power, thick veins pumping the holy ichor inside of them. His legs looked stronger than the dark marble columns supporting the palace. Many mementos from his previous battles decorated his bronze skin in the form of many little marks left by the few weapons that were able to harm him.

His brutish face was half concealed by a dense black beard and had a big scar that ran across from his hanging brow, through his eye, and got lost in the hair on his square chin. His intimidating appearance was only accentuated by his bald head, along with the piercing red eyes that flared with the rage of a thousand wars underneath. He approached the goddess, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her close, only to be pushed back by her slender arm.

"You know how he gets when he knows we're together, Ares."

The beautiful deity could barely hold her urge to make love with the masculine god in front of her, but the fear was greater than any other primal instinct she could feel. Ares grunted annoyed, and let the woman out of his embrace.

"I could take on him you know, and you would be finally free. Free to be with me for the rest of eternity."

Aphrodite looked at her former lover with a deep-rooted sadness behind her dark pink eyes and raised her elegant hand to caress the god's rough cheek. Ares took her hand delicately, like a gorilla grabbing the most delicate of a rose's petals, and planted a kiss full of passion and nostalgia of an immemorial time, when they were together, on her palm. They both stood still for a moment, and then Aphrodite removed her hand from his grip and took a step back.

"You know that can't be. Even though you're the god of war and combat, you're still no match for Hephaestus's might. Remember what happened last time."

Ares's winced for a moment, his melancholic visage quickly returning to its natural angry sneer. Of course, he remembered the humiliation his brother put his own wife and him through, exposing their affair to the rest of the gods. The animosity both of his parents felt for him only increased, making the god even more of an outcast than he already was. Only his desire for the goddess of beauty was stronger than his undying loyalty for his father, trying desperately to gain his favor in every conflict. But all his attempts failed miserably, especially when his sister Athena was involved. Zeus, although prideful and violent, was a brilliant strategist and he always sided with his wiser and more intelligent daughter, often leaving the god of war hurt in his pride. He looked back at Aphrodite reproachingly, wondering what the goddess's visit truly meant.

"What are you looking for Aphrodite? If you know Hephaestus doesn't like to see you with me, what is it that brings you to interrupt my training?"

"I know how these situations tend to put you under too much pressure. I just wanted to ask what you were planning to do concerning the trial of the Champion."

"It's been a long time since father has put a challenge on all of us. This might be my opportunity to prove once and for all that I'm the one he should be turning to in troubling times, not Athena."

The god of war was a force to be reckoned with. His prowess in battle was matched by no one in Mount Olympus, and his sheer force was only rivaled by few other deities. But although he was a fearsome opponent for whoever dared in challenging him, he had one fatal flaw: his arrogance. His thirst for blood and violence, when combined with his superiority complex, bred poor choices in and out of battle, often resulting in the mighty god being ridiculed. All the emotions from defeat were only magnified by his enormous ego, creating a bitter outcast who was often ignored by the rest of his fellow deities. Aphrodite knew that deep inside that glorious body and arrogant demeanor was a deep sadness product of rejection from his own family.

"I know how you feel Ares, but I would advise you not to waste too much energy in this affair. You know how Zeus can be when it comes to a world-ending crisis. I don't want you to get more hurt…"

She then took a step forward to put her hand on his gargantuan chest. Ares quickly turned his back towards Aphrodite, unable to keep the emotions from projecting on his face.

"What do you, the goddess of beauty, know about rejection? Father is completely blind to my superior power, and it's my duty to show him he has the most mighty ally for whatever challenge he might face. I have to eclipse the other competitors to take my rightful place on his side. Especially Athena."

The rivalry between the god of war and the goddess of wisdom was not unheard of in Mount Olympus. Even the epic tales from the terrestrial plane depicted the many victories Athena had against Ares. The big scar on the god's face was an eternal reminder of the goddess's superior abilities, often fueling the god's rage in battle every time he caught a glimpse of it in the reflection of a shield. Aphrodite wasn't very keen on Athena either, often clashing with her because of their separate views on vices and virtues, but it was nothing compared to the strong hatred Ares felt for her. The goddess of beauty then took a few steps forward to stand next to the strong deity.

"I guess there is no point in trying to stop you. I would advise you to be careful though. I don't know if you noticed, but Zeus's demeanor seemed very strange during the reunion. You'd be deceiving yourself if you didn't think the ascension of a new champion is not something out of the ordinary."

The god of war stood quiet for some time, reflecting on Aphrodite's words. It was true that the ritual of ascension was a holy ceremony, reserved for heroic acts of celebration instead of an emergency of this type. The last time he tried to gift a mortal with the divine essence, he watched helplessly as his devotee was consumed by its power, obliterating him. He couldn't even remember when was the last time the ritual was successful. But all these concerns were of little meaning for Ares. Before he stood a perfect opportunity to demonstrate his power and to show his abnegation for his father.

"I already made up my mind, Aphrodite. I will personally descend to the Earth and create the best Champion there is. No one will be able to stand against him, for he will be forged by my superior power."

Aphrodite let out a frustrated sigh, knowing her attempts of dissuading the god from taking part in this ridiculous plan were pointless. This whole plot seemed very suspicious for her, but she couldn't exactly point out what was going on. If Ares wasn't going to help her find out, she'll have to resort to other more extreme means. She then looked at the two godlings standing firmly waiting for Ares's command. Both looked practically identical, standing tall and strong like their father, but their handsome faces devoid of their progenitor's magnificent beard. They also had heads full of thick dark brown curls, encasing their more youthful faces. Their muscular bodies were also covered by numerous scars, mostly done by their father's spear.

"Look at my poor children. What have you done to them, Ares?"

Phobos and Deimos were the twin children of beauty and war, born out of human's innermost primal instinct: fear. Both godlings owed an undying loyalty to their father, often accompanying him in each of his affairs. Ares walked towards them, inspecting every inch of his two soldiers, who stood there firmly in silence awaiting their father's command.

"I made them into what they're right now. Two war weapons capable of sowing despair out of mortal hearts. And it seems I'll make use of their service once again. I'm going to make use of a couple of tricks you've shown me."

"If you already made your decision, it is useless to remain here and try to convince you otherwise. Just a word of advice Ares, don't let your pride be your downfall once again."

The goddess disappeared then with a flash, leaving Ares and the two godlings alone once again. The god of war then pondered on the goddess's words, wondering if he should change his mind and challenge his father, like many members of his family were going to. He remembered an ancient saying from another mortal cult: pride goes before the fall. But he quickly dismissed any doubt circling his mind. An opportunity to gain Zeus's grace wasn't going to present itself that easily again. It was his chance to demonstrate his superior existence, and take Athena's place right next to their father. His rugged face was drawn with a sinister smile. He was going to reap a human from his sister's flock, proving once and for all who the most powerful warrior of Olympus was.

It was an unusually agitated day for Athens High. The days before summer vacation were always received with enthusiasm by the students, and relief by the faculty members. Colorful school banners announcing the graduation ceremony for the seniors decorated the hallways, proudly signifying another school year's death. Every student was filled to the brim of school spirit, enthusiastically signing yearbooks, taking pictures, and joking with their soon to be former teachers. All except one. Leon Machiavelli sat quietly at his desk, tapping his feet nervously while he waited for the ultimate call for freedom that was the ringing of the bell on the last school day.

High school could be harsh for someone like Leon. The 19-year-old always felt like a fish out of water when it came to socializing with his classmates, most of his time spent on furthering his knowledge and improving his chances of getting into an Ivy League college, finally ridding himself of the shackles that an upbringing in a small rural town in the middle of nowhere could bring. The few friendships he managed to make over the course of his years through school were few and far too insignificant to regret his choice in moving to the other side of the country and never hearing from them again. Not to mention his troubled relationship with his parents, who were concerned by their son's more hermit nature. His family had been living in that town for a few generations, owning some small businesses in the surrounding area and establishing itself as one of the most aristocratic families in the county.

The swan song of the school year chimed in the form of the bell's ring, causing excited screams and cheers from all students. Notebooks were propelled into the air, paper falling everywhere painting the floor with white. Girls exchanged teary hugs, immortalizing their last moments in the classroom with their smartphones and guys hollered and smashed against each other in fraternal hugs. Leon swiftly picked up his backpack and made a beeline towards the exit, already feeling claustrophobic in the middle of the chaos. He made his way through the sea of students, already feeling the scorching hot summer air blowing at his face. When he was just a step away from freedom, he felt a meaty hand on his shoulder pulling him back inside. He turned around with an exasperated look on his face, only to find out the hand belonged to Kevin Volker, the varsity football captain.

"Leon, bro, what's up? I haven't seen you all day."

The relationship between the hunky jock and the hermit bookworm was, to say the least, complicated. Both boys practically grew up together, their families living next to each other and going to the same school from kindergarten all through to high school. Childish wonder pushed them to form a very good friendship in their first years of development. Family barbeques, playdates, camping trips, both boys had all the necessary qualities to become the best of friends. The fact that their parents were also friends and business partners was also a good advantage for them to keep interacting almost like brothers. All their years of primary school were spent joyfully carefree, with both boys enjoying the wonder of practically living together and embarking on whichever childish adventure they wanted.

But things got different once Kevin's biological clock sent him spiraling into puberty. The gorgeous blonde boy became an athletic teenager, and his energetic nature combined with his newly acquired physical prowess turned him into a social sensation in school. The allure of the childish fantasies he used to share with his best friend was slowly replaced by the enjoyment a real-life circle of friends could bring. Kevin naturally went up the ladder of the monstrous social scale that was high school. The sports teams didn't waste any time in hunting him down, but it was the school's most prided one that caught him in the end: the football team. After just four years the cute teen had developed into a strapping young man, with an all-American jock face and a body to die for.

Watching his best friend turn into the king of school wasn't easy for Leon. The slow abandonment combined with his frustrations over his very delayed development slowly bittered him. Instead of growing up big and strong like Kevin, Leon just gained a few inches in height, but a lot of pounds in weight. He resented his friend for getting the attention of their peers and leaving him alone to fuel their fantasy world on his own. He resented his friend for gaining the grace of other students, and soon cut all ties to him. The chubby red-head grew up alone in the darkness of his bedroom, while the blonde stud dwelled in the sunlight. His natural curiosity pushed him into pursuing knowledge, far prioritizing the cultivation of the mind instead of the body. His academic achievements mixed in with his hidden frustrations bred an arrogance delusion. Leon convinced himself that he was too good for other people, shielding himself from the pain of rejection. Completely dismissing any attempt of remaining active took a toll on his body, turning the chubby teen into an overweight young man with a disheveled appearance. Every time he saw Kevin, he remembered their lost childhood and caught a glimpse of his true reality. The muscular jock served as a window of truth in Leon's arrogant delusion: his loneliness was a product of his own doing.

"I was just busy getting my things ready for tomorrow's speech. Can I help you with anything?"

He bitterly stared into the jock's blue eyes and saw exactly the look that he hated. Even though Kevin grew dismissive towards him, he never once participated in the occasional bullying red-head suffered, often offering to help out with whatever he needed. His usual cocky gaze hid a deep-set sympathy for the lonely nerd, and Leon hated that. He didn't need the sympathy of someone he considered inferior.

"No, it's all good thanks. I'm going to drive home first to pick up my gym bag, and I wanted to offer you a ride. It's too fucking hot out there, man,” said Kevin with a burst of awkward laughter. His deep voice vibrated on his chest, which twitched playfully from time to time. Leon scanned his former friend with a resentful gaze. The heavily muscled jock was encased in the trendiest designer clothes, his bulging arms threatening to rip his polo's sleeves apart, and the tree trunks he had for legs wrapped in skin-tight chinos, showcasing the deep definition within the heavy muscles. He tried his best not to stare too much into the body and kept his apathetic frown fixed on his piercing blue eyes.

"Thank you, but I'm gonna take the bus. There's some stuff in town I need to sort out first."

"That's ok, guess I'll see you tomorrow in the graduation ceremony then,” said Kevin with a subdued sigh. Leon turned around without saying anything and headed outside towards the searing sunlight. Even though he kept a straight face during the exchange with his former friend, his fists were clenched due to the anger he felt. Even after all those years, Leon's heart still skipped a beat every time the jock was nearby. No matter how much he tried to deceive himself into thinking he was the superior of the two, he couldn't get rid of the feelings he had for his former friend.

"Congratulations on the valedictorian thing by the way!"

He managed to scream before Leon was outside the door. The chubby red-head barely turned around, and with a weak thanks, he was lost in the blinding light.

The little town's main street was buzzing with activity on the hot summer afternoon. Families paraded themselves on the sidewalk, eating ice cream and letting the kids play on the numerous water fountains around the place. Little restaurants and boutiques decorated the sides of the street, offering a colorful option of both local and imported goods to the town's small population. The Machiavelli family owned many of those businesses and almost every convenience store in town. Leon was heading to the family's favored tailor to meet his mother to get his outfit for the graduation ready. After all, the son of one of the town's most important families couldn't show up in his usual disheveled state to his high school graduation. Leon always thought things like fashion and social status were frivolities, intellectually inferior people used to feel better about themselves, so he gave little importance to them. Even now on the threshold of the rest of his life, he could care less about how he looked, but his mother insisted so much that he gave in to her requests to keep her from nagging him any longer.

The little bell on top of the door chimed in when he entered the door, attracting the attention of his mother, who was enthusiastically discussing ties and bows with the tailor.

"Honey, you made it! Step in front of the mirror please, Mr. Schneider will take your final measurements."

No one would think the chubby teenager was related to the elegant woman standing next to the counter. She looked flawless despite her age and dressed impeccably no matter if she was at a charity ball or going to the supermarket. The only trait that tied both of them to each other was their fiery red hair, which she kept in a perfect updo fully solidifying her upper-class status. Without saying a word, Leon stepped up to the little platform surrounded by three body-sized mirrors. The tailor approached him, fully armed with his measuring tape and a set of pins to hold the seams and folds in place.

"What do you think of this tie honey? I think the green would highlight your…"

The excited chatter of his mother soon faded away, as Leon focused more and more on his reflection of the three pieced mirrors. It looked like puberty forgot about him in the middle of the way. He never really grew that much in height, topping at a shorter 5'5. The prominent curve of his stomach was visible through the simple black t-shirt he was wearing, deforming The legend of Zelda's Triforce symbol together with his sagging chest. His stubby arms laid powerless on his sides, and his chubby legs were hidden under a pair of oversized jeans. His pale freckled face was covered by pimples, accentuating his unclean appearance, and it still sported the signs of infancy he never outgrew, with chubby cheeks and a small nose. The most prominent feature on him was his bright green eyes, courtesy of his mother's Irish heritage, along with his unkempt red curls. He had convinced himself long ago that an unkept body was not a problem as long as the mind flourished, so he gave up on any attempt in bettering his appearance. Dwelling in his thoughts he didn't realize the tailor was done measuring and was discussing the suit's finishing touches with his mother, who didn't wait for her son's approval on the rest of the accessories.

"Is that all mom?"

He asked a bit annoyed whilst grabbing his belongings and heading to the door.

"Yes honey, I'll arrange the rest with Mr. Schneider. You will look so handsome tomorrow. I'll see you at home later."

She answered without even looking at him. Leon sighed and headed outside, not wanting to spend another second thinking in tomorrow's ceremony, and made his way towards his house.

The Machiavelli family's estate consisted of a big two-story house, a big garden with a swimming pool, and a small guest house. There was no doubt that it belonged to very affluent people. The mansion's pearl white walls reflected the afternoon sunlight, almost giving it an incandescent glow. Leon entered through the massive oak doors and headed straight for his room. On his way there he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the massive family portrait in the house's foyer. A younger Leon smiled faintly back at him; his chubby body encased in a black suit just like his father. The elegant man looked imposing with his strong physique and masculine features. The only common thing Leon and his father had was their last name because no one would say the pale red-head was related to the mature Italian stud that was his father. His mom looked perfect as usual, leaving Leon sticking out like a sore thumb between his two impressive progenitors. He tried his best to ignore the picture like he always did and enclosed himself in his private sanctuary.

His room was decorated with posters of antique temples, beautiful palaces, and imposing sculptures. Leon's love for fantasy had slowly driven him into researching the origin of human imagination itself, and therefore human's creative history. His ultimate goal was to become erudite of anthropology, teaching and researching in the most lauded institutions on the field and finally gaining the recognition of better people than the small-town folk he loved to look down upon. He sat down on his desk to revise his prepared speech for the graduation ceremony one last time. Despite his parent's best effort to dissuade him, Leon was willing to perform a bitter soliloquy expressing his frustrations against his classmates and solidifying his status as the class' arrogant intellectual. Beneath the snarky remarks and morality lectures written on paper, laid a profound pain product of his loneliness. His train of thought slowly brought the image of Kevin into his head again. Leon was going to finally be free of watching him blossom more and more every day. But even if he moved across the country, he was still unsure he would ever be able to forget the handsome jock. After all, despite the endless hours he spent convincing himself Kevin abandoned him out of malice, he was the only person Leon ever loved.

The chubby red-head barely gave any thought to his sexuality. He considered any kind of lust as a distraction, a primal burden that impeded the full growth of the human psyche. Unlike practically all of his classmates, he wore his virginity as a badge of honor, his mind completely clean of the stain of sex. But despite trying his best to suppress his natural urges, the thought of Kevin always came through inside his head. The connection they shared when they were children still transcended the barriers Leon tried to put up to elevate himself. And the fact that the handsome jock looked like a classical Greek sculpture come to life didn't help the lascivious thoughts leave the nerd's mind. Leon tried to hate Kevin as much as he could because if he didn't, he would become the ultimate shackles preventing him from breaking free from his small-town life once and for all. The last golden rays of sunset light came into the room through the big windows, illuminating the red-head's face. His gaze was glued to the sheet of paper in front of him. This speech was an ode to intellectual growth, and a farewell to the life Leon chose to leave behind. He went into bed exhausted, nervous about the events coming up the next day. It was going to be the last time Leon Machiavelli graced his classmates with his thoughts. Afterward, the only way they could catch a glimpse of his brilliant mind was either buying his future publications or listening to his TED talks.

It was past midnight when Leon was woken up by a shiver down his spine. The pale moonlight illuminated his bedroom, casting out gruesome shadows out of every corner. The nerd had the feeling something was staring at him from the darkness. The entire room was scorching hot, despite the cold night air flowing through an open window. A low animal growl attracted Leon's attention towards the darkest corner in the bedroom. His face went pale with fear when he discovered the two big glowing red eyes staring at him maliciously. A black figure slowly crept out of the shadows, making itself visible thanks to the white moonlight. Leon stared speechless at the giant black dog growling at him menacingly from the other side of the room. His big snout was curled up into an angry snarl, making the dagger sized fangs visible. The terrified nerd was petrified in his bed, unable to muster the minimal courage to even scream for help. Without taking his eyes off of him, the black dog spoke with a deep man's voice.

"When the time comes, follow me. I will give you what you want"

And as soon as it appeared, it melted into the shadows, leaving the red-head alone to faint out of the fear he just experienced.

The golden rays of sunlight in the late morning woke Leon up, who groggily rubbed his eyes and got up. Despite sleeping through the night, he felt exhausted. He was unsure if what he saw in the darkness had been real or just a product of the stress before graduation. He looked at the clock on his nightstand, only to realize he had slept through his alarm and was already running late.

"Damn it"

He yelled exasperated as he jumped out of bed to get ready for his ceremony. He splashed some water face and combed his red curls a little bit just to hide the mark the pillow had left on his head. One of the maids brought up the finished suit his mother had bought the previous day. It was a beautiful dark grey suit, Italian cut, with an emerald green tie and a handkerchief to match. He quickly put it on, feeling it snug against his body. Despite the suit being tailored to his exact fit, the outward curve of his prominent stomach was still visible, putting a slight strain on the buttons. The emerald green tie did highlight his eyes, just like his mother told him before buying it. He took the cards for his upcoming speech and made sure he had everything ready for the ceremony. On his way out, he looked at his reflection on the big mirror in the hallway. Even after neglecting his appearance today, the beauty of the suit made him look almost distinguished. He felt strong, ready to sever his ties to this town and his past. It was going to be a memorable day, marking the beginning of his new life.

He arrived at the ground floor of the mansion, only to find it empty. A small note was laying on top of the little table next to the entrance.

"Your father and I went to the club for a quick workout. We'll see you later at school. Tell Charlie to drive you there if you don't want to take one of the cars."

He crushed the little note on his hands, feeling a pang of pain due to his parents' absence. It wasn't unusual for his mother to delegate accompanying him to the chauffeur, but Leon thought the day of his high school graduation was going to be different. He quickly dismissed any sorrow from his head, replacing it with a fiery determination. His speech today was also inspired by his aloof parents, who barely gave their only son a second thought. He looked at the big family portrait one last time. With this suit, he might have looked a bit like he belonged, but he knew the truth. His destiny was far away from this little town, which was below his expectations.

The school was buzzing with activity, with teachers running everywhere getting every last detail prepared, and students getting their graduation robes ready for the ceremony. Colorful banners decorated the main courtyard, where a scenario with a podium and a line of seats was built. The many rows of chairs in front of it were already filling themselves up with enthusiastic families, readying their cameras for their children's special moments. Leon scoffed at the scene, thinking how sad it was that this was going to be the only highlight in their offspring's life. He picked up his robe and valedictorian sash and headed towards his seat. In the distance, he saw Kevin arrive with both of his parents. The gorgeous stud was impeccably dressed in a beautiful sapphire blue suit. Every muscle was perfectly framed and enveloped in the expensive fabric, accentuating the dramatic angles his body formed. His dirty blond hair was perfectly styled in his usual messy style, and his white smile beamed stronger than the sun itself. Leon couldn't take his eyes off from his former friend, making an inhumane effort to remain focused on his goal. This day was going to be about him for the first time, not about Kevin.

The ceremony began after all the attendants took their seats, with the principal opening the day with a generic speech about school spirit and class fraternity. Leon fiddled with his cards nervously, the pressure of his big moment slowly starting to overcome him. He couldn't help but ask himself if he was willing to pull through it. After all, his classmates were still people deserving of respect, even if he considered them intellectually inferior. But then the memory of Kevin laughing with all of them, sharing the fabled fraternal bond the principal was talking about, and excluding Leon from their circle solidified his decision. The words he was going to say could be harsh, but it was something he felt entitled to share.

"And now, please welcome the Athens High class of 2019 valedictorian, Leon Machiavelli."

The sound of the applause woke Leon up from his daze, as he stood up and made his way to the podium. All the eyes in the audience were for the first time focused on him. The scorching sunlight made him feel a little light-headed, his hair matted with sweat, and his body sticking uncomfortably to his suit. He looked at the seats below him, squinting his eyes due to the sun's intense shine. All of the chairs were occupied, except two, very close to the front rows. Leon let out a sorrowful sigh, the last ember of hope of sharing this moment with his parents dying. He put his cards down, took a big breath, and started speaking.

"My fellow students of Athens High. The promised day is finally upon us, the day when we will finally take flight and begin the rest of our lives. Most of you don't even know who I am, but after today you will never forget my name. When I was writing this speech, I couldn't help but notice a few ironic facts that I would like to share with you. It is fitting that our school mascot is an owl because that is how I've felt all these years. I've dedicated countless hours to quietly observing your behavior, your desires, and every intricate social structure in our school, and I can't help but feel immense gratitude. Thanks to all of you, I've blossomed into the epitome of human intelligence and wisdom that I am today. And let me tell you why. After a long analysis, I've come up with the conclusion that my greatest fear is becoming as simple as one of you…."

Something beyond the sun's glare caught his attention. At first, he thought it might be a mirage caused by the burning heat, but the more he focused on it, the clearer it became. A shadow beneath a far tree looked eerily familiar. Leon's hands started to tremble in fear, as he recognized the black dog from last night staring at him from the distance, its glowing red eyes visible through the blinding sunlight. His entire speech suddenly vanished from his mind, together with the fleeting empowerment he was feeling moments ago. He fumbled nervously with the cards, only to drop them by accident.

"You….uh…..I…"

The echoes of his nervous words coming from the speakers resonated through the courtyard. Curious eyes focused on Leon, who quickly turned into a sweaty mess. He looked at Kevin in the front row, who had a worried look on his face. He felt a shame he had never felt before. Being humiliated in front of half the town was the last thing Leon wanted. He searched for the dog again, only for it to vanish without a trace. He looked at the public in defeat and managed to scavenge some last words to minimize the embarrassment.

"I want to thank you all for coming. Enjoy the rest of the ceremony."

With those last words, Leon left the podium and sank into his seat, wishing for the earth to swallow him. The principal took the microphone again and followed through with the protocol.

"Thank you, Leon, for those, uh, inspiring words. And now, we will present the students with their diplomas."

Leon sat in his place quietly, staring at the green grass. In his mind, the only thing that was present was the horrible feeling of embarrassment. Everything he had planned; all the preparation and previous excitement had been for nothing. The muffled sound of pomp and circumstance blasting out of the speakers was all he could hear, as the principal went through the line of students calling each of them to the podium and shaking hands with them. One face still stood out from the rest: Kevin's. One thing was failing in front of his classmates, but failing in the presence of the person he wanted to impress the most made everything worse. Now Kevin would never find out how well-off Leon thought he was despite being abandoned by the handsome jock. Somewhere inside the cacophony governing the courtyard, he heard his name, and without taking his gaze off the ground he stood up and picked up his diploma. He gave the principal a weak handshake and quickly slid back into his chair. This moment was indeed immortalized in his mind, but not in the way he intended.

Once all students got their respective acknowledgments, the ceremony ended with Oxford caps decorating the sky accompanied by deafening applause. Families reunited in the whole courtyard, hugging and blasting pictures everywhere. Leon was still in his seat when he saw both his parents approaching him.

"Honey, sorry we're late. How was your speech,” asked his mother without any hint of remorse in her voice. Leon was used to being left behind by his family, but this time he felt actual pain. If his parents were there, the only people with whom he shared some kind of superficial connection, he wouldn't have felt so helpless in the aftermath of his speech debacle. He looked up at his parents with cold wrath in his eyes, tears starting to slowly well up inside them.

"I don't ask much of you. I don't mind when you hide me at your parties, or when you go on extravagant trips without me. I just asked for your presence for one day. One day."

His reproaches were met by the unchanging poised faces of his progenitors. His mother was the first one to speak.

"Honey, not here. People are looking,” She said with a simulated smile.

"I don't care about your deluded picture of perfection, mother. You ruined the last time we were going to connect as a family. And for what? A sauna bath in your pretentious club."

His father's petrified face showed a glimpse of anger. The Machiavelli patriarch had never been very fond of his only child, considering him a nuisance and a liability for their public image. Leon just didn't fit well as the heir of the family's fortune, completely lacking charisma and skill to lead. In his eyes, the only thing his son did was cower behind his infinite collection of books in his room.

"Quit whining, Leon. You should be thankful your mother and I made time to come and congratulate you. Now, let's take a picture. We will discuss this back at home."

Leon's last hope of acceptance from his family died as soon as the flash from the camera was gone, his young heart completely overtaken by the coldness of rejection. His aloof parents then proceeded to greet the rest of the attendants. The young nerd felt completely lost inside the crowd. All he wanted to do was to get back home, pack his bags and leave on the next bus out of town. While he was analyzing the best way to scurry out of there, a sapphire flash caught his attention. He then looked towards it, only to find out the colorful splash of light came from Kevin, who was heading into the school through a side entrance. At first, he didn't pay too much attention to it, but then he saw the black dog from earlier following the handsome jock. After some consideration, Leon managed to conjure the courage to follow Kevin into the building, worried about what that black creature could do to his former friend. He pushed the door and entered the school's auditorium, only to find it dark and empty. The light to the locker rooms was on, so he made his way through the big hall towards it.

"Kevin? Are you in here?"

His nervous voice echoed through the rows of metal lockers. The air in the room felt damp and heavy, the lingering musky smell of sweaty athletes permanently staining the atmosphere. Something else was mixed in the aromas, a metallic scent, like rusted metal. He hesitantly stepped further into the locker room, his only companion being the sound of his footsteps on the tiled floor. The cold lights flickered from time to time, giving the entire scene a very ominous appearance. He turned around the corner and finally found Kevin in front of the sinks. He was staring emptily into the mirror, completely unaware of Leon's presence. The young nerd was terrified but kept approaching the young jock.

"Hey Kevin, are you alright?"

He said as he put a sweaty hand on Kevin's shoulder. He was able to perceive a red flicker on the jock's icy blue eyes, and then Kevin reacted to his touch.

"Leon, what's up? You look scared bro, are you alright?"

He said casually beaming his celebrity smile towards Leon, who just stared completely puzzled at the handsome jock.

"I saw a black dog follow you into the auditorium. Have you seen it?"

"Black dog? Bro, I really think the heat has started to affect you. I just came inside to freshen up a bit, but I haven't seen any black dog."

"But I swear I saw it come inside, I was a bit concerned it would attack you or anything. That thing has been roaming around school premises since the ceremony. I saw it during my...."

He made a pause, remembering the events that had just taken place moments before during the ceremony. The rage product of his humiliation returned to him.

"During my speech. Never mind, I can't say I'm surprised you're unable to notice even the most obvious things."

Kevin's smile faded from his face, his gorgeous gaze gaining the depth that bothered Leon so much because it made him care for a person he had convinced himself was below him.

"Leon, bro, I know things haven't been okay between us for a while. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel bad or something. I was just going with the flow, I never intended to hurt you. But I can't keep myself away anymore. If today is about a cycle, then there is something I need to set straight between us."

Leon's cold gaze lightened up a bit, curious about what he was talking about. He had never seen Kevin this nervous before. The young jock stared at the floor and fiddled nervously with his hands. The words came out a bit forced out of his mouth like someone was making him recite a memorized confession.

"I need to tell you something, but not here. Come to my place tonight for the party. Everyone will be there."

"I don't know Kevin. Parties aren't really my cup of tea…."

The handsome jock put his strong hand on Leon's shoulder and gave him a mischievous smile that not even the nerd's toughest defenses could resist.

"I promise to make it worth your while."

Leon hesitated for a second, completely incredulous for what he was hearing. He had already decided not to go to the party, but the day was not going according to plan. He could feel his heart beating almost out of his chest, excited and intrigued for whatever the jock was going to tell him.

"Sure, I'll see you there."

An eerie spark lit up behind Kevin's blue eyes, but Leon was so dumbstruck he completely missed it.

"Sweet bro, I'll see you later then. Nice clothes by the way."

Kevin then pulled the smaller man up for a hug, smothering him with his strong body. Leon could feel the hardness of his muscles through the expensive blue fabric. The jock then made his way towards the exit, leaving Leon in a disoriented haze. For a moment he completely forgot about the gruesome black dog and his failed speech, all he could see in his mind was Kevin's gorgeous smile.

The sun was already setting when Leon arrived at the Volker residence. Many groups of his fellow students were approaching the mansion through the extensive courtyard, already with some drinks on their hands. The young nerd hesitated, his social anxiety crippling him for a moment. He still despised the rest of his class and saw no point in trying to interact with them. If he was going to this party, it was for Kevin only. Maybe something good would come out of this terrible day after all. When he crossed through the house's massive portal, he was immediately assaulted by an explosion of light and sound completely overwhelming his senses. A sea of young adults covered the big parlor and the adjacent rooms, drinking and dancing like there was no tomorrow. The big chandelier hanging from the ceiling was adapted to flash beams of light of different colors in all directions, and a DJ booth was installed on the far end of the formal living room, blasting some modern music Leon couldn't recognize. He was an absolute amateur when it came to partying, so he felt lost and scared inside the crowd. He tried looking for Kevin everywhere, but due to his short height, he wasn't able to look past a few heads before him.

Leon approached the drinking table and ordered a soda. He tried to find a quiet corner to drink in peace before resuming his search for his former friend, but everywhere he looked was swarmed by the inebriated guests. He was quickly losing his patience, as he was pushed around by the dancing crowd over and over again. Somehow, he found his way to the big spiral staircase leading to the upper floors and jumping over the barrier to keep attendants on the ground floor, he quickly went up a few steps to get a better overview. Despite gaining the higher ground, his attempts in finding his friend proved unsuccessful. He was about to give up and head back home defeated when something caught his attention through the mahogany banister. The monstrous-looking black dog was staring at him from above, its glowing red eyes visible despite the chaotic party atmosphere. After making sure the nerd saw it, it walked further up the stairs into the second floor.

Leon remembered what the beast had told him the night before, and followed it into the higher level of the mansion. Once he made it to the upper floor, he saw the dog walking through a long hallway and entering the furthest room. The young nerd continued his pursuit and found himself in what he assumed was Kevin's room. The lavish bedroom was decorated with all sorts of trophies and medals, as well as an entertainment system appropriate for an active teenager. Leon's attention was drawn to the row of portraits on the big bookshelf. Pictures of young Kevin in all sorts of family trips and sports events were displayed in delicate frames. One picture, in particular, stood out from the rest. Leon couldn't believe his eyes as he took the silver frame in his hands and stared at the photograph. A young Kevin had his arm wrapped around a young Leon, both sitting on top of a rock next to a river. They were laughing, radiating genuine happiness through the picture. Leon couldn't believe that after all those years, Kevin kept memories from their childhood so close to him. The young man the nerd considered his bitter rival and enemy never antagonized him.

The big glass door to the balcony opened suddenly, letting a warm gust of wind into the room. Leon put the picture back in its place and headed outside. The stunning twilight sky was painted in different shades of red, showering the scenery with crimson rays of light. The hot summer breeze rustled the leaves on the trees surrounding the properties, producing a serene sound that drowned the music from downstairs. The nerd stepped on the balcony, and finally found what he was looking for. Kevin was standing on the edge of the marble banister, watching the beautiful sunset.

"Kevin?"

The handsome jock turned around to face Leon. The only thing the young nerd could see were the icy blue eyes inside his former friend's shadow, his silhouette completely encased in a red halo product of the dying sunset.

"I knew you would come. Come here, I want you to look at this."

Leon stepped forward, taking place right next to the handsome jock. Kevin flashed his regular charming smile at the nerd, who instantly turned red as a beet. For an instant, he was thankful for this unusually bright sunset that hid the blush on his cheeks.

"I wanted this evening to go perfectly. And now that you're here it's finally complete."

"Just tell me what you want Kevin. We haven't talked in years and suddenly you take interest in me. I just want to know why."

Kevin diverted his gaze into the sunset, suddenly turning serious. Leon could see the distress in his eyes.

"I never lost interest in you Leon. It was you who pushed me away. You were the one that decided to stop hanging out with me."

Leon clenched his fists in anger, the painful memories of his friend exchanging him for more popular friends still poisoning his mind.

"How dare you say that! You were the one that went away, that grew into…."

He made a nervous pause, uncertain about what he was about to say. The wrath inside of him made him spill out the words without thinking.

"Into a mindless meathead. Look at us, Kevin. Your physical prowess is unparalleled, that's a fact. But I got what truly matters: a brilliant mind. I have preserved my psyche in the best way possible. I've resisted the allure of petty teenage necessities. And now, I'm in the way of becoming one of the most brilliant thinkers in recent years!"

Kevin turned around to face the angry nerd, who was on the brink of tears due to the pent-up rage he was feeling.

"Is that what you truly want bro? It sounds very lonely to me."

"I don't need anyone. Soon, I'll be where I'm supposed to. I don't mind being alone."

Kevin grabbed Leon's arm, pulling him closer. The nerd could feel the intense heat radiating from the hunk's body. He stared directly into his former friend's blue eyes.

"Are you sure you want to be alone? I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I got all the attention I want, from anyone. When you look like me, it's an easy task."

He said flexing his meaty arm, straining the soft blue fabric on the sleeves of his suit. Leon couldn't take his eyes off of Kevin's body, completely mesmerized by the jock's posing show. He failed to notice his friend's eyes shining in a dark red shade from time to time. The jock's voice turned from warm and concerned, into cold and aggressive.

"No matter how much you lie to yourself Leon, you want to be like me. To finally be accepted by everyone, including your parents. Picture it for a second. Finally, be worthy of being called your father's son. What use is your intelligence to the Machiavelli family, when you lack the courage to destroy your fears? Truth is, you're no more than a resentful dweeb."

Kevin continued flexing, taking off his suit's jacket, his movements starting to take on a seductive flair.

"Stop it. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course I know. I know everything about you bro, including your darkest secret."

Leon suddenly opened his eyes like plates, completely incredulous for what was coming out of the jock's mouth. It was impossible anyone knew how he felt about Kevin, he didn't tell anyone. Kevin smiled with a hint of malice, knowing he had Leon right where he wanted him. His blue eyes now shone in a permanent crimson hue.

"That's right, I know that you like me. Your mind is indeed a complex maze, but no psyche cannot be cracked open. I could feel the fear of being discovered practically pouring out of your pores."

Leon looked down in defeat, feeling the embarrassment bubble out of him. He knew this was too good to be true. Kevin approached Leon once again, taking his chubby face with his hands and pulling it up to face him. The nerd's green eyes were pooled with tears.

"There's no reason to be miserable. The reason I called you here tonight was to tell you I feel the same way about you."

Leon couldn't help but open his mouth incredulously, his mind still registering the words that just came out of the jock's mouth.

"Wha—what?"

"I've also never connected with anyone the way I connected with you. You know the real me, buried beneath this sculptural body. That means I also know the real you. You don't have to be alone."

The young nerd's sad frown slowly turned into a smile. His face was inches away from his friend's, feeling the jock's hot breath on his skin. And then he smelled it. The same metallic smelled he caught in the locker room back at school, only this time it was much more intense. He also took notice of Kevin's glowing red eyes.

"Wait, this is not right. What's happened to you?"

Kevin's grip on Leon's face tightened, his face gaining a sinister flair.

"I'm exactly who I'm supposed to be. The question here is: are you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you who you are supposed to be? I know the real you is buried beneath this intellectual façade. We just gotta pull him out."

Kevin started caressing Leon's overweight body, rubbing his torso over the suit's jacket. The young nerd was giving in to the moment, closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation of his friend's strong hands on his body. One last glimmer of resistance made him suddenly pull away.

"No. I don't want this. I'm above these carnal sensations. I've never done anything with anyone."

Kevin smiled, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt, exposing the ripped divide of his upper chest.

"I know you're a virgin, I don't have any problems with that."

"But I do. I don't want it to be this way. If it ever comes to it, I want it to be special."

Kevin's confident smile quickly disappeared, replaced by a displeased scowl.

"Look at this Leon. The sunset, the balcony, the hot summer air. You said it yourself, this is the end of one phase of our lives. Isn't this special enough for you?"

"I don't know Kevin; this doesn't feel right."

"Look, it's very simple. I want to be with you, and I know you want to be with me. I just need you to renounce this ridiculous virtuous perception of your virginity. Give in to your flesh, and your body will become what you truly desire."

"My body is okay as it is."

Said Leon embarrassed by the remark of the increasingly impatient jock.

"You know it isn't. All these years you have deceived yourself in thinking you value the brilliance of your mind when in reality it's what has alienated you from everyone. Relinquish that notion, and you shall have everything you desire."

The nerd looked at his friend nervously, completely unsure about what he wanted. He thought he was sure about who he was, but what Kevin said was true. What's the point of intelligence if all you need to be accepted is purely physical? Was brilliant wisdom worth the loneliness? While Leon dwelled in his thoughts, a shadow materialized on the corner behind him. What first looked like a black dog slowly grew into a human form, taking the appearance of an extremely muscular young man, his body full of scars. He planted his crimson red eyes on Kevin, who nodded in agreement as his face grew more sinister.

"I'll make it easy for you. Kiss me. If you do, I'll know you're ready to take the next step and leave your old self behind. You'll finally be better than anyone else, just like you wish. Be warned though, there will be no turning back."

Leon was then assaulted by all the painful memories of his past. The loneliness of growing up as an outcast, the abandonment of his parents, and the disconnection from everything and everyone started crushing him. He had an opportunity to have what he truly wanted, not what he convinced himself he wanted. Hypnotized by the jock's supernatural gaze, he approached his friend with determination. Standing on the tip of his feet, he placed his lips on his. Black smoke started enveloping them, completely encasing the entire balcony and isolating it from the world. Leon felt butterflies in his stomach, as the kiss continued to gain intensity. A scorching hot feeling started seeping into his being, product of Kevin's mouth. When he realized what he had done, it was too late. He was completely under the control of the handsome jock, who started to take on a dominant role, aggressively pushing his tongue into the nerd's mouth. The last thing he consciously realized was what that taste in Kevin's mouth was: blood.

Energy started seeping into Leon's body, slowly impregnating his being. He was lost in the intense feeling his connection with Kevin was causing. The waves of power-hitting his body started making his blood boil, turning his body into an incandescent mass. He was sweating profusely, as the energy coursing through his veins unleashed different chain reactions in his cells, resulting in a vastly increased metabolic rate. The fatty deposits inside of him started to melt away, vaporized to fuel the nerd's body's incredible energy demand. His pants fell, as the rest of the suit started to hang loosely from his body. The formerly chubby red-head was left practically only in skin and bones. Kevin broke the kiss and looked at what his friend had become. His green eyes were dull and lifeless, and his formerly round face was left looking severely malnourished. He smiled victorious, knowing the spell was doing its job. He needed the man in the back to complete the transference, so he called him forward to participate in the passionate scene.

Kevin took his finger, rubbing it on his friend's lips seductively, as the muscular man in the back slowly pushed down the shoulders of the now skinny nerd to the ground. In one swift motion, the handsome jock ripped his pants off his legs, exposing a menacing bulge that was quickly gaining size in front of Leon's entranced gaze.

"Is this what you wanted? To serve and pleasure me?"

Asked Kevin dominantly, looking down at his friend. Even though Leon was still watching everything going on, the sensations in his body were driving him like an automaton. A part of his consciousness still resisted, yelling desperately that he was better than what he was becoming, but it was slowly getting smaller as if it were burned away by the divine energy coursing through his veins. He answered in a stupefied voice, unable to resist the temptation

"Yes."

"Wrong answer."

Said Kevin fishing out his manhood from his briefs and putting it on the nerd's open mouth. The same metallic taste accompanied by other muskier aromas immediately assaulted Leon's senses. He licked and tasted the meaty tube inside of him, desperately worshipping it with his tongue. The scarred man behind him then pushed his head further into the jock's crotch, making him swallow the entire seven thick inches at once. Kevin then proceeded to drill inside his friend's mouth with aggressive thrusts back and forth. Each time the phallus penetrated the nerd's mouth, the pressure inside of him caused his bones to elongate. Each limb stretched several inches, along with his spine, leaving the nerd with over a foot and a half extra height. The hands holding the jock's legs cracked and grew, along with his formerly small feet. Once his skeleton stopped breaking, the scarred man pulled Leon to his feet, his pants staying on the floor. There was a fight between bliss and misery inside of him, causing a blast of emotions that quickly flooded his head. It was like his mind was inside a pressurized pot ready to explode.

"You are the one that has to be served and pleasured. You have to conquer fear."

Kevin lifted the now taller red-head with supernatural strength and flipped him around, exposing his naked rear. Leon fell forward, grabbing on to the scarred man to remain on his feet, and felt the scorching hot head of his friend's member rub menacingly on his crack. He desired him more than anything in the world, his carnal passion completely overtaking his puritanical nature.

"Once we finally break your mind, you'll be able to become the god you were chosen to be."

And with those last words, Kevin impaled his friend mercilessly, getting one last howl of agony out of the nerd. Leon felt as if a dam had broken inside his head, flooding his mind and washing his old self away. Kevin's thrusts started pumping more divine energy into the red-head, which traveled inside his body filling out his newfound emptiness. Pure pleasure caused him to moan loudly. His blood pumped new power into his whole body, causing his muscles to twitch and ripple responding to the strength. His glutes were the first part of his body to expand. The handsome jock's phallus was quickly being swallowed further by two inflating globes of muscle. It looked like he was humping a pair of overgrown watermelons. The growth spread down his legs, filling out his quads and hamstrings with thick columns of muscle, growing as thick as two oak trees. Deep cuts were etched painfully on them, the skin stretched to its limits over the massive muscles. His calves grew to match the upper legs, gaining enough size to rival a football. His feet expanded to accommodate the still coming weight.

The pumped energy seeped simultaneously into his core muscles. Veins started gaining thickness the more power flowed in them, changing the muscle underneath. His lower back took the form of a large spearhead, two pillars of muscle slowly crawling up his back. His lower abs popped into existence, framed by two increasingly large obliques. First two, then four, then six, and ending in eight grenade-sized bumps on his stomach. The muscular pillars on his back started flaring like two flags, spreading growth into the red-head's lat muscles. The suit's jacket couldn't resist the growth for long, shredding itself to pieces revealing the sweaty skin underneath. Kevin grabbed the growing back with lust, feeling the searing hot muscle underneath move and inflate. The man's lats spread wide like a fighter plane, the muscle fibers fighting to fit into the already large frame. Mountains and valleys decorated the expanse of the magnificent back before the thrusting jock.

His chest was the next to grow as if gravity was pulling the muscle downwards. Two massive slabs of flesh etched themselves in Leon's upper torso, increasing his weight and making him widen his stance to find his new balance. The inflating pecs rose higher too like they were trying to reach his chin, while the lower parts expanded themselves reaching the limit of the red-head's anatomy. Once the veins reached his shoulders, these exploded in growth, reaching the size of an ancient Grecian helmet. Divine blood pumped into his arms, his biceps swelling to the size of big cannonballs. His triceps expanded underneath his arms, quickly adding girth to the now powerful limbs, reaching the size of a Howitzer cannon. His lower arms etched themselves with strong sinews, growing as wide as baseball bats. His hands hardened and swelled with new strength, gaining the power to crush the hardest skull with ease.

Thick veins traveled up his neck, followed by thick muscle cords making it seem more like a bull's neck than a human's. Once his Adam's apple finished its transformation, his high moans of pleasure slowly turned into a low manly grunt. Muscle piled into the squaring jaw, giving him a cartoonishly hyper-masculine look. His cheekbones rose higher, and his nose grew and broke, filling in with thick tissue. His forehead expanded further, hooding his eyes and giving him a menacing look. Kevin accelerated the rhythm, reaching the mortal limits of his body.

"Taste true power brother, and take your place above those beings you always deemed inferior."

With one final thrust, he emptied his burning load into the titan in front of him. The divine seed seeped into every tissue, making his body gain even more thickness than before. The muscles gained the strength and prowess of the best warrior the world had ever seen. The essence then corrupted what was left of his being, turning him into a new deity. Blood flowed out of his pupils, forever turning the former green eyes to an intense crimson hue. A new personality engraved itself in his head, growing increasingly aggressive the more he became aware of his existence. His puritanical nature was replaced with an insatiable lust for flesh, either in sex or in battle. His enviable knowledge was replaced by a killer instinct that made him a fearsome foe for whoever was misfortunate enough to challenge him. Eons of battle techniques and combat prowess flourished inside of him, aging him into a man in his masculine prime. The former erudite was reborn in the form of the fiercest warrior in the world. And as such, his nature turned dominant, making him displeased about the situation he was in. He stood up, now much larger than the two other men next to him.

"That's more like it,” He said in a deep voice, flexing his new muscles. Kevin and the other man stared triumphantly at their creation, watching the giant relish in his raw strength. They both felt a psychic bond form with the titan, now that he gained dominion over them. The former Leon turned to face them, his glowing red eyes staring at the scarred man with lust.

"I'm still not quite there yet. Come, brother. It's your time to serve me."

He pushed the muscular man on the banister and grabbed his own still tiny penis. He could barely hold it with his massive hands, the 4 inches stuck out barely enough for his fingers to grab. With inhuman strength he pulled the muscular man's ass apart, exposing the coveted goal for his manhood. He managed to penetrate the scarred man, and another wave of pleasure assaulted him, making him roar in bliss. He started thrusting into the man with such force it started cracking the solid banister underneath. The lesser deity moaned delighted, as he felt the member inside of him grow further, pushing deeper into his body. The titan's phallus grew to heroic proportions, gaining almost 8 inches in length and resembling a thick torpedo. The balls slapping the man's muscular thighs expanded as well, dropping lower to bovine proportions. New hormones started pumping into the giant, altering its appearance even further. Kevin watched smiling as his red curls receded a bit on his head and turned pitch black, along with his eyebrows, which grew thick and arched themselves upwards. His face started taking on a more exotic look, his lips thickening and his nose growing a bit more. The black bubble around the fornicating gods started breaking, dark smoke seeping into every pore of the giant. His pale skin darkened to a light brown, and dark follicles started popping out of his entire body. His manly jaw was quickly covered by a shadow, which grew into a magnificent black beard. The hair was so thick the skin underneath was not visible. A carpet of black hair covered his body, growing thicker on his crotch and under his arms. He kept thrusting with increased fury, feeling his own divine seed churn in his balls. He was drenched in sweat, a manly aroma quickly surrounding him. He smelled like old iron, like burnt gunpowder, like a warrior in his prime. With a powerful roar, he exploded inside the scarred man, fully cementing his new birth as Assad, the king of war.

The scarred man dropped to the ground completely exhausted, leaving Assad standing naked under the crepuscular sky. The jock scanned the titan from top to bottom, savoring every aspect of the new god before him. Assad barely gave him a second look, his old knowledge and memories gone.

"Father will be very pleased."

"Indeed I am."

A bone-chilling voice came out of the shadows in front of them. Assad watched as the god of war emerged from the darkness in his full glory. Ares rarely smiled, but he couldn't help to curl his lips up a little bit once he saw his sons' creation. He was right in delegating his power and the transference to them. Assad immediately fell on one knee, bowing respectfully before his master.

"You bred it into a full warrior, well done."

Kevin just smiled solemnly, accepting the god's compliments. Ares suspected the chosen one had to renounce voluntarily to his virtue to achieve its fullest potential. That is why he let the natural lust do his task for him. He provided the essence; the rest came from the new champion.

"Ready to serve milord.” Said Assad without lifting his gaze.

"And you will. I gave you a new life as a descendant of humanity's most powerful warriors, and in exchange, I own you now. There's something I need you to do. If you succeed, you will be allowed to take a place next to me as a worthy god. I want you to destroy the goddess Athena."

Ares then took his spear and cut his arm open. Ichor fell to the ground, taking the shape of a golden sword. Assad took the weapon in his hand, feeling its power course through him. A shining bronze armor formed around his torso, along with a helmet and a red cape. Ares was satisfied by the look of his new pawn.

"Meet me in Greece, by the feet of Mount Olympus the night of the next full moon."

"Yes, milord. I won't fail you."

With a powerful kick of his legs, the giant leaped into the sky, disappearing in the red horizon. Ares approached the banister and stood next to his sons, watching his creation advance towards his destiny.

"You can get off that meat suit now, Phobos."

Kevin's face produced one last sinister smile, as a dark shadow stepped out of him, his body falling to the ground completely unconscious. The black mass took the form of another overly muscular scared man, identical to the one still laying on the ground.

"This was way too easy, father."

"Don't be arrogant. Influencing a mortal's free will is no easy task. It's different than just persuading them with fear, as you might know."

"I didn't have to do much. This mortal in particular had very strong feelings for the champion. I just had to break his self-control barrier a bit. And I admit I let him feel some of the pleasure too, although I'm sure Deimos there had way more enjoyment."

Ares stood silently staring into the sunset. He made sure he created the best warrior of them all. He proved that the virtues so dearly preached by his stuck-up sister were vulnerable to his raw strength. He chose to let the champion be corrupted by his own desire. This was going to be his opportunity to eclipse his siblings and get his father's acceptance. He looked at his son, able to see the beauty underneath the godling's intimidating appearance. Aphrodite's image came back to him, remembering the unbreakable bond both gods possessed. He wondered if she would be capable of moving against Zeus. The goddess of beauty was not to be underestimated, so Ares spared no effort in creating the best Champion he could to compete.

"So, you interfered with the mortal's love interest. Your mother wouldn't approve."

#musclegrowth #transformation #championofolympus

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thebibliomancer · 3 years

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Tides of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 8

Tides of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because WHO IS THE MYSTERY GUEST? I hope its Thurma despite that making no sense, chronologically.

Last times on book: Sent on a mission by Aughra and the Crystal to unite all the Gelfling clans in resistance against the Skeksis, Amri and co head to Cera-Na on Onica’s suggestion to try to persuade the Sifa Maudra Ethri to join the cause. Though she’s seen Kylan’s exposition petals, she’s not keen on joining a vague cause and decides she’ll do what’s best just for the Sifa. Told by Tavra to stay put while she investigates the maudra’s mysterious guest, the group immediately starts wandering around instead.

Chapter 8

Fun beach bonfire time is ruined by MURDER. Or something adjacent.

Amri, Kylan, and Naia went to the beach to mingle with the crowds and ask some questions but as soon as they get there they smell all the food cooking and decide its dinner time instead.

Makes sense. Its hard to track down clues on an empty stomach. Just ask premier clue trackers Shaggy and Scooby.

As they head towards the bonfires, Amri is intrigued by all the caves carved into the shore by the waves and wonders what cool stuff may have been washed into there. “Maybe even relics washed from across the Silver Sea, where no Gelfling had ever set foot.”

Okay, so. Geographically Thra intrigues because the Gelfling, supposedly Thra’s favorite creatures, only live on this one continent. And in fairly close proximity to each other.

I really do wonder what kind of stuff is off this one specific part of the world. Heck, maybe there are even Gelfling that long lost touch with the clans. Anywhere people could go on, they did go on Earth.

You don’t have to stretch to imagine other ways to flesh out the Dark Crystal setting. Its right there. Although sometimes you have to stretch to figure out a way to incorporate the Skeksis because they’re super popular.

Anyway, Amri asks Kylan if he wants to go check out some dark, spooky caves and Kylan has to tell Amri that he doesn’t really like caves. Which tracks with a lot of his narration last time.

Amri feigns some cheer and suggests sitting by the fire instead and then has to squint because of the brightness.

Kylan belatedly realizes that guy who spent his entire life in caves doesn’t deal well with light and that they’ve been forcing Amri to sleep at night and travel during the day and asks why he didn’t say anything.

Amri flushed. It was hard to get used to something difficult when someone else showed sympathy for the first time. There was some confidence in being alone with the problem; he could pretend it didn’t matter if no one else noticed. He almost wished Kylan hadn’t said anything, though at the same time his heart filled knowing the song teller had noticed.

The semi-bearable mixed bag of being seen.

He asks Kylan not to mention anything to Naia because he doesn’t want to seem a burden and Kylan doesn’t manage to point out that Amri isn’t one before Naia shows up with food.

This poor cave boy.

Sitting around a fire roasting food on sticks under the open sky that he’d always dreamed of experiencing makes Amri feel homesick so he asks Kylan to song tell them the story of the Three Sisters.

So Kylan do.

A song story about how the Sister Moons hide from the Brother Suns fire during the day and take turns going out first in dawn to see if the Brothers are gone. Except one time they weren’t and one of the Brother Suns ate that Sister Moon.

But she survived in the Sun’s stomach and sings from within to let her Sisters know when its safe to come out.

A cool little lore sort of just so story. Since apparently one of the moons is called the Hidden Moon. So I guess it can’t be seen most the time. Hence, story about how the sun ate it. Kinda like with eclipses.

Kylan’s sing telling attracted a small crowd of Sifa who cheer him when he’s done which is a nice little moment though the attention makes Kylan feel awkward

But the crowd is drawn by a commotion and Amri, Naia, and Kylan follow the along and they find Tae standing at the edge of the docks, acting strangely and staring blankly. Acting drained. Uh, not exhausted. That thing where the Crystal sucks out your life goo.

Dun dun dun?

Naia shoulders her way to the crowd to see if Tae needs help but the girl collapses as soon as Naia touches her.

A Captain Madso also shoves his way through the crowd - to yell at Naia to stay away from Tae.

Someone in the crowd notices that Tae’s earrings are missing so he singles out Amri to accuse of being the thief.

Amri says he was over by the bonfire and Naia confirms and also says that Kylan was singing so logically a lot of people must have witnessed them by the bonfires. But none of the ones that cheered Kylan’s song will speak up now.

Dicks.

When Naia refuses to step away from Tae (because she is a healer and wants to heal her) the captain draws his blade on her. Thankfully, Maudra Ethri shows up and tells Madso to back off.

Naia states her suspicion to Ethri that Tae has been drained, causing consternation and muttering among the crowd of Sifa onlookers. Ethri dismisses the idea because they’re so far from the Castle.

But while Ethri is kneeling to examine Tae, Tavra jumps onto Amri’s shoulder and warns him to be ready with his sword because of Maudra Ethri’s guest.

AND WHAT A GUEST

Distracted by the spectacle on the beach, no one else noticed the huge shadow descending the gangplank, striding gracefully down the dock. Amri’s hand sweated against the sword.

“No,” he whispered.

Skeksis.

“What’s all this, Maudra Ethri?”

The murmurs snuffed out like candles at the grand, rich voice. A tall avian figure, dressed in a salt-dusted brocade coat shining with embroidered green and gold, stepped off the dock and into the torchlight of the beach. She towered over them, half in serpent-scale armor and half in ruffled gown.

“Lord Mariner,” Maudra Ethri said, issuing a hasty bow. “I can take care of this. You didn’t have to come down here to see this commotion...”

“And why wouldn’t I? You are my little Gelfling, are you not?”

The Mariner doffed her black-and-green plumed hat. Beneath, her face was reptilian and blue, coiffed in a mane of black fur and streaming feathers. Amri’s hand froze on his sword, his feet buried to the ankles in sand and unwilling to move. Naia reached for her dagger, moving in front of Kylan when he fell back in surprise. Tae was the only one who did not react, blank eyes staring straight into the sky.

“And please,” the Skeksis purred, “call me Captain.”

ITS SHE!

#dark crystal #the dark crystal #Tides of the Dark Crystal #liveblog #Amri #Kylan #Naia #SkekSa #the Mariner

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journal-of-an-outlaw · 5 years

Text

Price to be Paid - Chapter 8

Friends in Low Places

Words: 3,826

The next day was the livestock con that John had been planning for weeks. He and Arthur rode off into the hills to steal the flock and bring it back into town to sell as their own.

Dutch watched his boys ride off while he smoked a cigar, and Hosea walked up to join him. “What a time we’ve had, eh Dutch?” Dutch claspsed Hosea on the shoulder, hanging on and reminiscing on their past adventures. “What a wild ride we have been through.”

“Hopefully, my friend, our running days will soon be over. Just one more big one with good money and we are free. Then we can get our people to a safe home, like they deserve.”

Lenny called you over to Pearson’s workstation. “YN! Teach me how to skin this rabbit, I know Arthur taught you so you oughta be good.” You laughed and rolled your sleeves up, “Thanks, Lenny. Alright. Let’s get to work. You want to know the first thing Arthur asked me when I wanted to learn how to do this?”

“What’s that?”

Acting grumpy with hunched shoulders you replied, “You sure you wanna get blood all over your dress?” Lenny bust up laughing while you impersonated the rugged man. “Damn fool didn’t see I was holding a knife five feet from him but still had the nerve to say it! Right after I shot a deer clean through the heart, too."

Lenny laughed again while you began to teach him the Arthur Morgan way of skinning a rabbit. Every once in awhile he would ask you a question by impersonating Arthur and the two of you fell apart on the wooden table. He was a bright kid, and really nineteen was a kid, with a good heart and an infectious laugh.

Jack came up just as the two of you were finishing and asked to pet your horse. Lenny ruffled the kids hair and left you to babysit, heading over to his tent to organize a few things. Jack grabbed your hand and dragged you to your mare.

“She’s pretty, YN! And tall. Not as tall as Uncle Arthur’s horsie, though. I wish I could have one, too.” His mind was everywhere, bouncing from place to place with no time to take a breath in between. Poor kid, four years old and stuck living the outlaw life. No wonder Abigail was so hellbent on getting out before something happened.

He bent down and grabbed a flower to pick, his sights on dainty yellow petals with a white center when Eclipse moved too close. You swung down and grabbed Jack before she could get spooked, and you saw Dutch and Strauss walking up.

They were deep in conversation and almost didn’t notice you.

“Now, Herr Strauss, we are to meet Arthur and John at the saloon after. There’s talk of some big man in town and I intent to get on his good side before we show him a reason to be on his bad, so maybe you just stay quiet then?”

“But Dutch, I still have three loans that need to be collected! That money -”

Dutch interrupted him, yelling in his face, “That money is the only thing keeping us alive! Now why in the hell have you not gone to collect it?”

Her Strauss replied meekly, “I asked Arthur but he never had the time.”

Dutch ran his hand down his face and noticed you there. “YN, it’s time to learn another skill, my dear. When Arthur gets back from town, go with him to collect those debts so generously given by Herr Strauss. The two of you should get on just fine.”

You nodded and moved Jack closer to your hip, afraid the loud voices would frighten the child. Herr Strauss handed you three loan sheets which you tucked away in your satchel for later. Jack simply continued to play with the colorful flower in his hands until he held it out to the approaching Abigail as a present for simply being there.

The tent you called home had built up a small collection of outfits, guns, and various other objects during your months at Horseshoe Creek. It was small but cozy. You even had a proper blanket now made from the skin of a cougar you hunted not too long ago.

After you flopped down to the small bedroll, you grabbed the book you had been devouring most recently after swapping with Hosea. He had gotten you invested in a crime series and had given you the latest last night after finishing it himself, of course, and was bursting to discuss it so you promised to be quick. The sunlight was still filtering in warmly and you left the flaps of the tent open for fresh air to accompany you on your journey to another life. Precious few things brought you the pleasure like reading did.

Later in the day, Hosea himself stuck his head in your tent. “How are you getting on, YN? Hiding from Grimshaw so you can get through more of that book?”

You jumped as the voice ripped you from the pages, but quickly laughed at how eager Hosea was for you to read. “I’m trying! Doesn’t help I can hear her scream every few minutes. But this book, Hosea...it’s so -”

The end of that sentence was never finished as Grimshaw had finally found you. “I should have known you would have something to do with this, Hosea! YN! Get that lazy Blackwater ass out here to help with the laundry."

Hosea looked sheepish at having given you away but you smiled and promised to read again later, then followed Grimshaw while she continued to chew you out.

Sadie Adler was finally cleaned up and dressed with the other girls who were doing the laundry in the middle of camp. Buckets of sudsy water sloshed around as item after item were dunked, scrubbed, and passed to the next. You joined in after Mary-Beth and before Sadie.

“Nice to see you out and about, Mrs. Adler! Feelin’ better?” She smiled back and her eyes were clear for the first time since you’d met her. “A bit, miss. Working to see what livin’ is about now. You fine people took me in, time to do my share. Although I ain’t choppin’ no vegetables no more with that man, about ready to chop him up too.”

The girls chattered as the laundry eventually finished up, and everything was hung up to dry. You grabbed the last few pieces to hang on the line when a hand snaked out to grab yours.

“You got anything special in there to show me, YN?"

Michah had found you again and hid behind the colorful array so no one could see him.

“Jesus, Michah. You got nothin’ better to do than stalk me doin’ laundry? Leave me alone, I ain’t got nothing to entertain with you.”

He smirked and moved closer, “Oh girly, I got some entertaining you could do. Just give me a few hours.” His hand rubbed the back of yours, mocking the memory you had of Arthur comforting you and you shook him off violently. Irritation and rage began to pump from your heart and spread across your chest.

“I don’t want anymore time with you than necessary, thank you.” He didn’t seem to mind the constant rejection, and in fact it seemed to make him pursue you more.

“‘Thank you?’ Always so kind,” he sneered at you. “YN. One of these days you’re gonna have to learn how to be a real outlaw and toughen up.”

“Only a damn fool mistakes kindness for weakness, Mr. Bell. Strength don’t come from the lack of love or compassion in a heart,” you snapped back.

He was unimpressed with your outburst. You were just hoping he had lost interest when he said, “You book folk are so boring. Always full of words. I prefer action. You know where to find me once you wisen up. And girl, I sure hope you do.” The clothing on the drying line parted as Michah smacked them out of his path. You rolled your eyes and picked up the empty basket to bring back to Grimshaw and prove your chores were done.

That afternoon was when true chaos began. The sound of horses thundering into camp made everyone stand to attention as Dutch, Arthur, John, and Strauss rode in looking extremely shaken from Valentine. All of them were dishevelled and covered in dirt. Abigail rushed over as John jumped from his horse and said something to her. She nodded and left for their shared tent to begin throwing things in their tent. Dutch grabbed Hosea and moved to his tent, retelling everyone what happened.

“Our time in Valentine has come to an untimely end! Leviticus Cornwall and his band of thugs met us outside the saloon and things did not end well for them. It’s time for us to pack up and leave this area, what with Pinkerton’s breathing down our necks and Cornwall comin’ to find us. Ms. Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson, if you please! Get this place packed up while we look for a new spot.” Everyone began to move, you rushed to your tent and began throwing everything into the few bags you had bought and rolled the bedding up to make it easier to carry.

Hosea sat with Dutch as Arthur approached, and was none too happy about the current situation. “So, we keep heading east. Is that the plan?”

“For now.”

“And when do we stop? When we reach Paris?” Hosea exclaimed sarcastically.

“Oh that’d be nice, and join the Commune? We stop when we find someplace sensible, shake them that’s following us and lie low.” Dutch countered. It felt like an age old argument, with Hosea thinking legit scams were the way to go, and Dutch wanting one last big score to blow the others out of the water.

Hosea put his face into his hands, “And this is lying low? We’ve turned into a bunch of killers, I mean it.”

Dutch sat up straighter. “Sometimes, survival means having only one choice. We have to take it, or lose everything we’ve worked towards.”

Hosea threw his hands up, fed up with not feeling safe in his own home and stormed out of Dutch’s tend. Arthur moved closer to the older man to get a better look at the map he was studying.

“Michah told me of a place we can lie low. Dewberry Creek, he said. Maybe you and Charles can go take a look, clear off anyone you find before the whole lot of us move in.” Dutch pointed at the spot and Arthur nodded.

“Looks like I’ve turned into the Goddamned errand boy,” while walking away.

Dutch stood as tall as you’ve seen him, chest puffed with pride. “You have turned into my son, you worry because I worry. We are just the same!” Before Arthur got too far, Dutch yelled again, “Arthur! And when you return you and Miss Moore have some debts to collect on behalf of Herr Strauss. We’ll see how things are when you’re back from scouting.”

Arthur and Charles left shortly after that, not expecting to be gone more than a few hours. While they were out riding free, Ms. Grimshaw saw that every single one of the girls was sweating away, cleaning and packing and washing and sorting. All these damn men and not a single one could pack the knives away correctly.

Abigail and John were struggling to get everything done with Jack running around, so you offered after your tent was packed to take care of him. The fighting didn’t stop, but at least the kid was out of the way and not there to see it.

Jack took your hand and wanted to go see the river one last time. You wondered if he really understood why you were moving so constantly, and the past few months you had two camps. To a four year old that’s a lot of life changes.

He found a blue flower and tried to braid it into your hair, making you both giggle. It matched the shirt that Mary-Beth finally got around to make for you. A light blue that played with your dark features beautifully, and she even made some lace designs to fancy it up. You loved that shirt and were ecstatic when she gave it to you a week ago.

“I want a flower too, YN,” Jack whined when you sat down for a moment. “Of course, Jack, what color you reckon?” He contemplated it, then decided on yellow. The two of you set off to wander the small field for a yellow flower.

“Here! Help me put it in my hair.” Jack loved flowers in hair and his own was no exception. This fascination with flowers was interesting to you, but when you asked he only shrugged and said something about Abigail loving them too.

A few hours later, Charles came riding down the slope. “YN! Arthur is waiting for you back at camp, or what’s left of it. Want me to give you two a ride up?”

Jack shook his head, so the two of you walked next to Tamia while Charles chatted about the new campsite he had found.

“The site Michah told us about already had people there, a dried up old creek bed. Would have been fine, but it’s hard to settle so many folks on uneven ground. Poor German lady and her two kids were there, hiding out under a wagon. While we went out riding to find her missing husband we found this perfect spot by a lake. Huge, even field hidden by trees. I can see us hiding there a long while.”

He looked calm about the whole ordeal and happy about the new site.

“What happened to him?” You asked suddenly.

“Who? Oh, the husband. Arthur took him back to his wife and we met up as we was coming back near Valentine. The family is alright,” he smiled down at you, the worry leaving your face.

“Just like to know they were safe is all!” You said a bit too defensively, but laughed at yourself.

Arthur was leaning against the last wagon as it was being packed up. Charles waved to you and carried Jack up to meet Abigail and John leading the wagon, then left to lead the caravan off to the new campsite.

“Guess it’s just you and me then, huh?” He took the last puff of a cigarette, then threw it out into the grass. “Guess so, Mr. Morgan.”

“How many damn times you gonna keep calling me that?” he growled.

“Sorry. Arthur,” he waved his hand, signalling his indifference. “Now, Her Strauss gave us three people to collect from, are we gonna be able to do that all in one afternoon?”

“Hope so. All locals, just need to get them talking quickly. Need be we can camp and head to the new site tomorrow.”

“With what? Most of my supplies just left,” you motioned to your things now rolling away in the last caravan and out of sight. The few supplies attached to Eclipse were nothing compared to what had just left you. Arthur swore and moved to get on his horse, “Then we best get this done fast. It’s already late and the first one’s an hour ride.”

Eclipse kept up with Zeus, Arthur’s dark bay stallion, well during the journey. She was a little headstrong and sometimes didn’t respond to you right away, causing Arthur to take the lead in case she decided to jump off a bridge or something like that.

Talking was infrequent. Arthur turned out to be more of a focused and quiet rider. You found out he also liked to read, though not like Hosea. He shared many qualities with the older man but was still inexplicably drawn more to Dutch. They were both hot headed with a sense of leadership, and Hosea was more about playing things safe. Arthur had a healthy dose of each and the influence was easy to see in just about everything he did.

The first stop was a man named Chick Matthews. As you rode up, one of the hands told you Chick was out around the barn tending to his horse. The moment he spotted the two of you riding up he jumped on and galloped away, which was a shocking sight.

“Arthur! I’ll head up over the ridge to his right, I think I see a bridge up ahead. You go right after him and let’s see who can get there first. Heya!” Without waiting for him to respond you kicked Eclipse into a full gallop after the little man. She ran fast and strong, but Chick had a good head start and it took a bit of corralling to catch up. In the distance you could hear him taunting Arthur for being too slow and old, and you can only imagine the rage boiling on his face. They came up to a train that you had bypassed by going up above when Arthur managed to lasso that fool straight to the ground.

Once knocked down he coughed and sputtered like an idiot.

“Look, look, I got the money...but it’s hidden. Untie me and I’ll tell you where it’s at.”

You rode up just as Arthur finished hog tying the man, throwing a punch or two for making you both chase him so far. This may be your fist debt collecting but you wouldn’t let him abuse the man. As he pulled back to hit him again you grabbed his arm.

“Arthur! Let the man talk, for heaven’s sake. He’s got the money.” Arthur looked at your concerned face incredulously. “Miss Moore, this country round here is full of idiots. Look at this one here,” he kicked his boot against Chicks lightly. “Now see, he doesn’t think we know about what’s in his pockets so why don’t you empty them out for me?”

Pick pocketing was better than beating, so you leaned down to see what he was hiding. An old carrot, a cigarette card, and a map leading you right to the money were all you found.

The map was incredibly simple. One bridge and a tree were all that were on it, and you looked down at Chick. “I may now want to hit you sir, for this is surely the dumbest map I have ever seen. Where the hell does it even start?”

He smiled a gap toothed grin up at you. “See Miss! That’s the best part. No one knows it but me.” At that Arthur delivered another kick to his stomach, hard and fast. “Tell me where the damn money is!”

“Fine! Okay, Jesus. Head north and turn left at the Old Creek Bridge, it’s the tree closest there.”

Arthur nodded and moved towards Zeus. “YN, you take that sack of shit back to the ranch and I’ll meet you once I have collected Mr. Matthews’ debt. You try any funny business with her, and you’ll wish all I’d done was break some ribs of yours,” and took off.

Chick starred up at Eclipse. “Gee, Miss, I ain’t never ridden behind on a horse before. And never with a woman!” You rolled your eyes and loaded him up behind you.

True to his word Chick Matthews put up no fuss heading back. He pointed out some of his favorite land features and asked you to walk into town more than once. You politely declined, but you knew he didn’t mean any harm. Arthur finally rode up with a bag, showing you the cash then tucking it safely away in his satchel. The two of you were off to victim number two, Mr. Wrobel.

The Polish man lived at a farm called Painted Sky, and didn’t speak a lick of English. You tried to be soft and comforting but that didn’t seem to go anywhere, so Arthur lumbered in and demanded the return of cash. Wrobel seemed to have nothing, but sadly motioned around his home and let the two of you take enough possessions to equal the amount of the debt. It broke your heart to watch his face, and leaving you could see it troubled Arthur too.

“Why do you do jobs like this if they don’t feel right?” You asked quietly as the two of you mounted your horses for the third and final destination.

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, thinking. “I honestly prefer when they try to run or put up a fight. Don’t feel so bad robbin’ folks who make a point to take advantage of the loan. But those like him? Who need it? Makes me think I’m only out here to grease the wheel so it keeps turning. Folks need money, we lend it, then take it back with interest.”

Finally arriving past dark at Emerald Ridge, the third debtor gave Arthur no hesitation in his approach of getting the money back. Lilly Millet’s boyfriend jumped up and attacked him with a swift uppercut to his jaw and the man drew no pity from you after you heard the way he was berating Lilly.

Lilly grabbed your arm while the two men brawled and made a fuss of it all. Truth be told, it was quite the sight. Both me tall and muscular in build it was an evenly matched fight. After a few quick hits the other man went down, and Arthur stood huffing above him. You definitely understood why he liked the ones who fought him, he looked damn fine doing it.

“Alright, alright! That’s enough. He has everything I gave him, please, just take what he has and go,” Lilly called out to Arthur. To you, she whispered, “You’re a lucky girl to be running with a man like that. Makes mine look like an old rag.” You both looked down to where her man lay unconscious, in the mud. She rolled her eyes and made her way over to get him cleaned up.

Chuckling, you walked over to Arthur. “What’s so funny now?” he asked while stuffing the last of the cash in his satchel.

“Lilly had more on her mind that just debts, I think,” you looked at him suggestively but were met with a blank stare. “Oh, come on Arthur don’t be dense. I think she likes you!” After a beat it clicked and he looked away embarrassed. “Want me to ask if she’s free Friday?” you moved slowly backwards but he grabbed your upper arm lightly. “No! Come on, woman. We best be moving. Probably have to camp halfway back now.” He started Zeus into a slow walk as you jumped up to Eclipse.

“Besides, she ain’t my type anyways. I like brunettes,” and with that he took off galloping, leaving you to watch and race after him.

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preserving-ferretbrain · 5 years

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Red Seas Under Red Skies

by Wardog

Friday, 01 February 2008

Wardog praises with faint damnation~

I was nosing about Scott Lynch's LJ (which is endearingly titled The Dork Lord, on His Dork Throne) not so long ago and I came across this:

I was not a fan of the Wheel of Time books, probably because I came to them in my twenties with my tastes already fairly developed. I was never able to get past the opening of the second book, and those of you who've known me for ages I'm sure absorbed my criticism and invective years ago. I once wrote at excruciating length upon the weaknesses of the books as I perceived them, and while I thought it was extremely clever and somehow necessary at the time, the years since have drastically mellowed my taste for mocking the work of other authors who aren't huge assholes in person or pushing a distasteful agenda with their work. About the best I can say for my mosquito bites is that I sincerely hope Jordan himself never had them called to his attention. Something tells me he would have given them the eye roll they deserved.

And the sheer decency of it has sort of shamed me to such an extent (especially since I am a non-achiever who hangs about on the internet criticising other people's work) that I can hardly bring myself to review Red Seas Under Red Skies, especially since my attempt to write about The Lies of Locke Lamora degenerated into a (semi-harmless) mock-fest of Scott Lynch's hair. By the way the important word in that sentence was "hardly." With this mind and all due humility, here are some thoughts on Red Thingies Over/Under Red Other Thingies, which I shall hereafter refer to as RSURS for the sake of my sanity. It's the second book in the Gentleman Bastard sequence which will, I understand, eventually form a septet. I have to say, this idea distresses me. Not only has Harry Potter soured me on the number seven for life but, given the fact the fantasy genre generally can't cope with trilogies, the idea of a septet seems utterly ludicrous to me. I mean, what do you have to say that takes seven books? Seriously?

For the moment, however, Scott Lynch seems to have something to say. Ultimately there's no point in reading RSURS if you haven't read The Lies of Locke Lamora not because it doesn't almost stand alone but because familiarity with the background, the setting and the characters deepens the experience of reading. To give it due credit: RSURS is reasonably satisfying on its own terms. You can feel the slow gathering of plot upon the horizon like distant clouds (and fear the coming storm) and there are some massive danglers just left hanging in a deliberately taunting and irritating fashion but, hey, thems the breaks with this kind of thing. And, as in Lies, the mysterious Sabetha, the apparent love of Locke's life, is alluded to but remains absent: for fuck's sake, Lynch, stop it. You know she's just going to be a total let down after a build up like this.

The problems evident in Lies are evident in RSURS, only slightly moreso because you don't have the novelty factor of being a first book to distract you from them. If you didn't like Locke the first time round, you won't like him here because he's exactly the same and still, some might argue, something of a Mary Sue or the male equivalent thereof. Although I don't personally object to the love affair Scott Lynch is tenderly enacting with his (anti)hero, I do struggle somewhat with the character. As I think I said in my review of Lies, he's absolutely the nicest bastard you could ever hope to meet: he never harms or kills anybody who doesn't thoroughly deserve it, his supposedly long-dead conscience miraculously reappears whenever he's confronted by any sort of cruelty or injustice and his unswerving and self-sacrificing loyalty to his friends is a virtue of such magnitude that it eclipses everything remotely unsympathetic about him. It shouldn't, but that's the way fiction works: if your character cares about the same people as the reader, it doesn't really matter how that character behaves, they're always going to garner a degree of support and approval.

I wouldn't mind this so much if I didn't have the feeling that Locke is supposed to be a shady character for a dark world. Perhaps I have the wrong end of the stick and Locke was never meant to be anything but a big bleeding heart beneath a thin veneer of survivalist criminality but I don't think so. I think the problem with Locke Lamora is that he's neither enough of one thing nor its opposite: he's neither selfish enough to be a convincing anti-hero nor virtuous enough to be a convincing hero. I know part of his shtick is his shifting sense of self and I'm not averse to complicated, contradictory characters but I find Locke incoherent rather than complex. I'm genuinely uncertain as to what Lynch is trying to do with the character or what we're meant to think. I'm not saying he doesn't do terrible things - he mutilates someone (who, admittedly, deserves it) in the first book - but everything he does that's vile and shocking is excusable whereas everything he does that's compassionate is extraordinary. For example, in RSURS, he and Jean, hanging out a decadent casino called the Sinspire, witness an entertainment in which a young nobleman, unable to pay his debts, has to survive in cage of stiletto wasps. Needless to say he doesn't and Locke secretly makes a blessing over the young man's forgotten corpse:

"Crooked Warden," Locke muttered under his breath, speaking quickly, "a glass poured on the ground for a stranger without friends. Lord of gallants and fools, ease this man's passage to the Lady of the Long Silence. This was a hell of a way to die. Do this for me and I'll try not to ask for anything for a while. I really do mean that this time."

There is no reason for this scene to be in the book (not that it isn't cool) - there are plenty examples of the upper classes being cruel and bloodthirsty to make the point and if the stiletto wasps are at all relevant beyond providing atmosphere they're certainly not to this book. In fact, its only purpose is to remind us that Locke Lamora is great and to show him, thief and conman that he is, being humane in the face of the world's inhumanity.

Unlike some of the reviews I've read, I've never had a problem with the snappy, modern dialogue and the very modern obscenity. In fact, I genuinely relish it. Unfortunately, it was during RSURS that I realised something that had passed me by in the first book: it's the only kind of dialogue Lynch can write. Everyone sounds the same. Pirates, noblemen, thieves, priests Locke, Jean: they're interchangeable. Witty but interchangeable.

"And now, my dear professional pessimist," said Locke... "my worry merchant, my tireless font of doubt and derision ... what do you have to say to that? "Oh very little to be sure... it's so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan." "That bears some resemblance to sarcasm." "Gods, forefend," said Jean. "You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides comes and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world." "And now you're-" "If only there was a leper handy," interrupted Jean, "so you could lay your hands on him and magically heal him-" "Oh you're just farting out of your mouth because you're jealous."

And so on. And here we have Jean talking to his ladylove:

"Have you really been practicing on barrels Jerome?" "Barrels. Yes. They never laugh, they never ridicule you and they offer no distractions." "Distractions?" "Barrels don't have breasts." "Ah. So what have you been telling these barrels?" "This bottle of brandy," said Jean, "is still too full for me to begin embarrassing myself like that." "Pretend I'm a barrel then." "Barrels don't have br-" "So I've heard. Find the nerve, Valora." "You want me to pretend that you're a barrel, so I can tell you what I was telling barrels back when I was pretending they were you." "Precisely." "Well ... you have ... you have such hoops as I have never seen in any cask on any ship, such shiny and well-fit hoops-" "Jerome-" "And your staves! Your staves ... so well planned, so tightly fit. You are as fine a cask as I ever seen, you marvellous little barrel. To say nothing of your bung-."

See what I mean?

I think in my review of Lies I commented on the deftness and subtlety of the world building - well, in RSURS, the action has moved from a city made of elderglass to a city consisting of islands made of elderglass. Astonishing. And sadly the delicacy of touch seems to have been replaced by the typical fantasy fiction obsession with geographic detail. It's nowhere near Perdido Street Stationbut, as much as I enjoy Lynch's world, there's a bit too much of this sort of thing:

Tal Verrar, the Rose of the Gods, at the westernmost edge of what the Therin people call the civilised world. If you could stand in thin air a thousand yards above Tal Verrar's tallest towers, or float in lazy circles there like the nations of gulls that infest the city's crevices and rooftops, you would see how its vast, dark islands have given this place its ancient nickname. They whirl outward from the city's heart, a series of crescents steadily increasing in size, like the stylised petals of a rose in an artist's mosaic.

And so on for two or more pages at a time. A bit like this review really.

Also it has to be said, the plot makes no sense whatsoever. It attempts to follow the embedded narrative format of the first book but it feels strained: Lynch occasionally plays with chronology, explaining how events came about after they occur, and offers a few reminiscences but it's noticeably a device now, rather than the most natural vehicle to tell the story. And, like the first book, it begins with Locke and Jean mid-heist only to drag them - reluctant and swearing as ever - into much bigger events, allowing the plot to twist, turn, double back on itself and eventually come full circle in a strangely satisfying manner. Except this time, it turns out that the Archon of Tal Verrar wants them to become ... wait for it ... pirates. Yes. Pirates. Two conmen from the streets of Camorr. Pirates. Now, I know that pirates are just inherently cool and you can't go wrong with them but still, come on. What's next? Locke Lamora and some ninjas? Locke Lamora and zombies? I don't know whether to respect the sheer brass bollocks ludicrousness of it or complain bitterly because it has to be the most spurious excuse for a plot I've ever encountered. And the fact that even main characters complain about the stupidity doesn't actually counteract that stupidity:

"Send us out to sea to find an excuse for you, that's what you said," said Locke. "Send us out to sea. Has your brain swelled against the inside of skull? How the screaming fucking hell do you expect the two of us to raise a bloody pirate armada in a place we've never been and convince it to come merrily die at the hands of the navy that bent it over the table and fucked it in the arse last time."

This is Lynch's latest technique, by the way, one I think he might have borrowed from JK Rowling. He seems have developed a tendency to address the inevitable plot holes of his novels by having his characters draw attention to it. To be honest,

fridge logic

doesn't bother me - I don't care how Buffy the Vampire slayer pays the mortgage on her dead mother's house or how Sydney Bristow circles the globe in half an episode - but attempting to pass it off as anything other than what it is offends me. Having the Archon blackmail Locke and Jean into mustering a pirate armada for political reasons is little more than a blatant excuse for the author to have them messing about with pirates, which is in itself fair enough. However, having Locke and Jean constantly bitching about the insanity of the plan even as they enact it only serves to induce bouts of fridge logic before you're even anywhere near the fridge. It also leads to odd little moments like this:

"Why not?" [said Jean] "Why not? We carry your precious misery with us like a holy fucking relic. Don't talk about Sabetha Belacoros. Don't talk about the plays. Don't talk about Jasmer or Espara or any of the schemes we ran. I lived with her for nine years, same as you, and I've pretended she doesn't fucking exist to avoid upsetting you. Well I'm not you. I'm not content to live like an oath-bond monk. I have a life outside your gods-damned shadow."

Err...actually Jean, you're a sidekick. Haven't you noticed? You actually do not have a life outside Locke Lamora's gods-damned shadow. The more Lynch tries to demonstrate to the reader that Jean is a person in his own right the less convincing it becomes. All it does is illustrate the fact that whatever Jean does on his own account is completely meaningless because his only relevance is tied to his supporting role, a role to which he will always return. His short-lived relationship - although actually moderately engaging, while it lasts - is only further evidence of this. You can see its inevitably tragic conclusion approaching on the horizon like the sails of the good ship Obvious.

The other thing I'm feeling a little bit peeved is Lynch's reliance on a technique he seems to have ganked from Alias. Now, I'm not sure if it continues in the later seasons but the early episodes of Alias always end with a cliff-hanger. And at first I used to get tremendously caught up in them. Oh no, I'd cry, Sydney is hanging from a cliff with only her suspender belt between her and certain death. Oh no, Sydney's rival has locked her in the poison-gas filled vault. Oh no, Sydney is being held at gunpoint by the bad guys. And then I'd insist that we watched another episode to find out what was going to happen, only to be faintly disappointed when the desperate, deadly situation resolved itself harmlessly in about two minutes of screen time. RSURS opens with Locke and Jean caught at crossbow-point on the docks and then, gasp, ever-faithful Jean turns on Locke. The novel then spools backwards in time to show you how they got themselves into this mess and, yes, it's arresting except that it's basically just like Alias, a cliff-hanger critical on the surface but ultimately completely meaningless and wrapped up quicker than a streaker at a tennis match. A couple of similar situations happen over the course of the book and, despite the satisfactory resolution of the plot, there's one left right at the end. I suspect I'd be more interested/frustrated by this Tense and Terrible State Of Affairs if the experience of the rest of the novel hadn't led me to the conviction that it's merely there for affect.

Okay, so I've just written four pages of bitching about RSURS but the fact remains that, despite its flaws, despite everything in it that doesn't quite work for me, I still heartily enjoyed it and very nearly loved it. Pirates, for God's sake, pirates! It's not quite as taut as the first book but once Locke and Jean hit the high seas the pace really picks up and the book becomes wonderful fun, sweeping you along on sheer exuberance and panache. And, damn it all, that's good enough for me. Roll on book three.Themes:

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Arthur B

at 01:09 on 2008-02-02It strikes me that the Gentleman Bastard series embodies a problem I have with lots of fantasy series, namely that one book is really enough. I've felt absolutely no urge to go and read RSURS, and most of the things you point out in the review cement that; sure, it seems to be more of the same, and that's well and good - at least it's not a serious decline. On the other hand, one

Lies of Locke Lamora

is enough for me - having read one book, I don't feel as though anything the other books say can really add anything. (I'm also utterly unconvinced that there's enough juice in the Gentleman Bastards concepts to fill 7 books. I mean, for goodness' sake, he's only on the second book in the series and already he's resorted to pirates.)

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empink

at 02:49 on 2008-02-02@ ArthurB: Forsooth, he *will* go to ninjas next.

You know, I had more faith in this guy. I thought he'd at least 'fess up about Sabetha whatshername, or tie the book back to the first one, or do something other than send Jean and Locke to cavort with pirates for no good reason. It made for fantastic cavorting and rather dull and simplistic reading, though-- I won't be buying any more sequels in hardback, or holding on to them out of guilt either.

Oh, and Kyra, the DIALOGUE. Everyone does sound the same, it's so boring. No one is allowed to be stupid, or say frightening things without twisting themselves into witty shapes and cursing fit to kill themselves. It was all right in the first book, but in RSURS, it starts to look like lack of imagination on Lynch's part.

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Arthur B

at 12:04 on 2008-02-02Yeah, I can think of several points in the first book where I had to start reading a conversation again from the beginning because I lost track of who was who. It's this really weird blind spot in Lynch's writing; he can, when he tries, differentiate between characters in terms of disposition, personality, and so forth, and you can tell that by looking at their actions. (To pick the most obvious example, Jean is far more inclined to charge headlong into a fight like a raging bull than Locke is.) But he's chronically incapable of differentiating them when they're speaking.

I can only assume that he finds dialogue difficult (and to be fair, dialogue

difficult), and is trying to compensate by finding a style of dialogue he's quite good at and applying it to everyone.

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Wardog

at 14:23 on 2008-02-04I'm glad the dialogue thing isn't only me ... it's the main problem I have with the series to be honest, despite all my trivial bitching above. After a while, it gets really wearing and the characters all start blurring into each other because I find that it's language rather than behaviour that distinguishes people in books - heh, she says, massively generalising.

I think I must be less bothered by "more of the same" than Arthur is - I genuinely enjoyed both books and I'll happily read more (although I've never splashed out a hardback of either, so the cost of my good will is significantly cheaper than Empink's!) as long as they stay on this kind of level (or get better!). I do find them a nice antidote to ponderous, serious fantasy. I genuinely dig the exuberance and the irreverence.

Also I've been poking about Scott Lynch's personal sites and he seems like a pretty decent, charmingly humble guy...

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Cheriola

at 16:16 on 2014-07-26You know, oddly most of the things you mention didn't bother me at all. Except the utter pointlessness of the opening cliffhanger.

The only thing I did have a problem with is the way Jean shames Locke out of his depression, and Locke keeps apologising for "letting Jean down" in those few weeks for literally the next two years. I mean, in this book, it still reads like he's just mourning/recuperating a little too self-indulgently and maybe like he has a really short bout of alcoholism - but since the next book starts pretty much the same (except Locke has even more good reason to be depressed), and Jean then actually makes a reference to some kind of mental disorder (more something like Freud's innate death wish than depression, but still), it becomes problematic in hindsight. Especially since, either intentionally or not, Locke pretty much reads like a textbook case for bipolar disorder (spending most of each book in a manic phase), if you read all 3 books right after another. So for largely-neurotypical Jean to go "If I can handle our losses, why can't you?" and being sucessful at shaming/angering Locke out of suicidal depressive phases, that's rather problematic in my eyes. I know it fits with the setting that nobody has a clue about modern psychology and how Locke's mood issues are a disease, not willful misbehaviour, but Lynch should find a way to make at least narratively clear that Jean isn't right to do this. Besides, that kind of shaming would just make things worse with a real depressive person.

By the way, I'm fairly sure Locke is supposed to be a straight up trickster hero. Like Robin Hood, or the characters of the show "Leverage". He's not just a crook, he's also a priest and he really does believe in his duty to the dead and that holy mission for class revenge that Father Chains put them all on. (Even if this was retconned into this book and not in the first.) If anything he gets ever kinder from book to book. I think the third one literally points out that Camorr culture is particularly brutal, macho and homophobic compared to all the other city states, and much of Locke's initial darkness is part of his culture (like for example an extreme belief in having to take personal, blood-feud style vengeance) and that this is supposed to be a character flaw. But as he spends time in other cultures, he grows out of some of it. For example, in the first book, he calls the villain homophobic slurs several times. After encountering the queer-positive pirates in the second novel and that little discussion with "I'll try anything once - or 5 or 6 times" guy, he never does that again. And by book 3, when encountering a random pair of gay lovers making out in a garden and being tempted to go through their discarded clothing for their wallets, he stops his kleptomaniac impulse by reminding himself that doing malice to happy lovers would be bad karma.

Also, the losses of his friends, the brush with alcoholism and several with death have seemed to have made him a lot more sympathetic with other people's failings and tragedies. I actually really liked this character development. Yeah, he starts out as a bit of a cock-sure, obnoxious ass, but he does grow up and mellow out over the years, as one should expect.

Heh, but one character actually goes into a rant in the 3rd book about how Father Chains ruined them all for life as hardened, greed-motivated criminals by saddling them with a conscience. So I guess Lynch sees your problem.

By the way, can you really call a character a Mary Sue if literally none of his grand plans for cons ever work out, sometimes because of his own sheer stupidity (e.g. forgetting the cats), sometimes because his mark is just plain cleverer than him (e.g. the paintings), and the author takes an almost perverse delight in beating the crap out of him on a regular basis?

And, as in Lies, the mysterious Sabetha, the apparent love of Locke's life, is alluded to but remains absent: for fuck's sake, Lynch, stop it. You know she's just going to be a total let down after a build up like this.

I thought so, too, and got annoyed at the on-the-pedestal-putting. But now that I've read book 3, which features Sabetha both at about age 30 and when they were both teenagers: She's not. She's really, truly not. In fact, I was genuinely amazed at Sabetha - she's the best feminist (NOT straw-feminist!) character I've ever seen a male author write. And even if half of her discussions with Locke function mainly to introduce the male part of the audience to concepts like male entitlement to female sexuality, Nice Guy behaviour, Shroedinger's Rapist, victim blaming, the general frustration inherent in being an ambitious, highly talented woman in a patriarchal society and the frustration of being in love a with patriarchally socialised guy (who messes up occasionally even if he tries very, very hard not to, and who can't help the unfair male privilege that said society gives him), and that what feminists most want in a man is the ability to listen and learn - even if she's a bit of a mouthpiece in that regard: It's for a good and noble cause, and the author's heart is in the right place. And besides, there still is a clever, head-strong, angry, conflicted, and of course snarky character behind all the Issues. Her characterisation and reasons for leaving are thoroughly believeable, and also function as an Author's Saving Throw by actually pointing out in-text that the worldbuilding in the first book was problematic. Locke and Sabetha are still in love when they meet again, and they are surprisingly mature about their falling out and their attempts to fix it (if not in their professional rivalry...)

And Locke's adoring pedestal-putting, claiming her to be the love of his life, and his whole fixation on her are just that, quite literally - and the text seems aware that it is creepy, and the only thing that saves it is the fact that Locke is absolutely respectful of Sabetha's wishes and never, ever would force so much as a kiss on her. (I found the retconned-in reason for the fixation a bit sad, though: Until book 3, Locke could be read as demisexual for only ever being romantically/sexually attracted to one person. Then it's retconned as having creepy magical reasons that I don't want to spoil.)

The only thing about Sabetha I found a little... amusing, was that teenage Locke was almost too understanding and willing to accept anything feminism-related that she says and to change accordingly. Like I bet the author wishes he was at the age of 16, now that he finally gets it. Still, again, if it serves as a positive role model for male teenage readers, I'm fine with that kind of Mary-Sue-ism. Maybe it's a little preachy, especially since Lynch tries to cover so many topics, but I was just smiling through the whole thing. We do need more books like this.

The con plot of book 3 is a bit meh (basically it's a satire about 'democratic' elections, where Sabetha and Locke are press-ganged into controlling the campaign of one rivaling but politically indistinguishable party each, with all methods allowed short of murder, all ostensibly just for the entertainment of the people who really control the power in this 'republic' - their lives are being threatened to keep them in line, but it just doesn't have the personal stakes and sense of danger that the previous books had), and the teenage flashback is largely about the gang having to stage an annoyingly faux-Shakespearean play while conning a noble into paying for the production. So the relationship between Locke and Sabetha and the object lesson in how to make feminism 101 easily digestible in a fantasy novel, really are the main draws of the book. The meta plot for the series gets going right at the end, though. Which to me felt a bit like jumping the shark, but YMMV.

But I really do recommend the 3rd book, even if the plot is a little weak. Just for the sheer surrealness of reading a male author who manages to get practically everything right with regards to feminism. I mean, I've just read Elizabeth Bear's "Carnival" thinking she must have been the one to teach Lynch - but even she had like two dozen points in that ecofeminist polemic that made me headdesk.

(That book also needs a Ferret review, by the way. It's not thoroughly bad, as such, but the social philosophising made me uncomfortable and I wasn't always sure if I was supposed to be, and the worldbuilding has huge holes at least from my biologist/ecologist point of view. Still, queer protagonists are rare and deserve a mention.)

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Robinson L

at 20:15 on 2016-12-21

Cheriola: You know, oddly most of the things you mention didn't bother me at all. Except the utter pointlessness of the opening cliffhanger.

That pretty much sums up my feelings about the book, too. I guess I just think of this series as running on Rule of Cool and nothing else. Locke and Jean become pirates? Sure, why not? Doesn’t make sense? Who cares? And of course they’re going to complain about how ridiculous the Archon’s plan for them is, but that’s part of the fun.

Dialogue’s all the same? Ehn, so what? It’s all fun. And like you, I relish the modern snappiness/obscenity.

I mean, I don’t blame Wardog or Empink or anyone else who is bothered by this stuff, but just for myself, it seemed fine.

Wardog: I genuinely dig the exuberance and the irreverence.

That’s me, all the way (well, more like ~90% …)

I think the series is of two minds about whether Locke is actually supposed to be kind of an awful person or a stand up guy who happens to be a criminal—but as explained in my comment to the

Lies

review, I’ve chosen not to engage with those aspects and treat the whole thing as a rollicking adventure yarn. I will, however, once again point out a couple instances from this book of Character We’re Supposed to Root For Acts Like a Shitheel and Is In No Way Critiqued For It By the Text presently.

Re: description

And sadly the delicacy of touch seems to have been replaced by the typical fantasy fiction obsession with geographic detail.

Okay, here we come to a criticism I wholeheartedly agree with. Ye GODS but the description got tedious at times. It got tedious on

audiobook

; I shudder to think of trying to slog through it in text format.

I didn’t so much resent the book ending on a cliffhanger – although by the time I got to it, <Republic of Thieveslt/i> was already out, so I knew I’d be reading the next installment in a few months. Mostly, though, I was just relieved the cliffhanger revolved around Locke’s survival rather than Jean’s, because there’s a chance, however slight, of the series killing off Locke’s sidekick before the final book, whereas there’s absolutely none with Locke. So I appreciate the book making it absolutely clear that it’s not really a question of

the poisoned character will survive, but

how

His [Jean’s] short-lived relationship - although actually moderately engaging, while it lasts - is only further evidence of this. You can see its inevitably tragic conclusion approaching on the horizon like the sails of the good ship Obvious.

I think you undersell the extent to which the tragic conclusion was telegraphed beforehand. We’re talking

a MegaBrooks at the very least

. And I don’t think it would be humanly possible for the way it played out to have been any more cliché. Not to mention the whole fridging angle. Easily the lowest point of the series so far for me.

I thought RSURS handled the aftermath of said inevitable tragic conclusion a heck of a lot less annoyingly than most other books with similar big deaths I’ve encountered, though (lookin’ at you,

Harry Potter

). Jean is, of course, grief-stricken, and the book portrays the depth of his unhappiness while mostly avoiding an Epic Angst Sequence (seriously, there are few things in fiction less engaging than characters sitting around moping), and even sets up some genuinely touching moments, such as in the immediate aftermath of Ezri’s death, when Locke talks Jean down by threatening to throw himself at Jean, forcing the latter to beat the crap out of him (Locke), “and then you’ll feel terrible.”

Yes, pretending Jean is anything more than Locke’s sidekick is on par with “suddenly, Harry realized Dumbledore had actually been a fully-fleshed, three-dimensional character the entire time.” (Book 3 confirms this, when, after Locke is all patched up, Jean slips happily back into his role as Locke’s Number 2 without a hint of lingering grief over Ezri’s death, even as he’s helping out his best buddy romance Sabetha.) However, I thought the conflict between Locke and Jean set off by this outburst of Jean’s you quote in the article was actually pretty decent in terms of a “tensions between the series’ Main Pairing” subplot, which are usually of the eye-bleedingly terrible variety.

And what’s this guff about “moderately engaging?” I found it one of the two most engrossing parts of the story, along with some of Locke and Jean’s interactions. Jean and Ezri are adorable in every single scene they’re together: they bond over martial arts (with Jean being impressed that tiny Ezri actually managed to take him down at first), and their mutual affection for the Gentleman Bastardverse’s Shakespeare analogue. And then there’s the celebration scene where the two of them officially get together, soon after Jean has had his argument with Locke. And he’s keeping his distance from Ezri and it seems like at first he’s heeding Locke’s “you need to stay away from her, bro” bullshit, but it turns out, no, he’s craning away because he’s near-blind and he’s trying to see her properly and it’s incredibly cute you guys, like seriously.

Another thing I really like about the Jean / Ezri relationship is that the presentation feels balanced. I instantly get why Ezri is attracted to Jean as much as why Jean is attracted to Ezri, and in that scene during the celebration where, of course, Jean is being all shy and awkward, there’s a part where we suddenly see Ezri being shy and awkward as well. I’ve read a lot of similar romance arcs—especially those told from the male perspective—where the viewpoint character is vulnerable and complex while their love interest is all strong and confident and basically put on a pedestal.

I actually found it more engaging than Locke’s relationship with Sabetha in

Republic of Thieves

. While I agree with Cheriola that Sabetha is a great character, we don’t get much sense of her interior life, and the only times she displays vulnerability are when it directly relates to Locke. Also, it takes a long time into the story for her to tell Locke and the reader why she’s attracted to him, and I don’t feel the text really

shows

her being attracted the way RSRUS does with Ezri.

RSURS opens with Locke and Jean caught at crossbow-point on the docks and then, gasp, ever-faithful Jean turns on Locke. The novel then spools backwards in time to show you how they got themselves into this mess and, yes, it's arresting except that it's basically just like Alias, a cliff-hanger critical on the surface but ultimately completely meaningless and wrapped up quicker than a streaker at a tennis match.

Oh my god, that was the worst; maybe even worse than Ezri’s death.

I detest flash-forward openings as a general rule. I feel like there

may

have been one or two I’ve encountered which actually worked okay, but if so I can’t remember them now. Those possible examples aside, at best, flash-forward openings contribute f***-all of substance to the story, and at worst they undermine immersion by distracting the reader from the current action with questions which aren’t going to be answered for another 200-400 pages.

To be fair, some flash-forward openings, while still crap, sometimes do something clever with the reader’s expectations (I remember one where a guy wakes up and wonders what the heck is going on, and when we get to that part of the book in turns out the original guy died, and this is a clone, so that waking up sequence is technically his birth). RSURS is not one of those stories, though. The sequence takes on no new significance or added meaning for having read the rest of the book up to that point.

But wait, it gets

better

! Jean turning on Locke is in itself not terribly surprising: they are master con artists, after all. The linchpin (no pun intended) of the tension to this scene is that Jean fails to give the hand signals which mean “this is a scam, play along,” leaving Locke, and the readers, to wonder if this is a real betrayal, after all. Then, after Jean has dispatched the two assassins he says: “Oh, yeah, didn’t you see me giving the hand signal which means ‘this is a scam, play along’?” and Locke is all like, “Gosh, man, I must’ve missed it.” And that’s an end to it. Are you f**king kidding me?

Granted, this sort of stuff happens all the time in real life, but narratively speaking, it’s the worst kind of cheap trick for creating false tension. It

might

have been forgivable if there were some long-term consequences to the whole business. Locke and Jean have both been dosed with a slow-acting poison at this point in the story, and I thought maybe Locke’s failure to notice the hand signal was an early warning sign that the poison is beginning to effect his perception. But

. Or maybe Jean really was considering turning on Locke for some reason or other and then had a change of heart, and made up the part about the hand signal. No sign of that, either.

Look, I’m glad Jean doesn’t actually betray Locke, because as story turns go, that would have been at least as irritating as Ezri’s death, probably worse. But first you hit me with this bullshit flash-forward, then you double down on the bullshit by revealing the whole thing was just a trifling misunderstanding with no effing consequences whatsoever? What a waste of time.

… So yeah, on balance, I was not well pleased or amused by this sequence, especially as our hook into the main story.

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Robinson L

at 20:30 on 2016-12-21And now it’s time for another installment of Robinson Dissects the Ethics of the

Gentleman Bastard

Books. This week’s episode: Captain Zamira Drakasha Edition.

So yeah, Zamira is all kinds of awesome, but like with the other main characters, it’s best to turn one’s critical thinking off when thinking about her actions, or it becomes very hard to think of her as any kind of hero.

Case in point: she takes Locke, Jean, and the rest of their sorry crew onto her ship as probationary pirates. You do good, you play by the rules, you become full crew members; you step out of line, you die. All pretty standard stuff, except it turns out when she says she will kill you for breaking the rules, she means it.

One of the guys who originally signed on with Locke and Jean now despises the two of them intensely and is kind of an asshole in general, so the reader is primed to dislike him. He’s getting picked on by some of Zamira’s crew members, and finally he gets pushed too far and grabs a weapon to defend himself with. But laying hands on a weapon is against Zamira’s rules, so she has him executed on the spot. For the kind of mistake that anybody could make. And the reader is supposed to be okay with this because the guy was made to be unlikable. It could just as easily have been someone like Jean or Locke making a similar mistake, prompting Zamira to execute them, and the reader to hate her, in turn. We’re not invited to judge her character based on her actions, but on how we feel about the characters she acts against.

Later, there’s the time when we first see Zamira’s

Poison Orchid

attack a merchant ship, which involves pretending to be in peril themselves. As the pirates are preparing to board the ship, one of Zamira’s lieutenants tells the new recruits “if any of you are feeling moral qualms about attacking these merchants, just remember that they thought we were in distress, and only came to help us when we signaled we were willing to give them unconditional salvage rights.” Which, if you stop to think about it, is a

really

clever rationalization to psych people up to potentially commit an atrocity. I mean, if that were the point of the sequence—which it isn’t—I would’ve said it was brilliant. For all they know, the captain of the merchant ship was just a huge asshole, and literally everyone else aboard was clamoring to help the

Poison Orchid

right from the beginning.

It also seemed like, in the three way struggle between the Archon, Stragos; the proprietor of the big gambling den, Requin; and the members of the Priori; Stragos winds up being the Designated Villain of the book, not because his actions are worse than those of Requin or the Priori (we’ve already established they can be equally vicious), but because it happens to be Stragos’ actions which got Jean’s girlfriend killed. He gets punished, whereas Requin and the Priori members get happy endings, only because Stragos hurt someone the reader is supposed to care about.

Locke and Jean are quick to forgive the Priori member who was sending assassins after them because the Bondsmages told him the two Gentleman Bastards were going to cause him trouble. Which, okay, the assassins all failed, and all got killed, but by the logic of this story they were probably all Bad Men who deserved what they got, so no harm, no foul, right? Except, no, there

was

harm. One of the attempts to kill Locke and Jean was a really convoluted scheme to give them free drinks which were laced with poison. And the thing about convoluted schemes is that they’re full of holes, as in this one where Locke and Jean weren’t interested in the drink in question, and passed theirs on to the dockworker at the next table, who proceeded to die in their stead. No one in the story ever gets any kind of comeuppance for this murder, ‘cause I guess we’re not supposed to care about red shirts.

So basically, what I’m trying to say here is that the ethics of this series are all kinds of messed up if you look closely.

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Robinson L

at 00:00 on 2016-12-22

Cheriola: book 3, when encountering a random pair of gay lovers making out in a garden and being tempted to go through their discarded clothing for their wallets, he stops his kleptomaniac impulse by reminding himself that doing malice to happy lovers would be bad karma.

That was cute. Another very minor point I appreciated from that book was in a scene where Locke has to hold Sabetha as part of this play they’re performing and the narrator (speaking broadly from Locke’s perspective) talks about what it’s like for someone to hold another person whom they’re attracted to. It would have been

easy to gender the subject of attraction in that sentence as female, or to say something like “a person of the opposite sex whom they’re attracted to.” But no, it’s a general statement, and so the book sticks with generalities, not making stereotypes about the genders or orientations involved. Again, a minor point, but one I’ve seen even a lot of nominally well-intentioned works fail at, so I was mildly impressed.

I was genuinely amazed at Sabetha - she's the best feminist (NOT straw-feminist!) character I've ever seen a male author write.

I think it was this part which finally clinched it for me to read the series. As a male author myself, I can’t help but take it as a challenge.

As mentioned earlier, though, I feel like we didn’t get much sense of Sabetha’s internal life, except as it relates to Locke, and she has to tell Locke (and the reader) what particularly attracts her to Locke, rather than the book showing us.

It probably was implausible to have 16-year-old Locke be so receptive to Sabetha’s Feminism 101 lectures, but for me it was preferable to the second hand embarrassment of having Locke throw out insipid, MRA-apologist arguments for Sabetha to shoot down.

Since I’m not seeing a

Republic of Thieves

review on the horizon, I suppose I might as well give my thoughts on the book in general. Overall, I liked it, and Sabetha is a fine addition to the series’ cast.

I also kind of dug the way the main caper of the book was not a high stakes life or death game of taking on some brutal, affluent, entitled snot or other, but rather fixing an upcoming election. It shows you can have all the same drama and intrigue without putting countless lives on the line, which comes as a nice change of pace. (Granted, it turns out there are countless lives on the line in the Bondsmagi’s larger game, but that only comes up after the whole thing is over, so in my view it still counts.)

My political sensibilities being what they are, I particularly liked the election angle to the plot because the book depicts it as 1) an aristocratic exercise with no pretense of populist input (only a small fraction of the city’s residents have the franchise), and 2) a complete farce in any case, because who gets elected has f**k all to do with who’s better leadership material or has the best policies – the book dispenses with such preposterous fig leaves and dives straight into the real heart of electoral politics: naked corruption, double dealing, and general chicanery. There’s also the implication that who gets elected is ultimately trivial in terms of how Karthain is actually run, because the real ruling elite (in this case, the Bondsmagi), make damn sure that in practice, it gets run exactly the way they believe produces the greatest benefit for the city’s inhabitants. (The book seems to suggest that what they think is best for Karthain really is, which is where its views and mine diverge, but other than that, I’m completely on board with the book’s representation.)

Locke’s backstory seemed … really out of place. Given how magic has always taken such a tertiary role in the books up to that point, I didn’t expect it to play such a huge part in Locke’s past. This felt like the backstory to a character in a very different type of story, honestly. But other than that it’s just kind of, “whatever.”

#Ferretbrain #Wardog #Red Seas Under Red Skies #Scott Lynch #The Lies of Locke Lamora

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spottoydog · 6 years

Text

In the episode Deep Dive we not only get to see Marco wield Star’s wand (successfully) but we also see something that has yet to happen before to anyone who isn’t mewman or a part of the Butterfly family: the appearance of cheek marks/emblems.

So what does this mean? Does Marco have a secret heritage connected with the Butterflies? Highly doubtful-- since that plot thread is currently tied around another character and I don’t think the writes would retread the same idea of “secret Butterfly,” especially since the other main lead is already a Butterfly royal (and love interest, I don’t think Nefcy/Disney is going to pull a Game of Thrones.)

However, the subjects of heritage and inheritance are some of the main overarching themes of Svtfoe, so the possibly of Marco being tied to something bigger than he is as the “human lead” is more likely than we may think. Already there are two things that come to mind that hint to Marco being destined for greater things that have yet to come into fruition. One being the surprisingly ever looming presence of the Blood Moon, that so far has only been noticed (though never directly acknowledged) by Marco, even long after the Blood Moon’s last official showing (every 667 years.) The other is the still as yet to be explained foreshadowing in the floor carvings of St. Olga’s that suggest to tie together with both Star and Marco: A crescent moon encircling the sun and locking a star between its horns.

In all honesty that could be the ultimate significance of Marco’s moon cheeks, the representation of his and Star’s bond. Marco’s motivation to finally use the wand at the end of Deep Dive was to reestablish the “lost connection” he had with Star when she entered the realm of Magic and is what inevitably snaps her back to reality.

Maybe that’s not the whole story, but it is currently the most complete one we have so far…

Crescent moons are a tricky thing to pin any solid one-to-one symbolic meaning to in this show, since we see them in many places already: King River’s scepter, Star’s pajamas, and in multiple occasions we see crescent moons tied to Eclipsa. Eclipsa’s chapter even has her cheek emblem superimposed on a crescent/eclipse symbol, and considering the effect reading the chapter had on Marco, that may come into play again now that the chapter’s author is an active player in the story (she’s already called Marco “adorable,” but hey that’s been an established fact sine episode one.)

Classically a crescent has been visual shorthand for the moon across cultures and time and its symbolic use has been tied to a multitude of ideas. Ideas such as emotions and the unconscious, maternal and nurturing instincts, nature and the spiritual, and the list could go on. To go through every possible correlation and make an objective statement on how it could or could not relate to Marco would be tedious and lead to a lot of moot points.

However, there is one aspect of the moon present both in myth and popular culture that I will be elaborating on: The moon as a catalyst for transformation.

Let’s go back to season one, and revisit one of the most foreshadow heavy glimpses into Marco’s subconscious (and a heavy Blood Moon presence) the nightmare he had at the beginning of the episode Red Belt.

Marco emerges from a glowing green fissure, similar to the one created by the cleaved wand, candle in hand and in nothing but his sleepwear. He then notices a rather feral looking Star chewing on an obi (that could be his current green belt or red one he’s searching for, since everything in this shot looks green.) After letting out a high pitched screech, Star runs into a tunnel beneath broken lockers on all fours with the sash still in her mouth. Obviously put off by this odd behavior Marco questionably says Stars name, unsure of what the heck he just saw, but then he turns and notices a solitary locker and panics at not being able to remember his lock combo. After fiddling with it the combination lock begins to shake violently and burst apart on its own, the door swinging open to a cascade of mewberty heart petals that conceal a padded inside and a violet tinged Marco dressed in a suit and tie, hands folded.

The obvious connotations of seeing himself like a corpse in a casket are comically subverted by Marco’s vocal distress of seeing himself in a suit. Cutting back to the locker/coffin we see the figure in the suit replaced by Mr. Candle who asks him, “What are your plans for the future, Mr.Diaz?”

There it is, the big question of Marco’s season 3 arc and why he came left Earth for Mewni: to discover his future. Marco’s search for his red belt in his dream could be interpreted as an allegory for his search for his identity/development and growth as a person. The red belt is what his heart was fixed on obtaining in the episode and signified the next step of advancement in martial arts, which has always been a core part of Marco’s character and how he’s been able to keep up with Star in fighting evil monsters (Buff Frog has called him “Karate Boy” and a lot of Marco centric episodes in the first two seasons focus this aspect of his.) But by the end of the dream the red belt gets swept up by the Blood Moon, just like all his friends and classmates who have “moved on with their lives,” and Marco is left bare once more.

Marco’s karate while helpful in the first two seasons, on its own is not going to be of use against enemies like Toffee, Miss Heinous/Meteora, or Mina Loveberry. Nor was his normal “safe kid” reason and caution able to bring back Star from the magic dimension. Marco is going to have to use magic again in the future, and I have reason to believe it’s going to drastically change him.

So let’s talk about…mewberty.

Specifically why dream Marco was buried underneath mewberty petals in the locker. Now you could interpret it as Marco’s subconscious being afraid of getting smothered to death by Star’s uh…webbing, which can be symbolically read as him being afraid of getting caught up in and hurt by Star’s confusing teenage emotions. The fact that Star is depicted a feral mess absconding with an important symbol of his identity at the beginning of the dream and as guilty looking party when he failed to obtain red belt at the end of it, Marco’s subconscious seems pretty messed up over Star either way (and that was before he knew Star had a crush on him and realized his own feelings for her.) But Marco’s possibly buried feelings of resentment towards Star aside, while the locker in the dream is presented as a coffin, in the context of the episode Mewberty it has also been thematically used as a cocoon. Remember that Star went through her own transformation in a locker, a thematically appropriate vessel for a teenager’s magical monster puberty. Before Deep Dive and Battle for Mewni I thought that the locker in the dream meant that Marco was going to be transformed by the corrupted half of the cleaved wand and Toffee’s influence (thinking back to the end of Strom the Castle) and that Marco was going to loose agency of his future development. But now that the wand has been reformed and Marco has used the wand of his own volition resulting in a temporary pair of cheek marks, I think it’s even more plausible that Marco’s decisions…

To go to Mewni (for Star)

To use magic (for Star)

…are going to eventually culminate into Marco’s ultimate identity, resulting in the Marco we know to “die” and a new Marco to emerge. Not to mention Marco already went through normal human puberty in ‘Running With Scissors’, off-screen yes but still we’ve already seen what adult Marco looks like. (Side note: being a macho adult and going on adventures with Heckapoo are also things Marco gave up for Star, twice.) The next logical step has to be seeing what freaky magical monster puberty does to Marco, right?

And speaking of monsters, let’s talk next about… Monster Arm.

I think a lot of us agree that this thing is going to come back, and since Marco had just recently used dark magic, that just might be what agitates its reappearance for the second half of season three. I don’t however think it’s going to come back the same way it did the first time as a parasitic appendage, or else Star can just zap it back to normal. Will it try playing the same tricks on Marco again? Maybe… It did try and prey on Marco’s pride and desires to get him to trust it the first time around, but now Marco’s priorities have shifted almost entirely from season one. Marco doesn’t want to beat Jeremy, get Jackie’s affection, or be known as a “misunderstood bad boy” by his classmates. Now he wants to make sure Star is safe and support her as a friend and squire. So I see this possible return going a number of ways: monster arm could point out Marco’s inability to protect Star from Toffee level treats, it could point out how Marco keeps putting Star first, giving so much and getting little in return, it could even bring up Star’s confession and the emotional tailspin that Marco has been burring under “squire duties.” (Gee, can you imagine the irony if monster virus called Star a “bad influence’ for Marco?)

My hope is that if Marco’s monster virus does return it will not remain as parasitic entity trying to undermine Marco, but will reflect more of its last proclamation of being “a part of you now,” that Marco will have to accept and make peace with…and give Marco a sweet full body monster transformation power!

“So what are you saying Spot? That Marco going to go through some sort of Monster version of Mewberty, just because is cheeks glowed crescent moons that one time he used magic? That’s crazy talk, crazy talk!”

Now here me out…I’m about to come full circle with this post. The next phrase you will read in this essay I spent way too much time on will explain everything:

Werewolf Martial-Artist.

“Spot what does Marco’s Halloween costume have to do with this?”

I don’t know reader, what other visual media has spiky haired hand to hand fighters that transform into hulking monsters under the light of the full moon?

It’s a DBZ reference! You know, that thing Marco’s original character pitch was a super-fan of and rival to Star’s Sailor Moon obsession. And if Star dressing up as Ludo end up as foreshadowing to her brief possession of his body at the end of battle for Mewni, then by golly so can Marco’s costume be foreshadowing as well!

#star vs the forces of evil #cartoon theory #star vs foe #svtfoe #svtfoe season 3 #marco diaz #deep dive #mewberty #monster arm #speculation #let marco go through magic puberty

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fandomverseofanthony · 7 years

Text

The Vampyre Of Time And Memory

Hey guys, it’s me. I. bet. you. thought. that. I. waaaaaaaas. DEAD!

Whaaaaaaat? TWO references to Queen’s of the Stone Age? (Hint: Druncle’s lyrics are not of my creation, but a song of QotSA)

Jumping back into the massive fandomverse of Fallout, I wrote a story featuring @ohmdo‘s Druncle and @vectober‘s V! (Also mention of @spacialkiwi‘s Trish and @commonwealth-hugs‘s Abby!) Enjoy!

The gentle feeling of warmth. A familiar caress of the cheek. Hazy memories of a better time, long since passed...

Waking from a deep slumber, Anthony was disappointed to find that he was all alone, laying within a heap of scrap metal. A single ray of light pierced through the smog, beaming down on him. Raising a hand in front of his face, he tried his best to keep himself from being blinded.

Anthony’s mind felt scrambled, unsure of how he got into his current position. He could only assume that the feeling was similar to a hangover. Letting out a long groan as he shifted uncomfortably in place, he combed through his memories, looking for anything that might provide some insight. His concentration, however, was broken by the arrival of a stranger, their head eclipsing the sun. Straining to focus, his vision corrected itself just in time to see that the person standing over him was pointing the barrel of their pistol directly at him.

“Funny… I don’t remember scheduling a wake-up call.” Anthony quipped, subtly scanning the area for something to defend himself with, just in case.

It wasn’t his first time being held at gunpoint, nor would it likely be the last. Anthony’s bad luck usually put him into unfortunate situations such as this, rarely able to talk his way out of them, but it never stopped him from trying. Experience taught him that not everyone in the wasteland was a crazed psychopath.

The figure stood there, stoic, dressed from head to toe in black, including the mask that was keeping their identity a mystery. Their attire reminded him of the Crimson Dragoons, from the Anchorage Reclamation simulation, but far less gaudy. They were fairly tall, with the tactical clothing clinging to their toned, muscular build. He also noticed that his “Peacemaker” gauss rifle was slung over their shoulder. Whoever they were, it was clear that they were either the remnant of a well-trained group of operatives, or really good at looking the part.

“Who are you? How do you get here?” the stranger questioned. Their voice was deep, yet smooth, not at all what Anthony was expecting.

“Where exactly is ‘here’?” Anthony noted, single brow raised, hoping that the person would be friendly enough to provide an answer.

Despite the stranger’s mask obscuring their expression, Anthony was certain that they were frowning beneath it. Pulling the hammer of the pistol back, they held it closer to Anthony, finger hovering over the trigger. “I’m not fond of repeating myself. Answer the question, or I’ll have to waste a perfectly good bullet. You’ll be stuck bleeding out slowly and painfully…” they insisted, a tinge of annoyance in their voice.

Keeping his composure, Anthony complied with the individual’s request. “My name is Anthony, and I honestly have no idea how I got here.”

The stranger hesitated, leaving Anthony feeling slightly uneasy. The silence was almost unbearable, waiting to see whether they would believe him, or if he was soon to be left in an unmarked grave. The person cautiously holstered their pistol, while Anthony let out a heavy sigh of relief in response. Pulling him out of the heap, he took a moment to observe his surroundings. Below the hill was a makeshift gathering of houses, barricades, and crude defenses. It was the lighthouse that stood behind him that gave the location. Kingsport.

Anthony remembered visiting Kingsport in the past, but it was nothing like its current state. He wondered exactly how long he had been out for, and why he still couldn’t remember much before waking up in that heap. His last memory was in Goodneighbor, assisting Trish with some routine repairs. Anything after that was fractured, at best.

Taking a moment to brush himself off, his attention returned to the stranger. Reaching out, he attempted to shake their hand, having a few questions of his own. “Now that we’re all nice and civil, how long has Kingsport been like this? Last time I was here, there was nothing but abandoned buildings, left over from before the war. Now this place seems to be flourishing, I can only assume thanks to you…” he paused, trying to get a name out of them.

The person firmly shook Anthony’s hand. “Druncle.”

“…Druncle?” Anthony’s brow raised once again, as a slight smirk formed, wondering if it was a nickname of some kind.

They nodded. “M-hm.” The two laughed.

Druncle held out Anthony’s rifle, “I believe this belongs to you.”

As the weapon exchanged hands, Anthony paused. Giving a warm smile, it was as if he was reunited with an old friend. “Yeah, this has gotten me out of a lot of trouble. Saved a lot of lives too.”

Druncle placed a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Let me give you the tour.”

Anthony remained in Kingsport, helping wherever his talents could best be put to use. Druncle and Anthony didn’t speak much with one another at first, but something about Druncle made Anthony feel that they were kindred spirits. Every now and then they would share a drink, learning a little more about one another, sharing exploits of action, adventure, horror, drama, and the truly bizarre. Druncle typically favored a small glass of Scotch, while Anthony stuck with his usual bottle of Nuka Cola.

Despite the sense of accomplishment Anthony felt from helping out, and the joy from making new friends, something didn’t feel right. He felt hollow, incomplete, as if a major part of him was missing, yet he had no clue what was causing it. Night after night, he found it harder to sleep. It was slowly taking its toll.

One particular night, Anthony wandered towards the lighthouse, drawn by a haunting melody drifting through the night, telling a story of love and loss. Rounding the building, Anthony was surprised to see Druncle sitting at the top of the lighthouse, on the ledge, solemnly strumming a worn wooden guitar, while overlooking the sea.

“Where O where have you been my love? Where O where can you be? It’s been so long, since the moon has gone. O what a wreck you’ve made me. Are you there over the ocean? Are you there, up in the sky? Until the return of my love, this lullaby…” Druncle gently placed the guitar to his side, sensing Anthony’s presence.

Sitting down next to Druncle, Anthony queried, “Can’t sleep either, huh?”

It wasn’t the real question that he wanted to ask. His curiosity clawing at the back of his mind, insisting that he know more about the song, but Anthony knew better than to pry into someone else’s business.

Druncle lowered his head, finding it difficult to hide his heavy heart.

Anthony shifted his focus away from Druncle, choosing to peer beyond the horizon as he continued. “Don’t worry, I get it. You don’t have to answer. We’ve both seen a lot, been through a lot, and it’s a hefty burden to bear…” Leaning back, he looked up at what used to be the sky, now nothing more than lingering fallout. “…sometimes I just ask myself why I always seem to survive, while those around me tend to die. Is it because my continued existence is some sort of punishment? Am I paying for something I’ve done or should have done?”

Anthony didn’t expect a response from Druncle. Who truly knew the answer to his question? Even just being able to get such feelings off of his chest, sharing his thoughts with someone who knows what it feels like, brought him some semblance of peace.

Druncle placed a comforting hand on Anthony’s shoulder. Rising to their feet, guitar in hand, they offered, “You ever think that... you’re here because there’s some great purpose out there for you? Waiting and all that?” They couldn’t help but let out a drained chuckle, as Anthony waved them off. “Yeah, me neither.”

Patting Anthony’s shoulder, Druncle slowly stepped away, turning back just long enough to finish, “You can’t save everyone… guilt doesn’t change that fact. You’ll get lost in the dark feeling it. Trust me…”

As Druncle disappeared into the lighthouse, Anthony felt a chill run down his spine, putting him on edge. Jumping up, he nervously looked all around him, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. Quickly making his way down the lighthouse stairs, he almost slammed into a well-dressed women, on his way out of the door.

“Ah, so this is where you’ve been hiding…” the woman scoffed.

The woman’s hair was as sleek and black as a raven, peaking out of what looked like a summer hat, both it and her dress matching in shade, with only a hint of purple throughout. Her skin was a pale bronze, with dark eyes that felt as if they were piercing his very soul.

Before Anthony could even open his mouth to speak, she interjected, “I’ve no time for games, and any questions you may have for me will all be answered with this…” she held out an ornate rose, made out of various kinds of metal.

Anthony was hesitant at first, this encounter definitely falling under the ‘truly bizarre’ category, but something about the woman seemed oddly familiar. Against his better judgement, he felt as if he could trust her. The moment his fingers made contact with the rose, it felt as if the last puzzle piece finally clicked into place.

The flood of memories, of events that once were, but now were nothing more than a bad dream, rushed through his mind. Anthony nearly lost his balance, as the onslaught sent him reeling backwards. Horrific visions of Goodneighbor in ruins, those closest to him either dead or experiencing great pain and suffering. Anthony’s eyes welled up with tears as he was forced to relive every agonizing moment. Among all of the darkness, one beacon of light managed to shine through. Alaelys.

Anthony carefully peeled back the petals of the rose, finding a wedding ring inside. The ring he made for the love of his life, the one person he was willing to go to any lengths to be with and keep safe. He made the ring, and the rose that it was encased in, in hopes of asking for her hand in marriage. It was on that day that he planned on proposing to Alaelys. It was that day that Elder Maxson loyalists ambushed Goodneighbor, laying waste to the town, getting revenge for the death of their leader.

In the aftermath, a sharp dressed man appeared before Anthony, black vest, slacks, and dress shoes to match his slicked-back hair, a stark contrast to his warm skin and crimson red dress shirt. A devilish individual that Anthony had run into time and time again, offering to fix everything. All it would cost him was that which he holds most dear, Alaelys.

The gentleman referred to himself as Guile, insisting that all he would do was rewrite reality, ensuring that Anthony and Alaelys would never have met, while also ensuring that several painful events and deaths never come to pass. To make things easier, he would even make sure that Anthony would not remember the deal, and what was lost.

Anthony asked for a moment to decide. For once Guile was willing to wait, sure that this time he would get his way. Vanishing into thin air, Guile’s laughter still echoed in his absence. Anthony called out a letter, no, a name. V.

A woman stepped out from the shadows of Goodneighbor, the same woman that handed Anthony the rose. Anthony knew her, through his friend Abby. He knew that she hated Guile, or more accurately what Guile is, what she is. They were beings not of this world, of great and terrible power, and that’s exactly what he needed at that time.

Anthony pleaded for V to help him make things right, outsmarting Guile in the process. So many lives would be saved, and V gets to revel in the fact that Guile was tricked by a mere mortal. The very thought of it caused her lips to curl into an inhuman smile. She agreed to help Anthony out, taking the flower as part of the plan, but only because he was a close friend of Abby’s and for the humiliation that would be inflicted upon her nemesis.

Snapping back to the present, Anthony wiped the tears from his eyes. V was taken by surprise by Anthony’s sudden embrace, squeezing her tight. “Th-Thank you…” he stammered, almost at a loss for words.

V wasn’t sure how to respond. The only other person to ever have hugged her, and lived, was Abby, and she knew Abby would not be pleased if she killed Anthony. Instead, she stroked his hair, as if he was a pet, before lightly forcing them apart. V nodded, blinking out of existence as she stepped back. Looking back down at the rose, Anthony knew there was only one more thing left to do…

The following morning, Druncle was going through the usual routine of patrolling Kingsport, but felt as if something was missing. They were surprised to find that Anthony was nowhere to be found. Arriving at the lighthouse, there was a bottle of Scotch with a note pinned to it.

Hey Druncle, I’m sorry that I left without saying goodbye, but every second counts. I guess you were right about having a greater purpose. Maybe we all have one, and it just takes being at the right place at the right time to realize that. I appreciate your hospitality, your wisdom, and most of all, your friendship. Oh, and not shooting me in the face, the first time we met… Yeah… This won’t be the last time we see each other, as once I reach this journey’s end, I’ll have one hell of a story to share with you, over a drink. So, as a token of my gratitude, I left this bottle of Scotch, that I purchased off of a caravan not too far from town. It cost a pretty cap, but hey, you’re worth it. Enjoy, my friend.

Until we meet again, Anthony

#Fallout #Fallout 4 #Fallout OC #Fallout 4 OC #Eldritch Horror OC #Non-Ghoul OC #Anthony #Druncle #V #Guile #Writing #Fallout Stories #BestGhoulFriends #TheGhoulCrew

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gigiree · 7 years

Text

The Flowers We Speak

A/n: something for Marichat May: copycat. Gahhh. Flowers and a prequel to retrouvailles essentially. Can sort of stand alone?

There’s a hardly a star to be seen beyond all the golden lights of the city. The sounds have all become a vaguely muted hum, wrapped up in the petals of his hurt.

(There’s such a strange quiet in the aftermath of a farewell. He is still numb from where she’d kissed him goodbye just two days ago.)

He can feel the ache of loss thud harshly in his chest, boring jagged roots through his memories and affection.

He’d tried to laugh. He’d tried to smile after she said she wanted to keep her secrets. He’d tried to leap high enough into the sky, that he just might touch the cold stars in the distance.

But trying to catch a star is like trying to hold a ladybug. It’s thing that happens to a lucky few and he’s not necessarily the luckiest cat in Paris.

His tears are blurring the way. The city lights distort into starry flares that are useless to him. He can’t make wishes on them.

(And for once he’s glad he blends in so well to the night. Because an official statement has already been made. Ladybug and Chat Noir have officially retired.)

The quartier he arcs over is vaguely familiar. Beyond all the smell of smog and dirt and vague smell of sugar, there’s something intangible and sweet.

Familiarity pierces dully through his thoughts as his next jump takes him into the roof across the street from a strange corner building.

The gilded letters of the boulangerie glitter dimly in the lamplight. He’s not sure why he’s ended up here of all places. He’s not sure why, but he’s hurting and the smell has flowered into something freshly wonderful in his haze.

His keen eyes spot a splatter of color on the terrace. An orang lawn chair nearly creaking with the weight of all the potted flowers place haphazardly on it.

The closer he looks, the more he realizes that the entire area is covered in blooms. Here, a clutch of peach colored roses flutter delicately in the breeze. A brief smattering of lavender that curls against the railing. Creamy cyclamen flowers ringing the small table that rests closer to the back.

Curiosity gives him his last prompt. Makes his legs tense and aim for the little terrace that belongs to one of his good friends.

He lands quietly, enough that’s he’s sure he wouldn’t wake up anyone.

“Just for a little bit. Just…let me stay.” He murmurs to no one but the flowers. And the soft wind that whispers against their leaves almost makes it look like the blooms are giving him their approval.

Before he can relax entirely, the trap door in back of him bursts open with a quiet curse following the heavy creak of its hinges.

For a moment, he wants to run away. Anxiety has grown fast and thorny in his throat and he it’s urging him to leave because he still needs to lick his wounds and heal.

“Chat…Chat Noir?”

The voice is familiar. Warm. Someone that reminds him of bread and laughter and halcyon days.

Someone who’s still too bright to be burdened with the painful yowling of a stray cat. So he plasters a wide smile onto his face, lets the absurdity of his life settle into a melancholy humor as he turns towards her.

“S-sorry. So sorry Marinette.”

Marinette, he observes, is none to composed. The fear in her blue eyes is quickly eclipsed by concern. Her hair falls messily around her shoulders, framing a mouth twisted into a wilted flower of concern.

She holds a small pair of gardening clippers awkwardly, her fingers gripping tight onto the handle.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He should have remembered that Marinette is Adrien’s friend. Her relationship with Chat Noir was a tenuous acquaintance at best. A certain modicum of warmth and admiration was laced between them, but it was something entirely shallow and based on his status as a hero.

And still, for some unknown reason his legs had brought him here. The flowers had beckoned him to this girl in an oversized pink sweater and a pair of work gloves.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He’s not sure what he wants.

“Hey there Princess! Flower you on this beautiful night?” He blurts out, the word falling like dried up petals from his mouth.

“I’m okay. Just a little tired. You?”

(What a liar she is.)

“I’m…I’m okay too.”

(What a liar he is.)

She looks long and hard at him, looking as if she wants to say something entirely. But she doesn’t.

For once, the usual energy that laces through her isn’t there. She looks weary as she shrugs her shoulders and unceremoniously begins clipping off dead leaves from the nearest plant.

Snip. Snip. Snip. She knows just where to cut and how to do it efficiently. The curling brown foliage floats sadly to the ground, and there’s an almost cruel efficiency in the way she executes her task.

Her silence doesn’t help.

Chat Noir feels the challenge of circumstance rise above his despair. A momentary distraction that provides him some reprieve. He’s a lone little dandelion man, floating on loss and he’s found himself in a peaceful garden for one more night.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” She turns the question back on him.

Her answer is mostly mechanical. A thing made of cold like the stars he couldn’t reach. But there’s a smile in her tone that makes him think she’s being silly.

“You can’t just ask me the question I asked. You’re being a copycat.” He chides, but there’s something entertaining about the exchange.

She snorts, but continues snipping away dead ends.

There’s something mesmerizing in the way she cradles the healthy blooms that remain. A gentleness and contemplation that makes him wonder if there’s more to the sudden garden than he thought.

“These weren’t here before.”

Marinette stiffens, before shaking her head. She gives him a pained smile as she gestures towards the large potted roses to his left.

“Those have always been here. You just haven’t been here that often. The rest are new.”

He doesn’t have to ask why for her to know he’s curious.

“Inspiration…I’ve…I’ve gotten some really nice ideas for designs from them.”

He perks up a bit.

“I’ve heard some of them have meanings? Like hidden messages and stuff like that!”

His excitement is infectious. It makes his green eyes bright and nearly glowing in the dim fairy lights.

She points to a particularly large pot, filled with rigid green stalks and capped with bright yellow flower buds just barely starting to unravel.

“Daffodils mean new beginnings.”

She waves her hand over to the right side of the terrace, gesturing vaguely towards a cluster of small red blooms with thin petals.

“Geraniums. Stupidity.” She says it a bit harshly, almost on a self inflicted way.

“That one is kind of…” Chat Noir remarks, and then notices the strain in her voice. The tension in her jaw as she struggles to compose herself.

He knows that state of being all too well. The one where you filled to the brim with regrets and anger at yourself is the only thing driving you.

But she of all people deserves to forgive herself…for whatever it is. Deserves to forget the hurt for just a little a bit.

He turns to the nearest pot, stepping closer as he gingerly traces a few of the upright white petals. It’s a strangely shaped plant, with stark green leaves extending out at the base and the flowers standing straight like tiny sentinels.

“And this one?” He asks.

She seems to blink for a bit, before wilting again. She looks too sad and small in her too big sweater. Powerless even with a pair of garden clippers in her hand.

“That’s cyclamen.It can mean a lot of things.”

He seems to mull over his thoughts for a bit. He wordlessly gestures towards a few of the dead leaves in the pot and she nods.

He carefully uses his claws to shear off some of the brown leaves, imitating the gentle way he’d seen her lift up the healthy blooms to protect them.

(Copycats learn well by imitation.)

She hums a for a bit and turns back to her own pot. For a while, all that hangs between them is a mutual sadness. They’re both hurting and they both have come to a tacitly binding agreement.

To not pry so that the garden will remain a place of peace for this one night.

He asks only one more question that teeters the edge of personal.

“What do they mean to you?”

Marinette doesn’t look at him when she tells him.

“Goodbye. That’s what they mean to me.” —

He doesn’t come back to the rooftop garden again. Because the next day, he is suddenly accosted by the press just outside the gates of his home.

But he tucks away the gentle memory of a quiet night spend pruning away all the old hurt. Of settling his own heart’s garden and clearing away all the dandelions that hold unspoken wishes.

He uses what little strength that gives him and faces the rumors that he Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir.

He tells them the truth.

He tells Ladybug that he loves her.

And then he leaves the country to study abroad. —

She finds out who he is, regardless of her decision. Someone leaked it to the public and he looks so small in front of dozens of cameras and microphones.

The day he leaves, she’s not sure if she slept in on purpose. She’s not sure, but she still needs to tell him something.

She still hasn’t said goodbye to every part of him. Still hasn’t managed her own unruly garden and so she runs. She runs across the airport, clutching a small potted cyclamen to her chest.

But she’s too late. She only catches sight of his dandelion hair behind the crowd, boarding his flight.

Then he’s gone.

And she hides behind the petals of her choices, dreaming of a future where things might not hurt so much. — Five years later is hardly a long time.

In a way, he almost forgets that night. In a way, he doesn’t. It’s hard to deny that studying botany and opening up his flower shop hasn’t been because of the faint memory.

He’s looking for a Ladybug long flown away. He’s settled himself among the flowers, letting thoughts of apologizing and amends take over his everyday activities.

So it’s not surprising that he doesn’t look for Marinette when he returns. He’d asked around. Heard she was still in the city.

But in the same way he remembers Alya with a distant fondness, the same way he thinks of Marinette as he carefully cradled his flowers and prunes away the dead and brown leaves.

(Then again, he is a liar and he lies to himself when there’s something that blooms deep beyond his regret.)

By the time his shop has opened and he’s settled into a routine, he’s managed to convince himself that catching a ladybug is all he needs for his hurt to fade away.

By the time she steps into his shop, black sweater wrapping around her like the shadow of a halcyon night, he’s already ready to bloom.

(But she isn’t.)

And he can’t recognize her behind her large dark sunglasses or the unfamiliar anger that wilts her pretty mouth into a frown.

It’s only when Plagg tells him that Ladybug had been here that he looks up.

But she’s already flown away again, the tinkling bell on his store front sings a melancholy tune that becomes muted in his roiling emotions.

Still, he’s a bit of a copy cat, and he’s gone and dressed up in a Ladybug apron and he’s gone and named his shop Ladyluck flowers and he hopes that her anger is bright enough to show her that.

And so he continues servicing his customers and caring for flowers, hope unfurling bright in his chest as he waits for her.

#marichat may #marichat #ladynoir #miraculous ladybug #omg #retrouvailles

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imagine-that-one-thing · 7 years

Text

Styles & Co. -Part12.

Authors Note: Hey! This is a long chapter, Yay, (Finally answered your requests for longer chapters). I kinda pondered over this chapter for a while and decided to add some spice. ;)

Warning: I actually added drama. — For Mature audiences. Enjoy.

Previous parts found HERE Xx

My eyes gradually wake up to a ray of sunlight inching its way into the eclipsed room, piercing through the small crack of the curtains, reminding me that there is life outside my sleeping state. I smile to myself feeling my legs tangled with his, the covers draped over our bodies, keeping us warm.

I am not quite sure what time we fell asleep; I assume we fell asleep sometime after four— four was the last time I remember glancing over at the time in the midst of pouring another glass of wine, ultimately finishing off the bottle with Harry.

We spent hours talking, laughing, and at one point I was in tears—What specific reason I do not remember, I think the wine was to blame, along with a sentimentally cute comment from Harry.

I feel his arm drape itself around my body, pulling me closer as I feel his soft breathing on my bare shoulder. I don’t move from my position as the little spoon, it is on rare occasions we stay nestled into each other’s bodies for more than ten minutes while leisurely waking up.

I try to discreetly shuffle away from his tender body, but he only pulls me closer, a soft whisper escaping his hoarse voice. “No, it is too early.”

With a slight chuckle I respond, “I don’t think it is still morning.” I enlighten him, feeling him nuzzling into my neck.

“Well, fuck.” He mutters with a groan.

I hum an ’mhm’ as I feel his fingertips begin to travel along my skin, gliding delicately down my arm.

*** ***

My fingers lace with Harrys as I allow him to guide us through the Art Gallery, his eyes seeming overwhelmed by all the exquisite paintings ordered on the walls.

He settles in front of a monochromatic, black and white painting, a composition that catches my attention thoroughly as my eyes set their sights on it. The painting is exuded, elegant, and timeless.

Beautiful, just beautiful.

They say that Mood is an internal and rather subjective emotional state; calmness is what washes over me the longer I stare at the illustration.

There is just something about the texture and depth of the canvas that fascinates my eyes to every detail of the finely shaded rose petals. I tilt my head slightly, cherishing the perfect strokes the artist etched, taking note of how it continues to entice me further and further.

Perhaps it is the impeccable shade and lustrous characteristics it expresses; perhaps a personal reflection is what I perceive within the canvas.

Harry’s voice distracts me from my gaze, “You have stared at this painting longer than what you have ever stared at me before.”

I smile and pull my eyes from the comprehensive representation of a rose, “Well, maybe if you were etched into a ravishing form of art, I would stare longer.” I teasingly respond, watching his eyes roll before he sighs, moving his own gaze back to the art. “I like it, let’s buy it.” He expresses effortlessly, not even thinking twice about his words.

“Harry, you can’t just decide to buy this painting.”

“Yes, I can.” He nods, “Unless, of course, our bank accounts are both at a zero balance.” He grins, being a little cocky, knowing very well and good his balance is far from a fucking zero.

“Where would we put it? We can’t buy it without having a place for it.” I remind him of the other times he has brought a canvas with no idea where he wants to put it.

If I remember right he has at least five of them stashed away somewhere because he could not find a suitable place for them to hang in our house. He forgets that impulse buys do not always blend well with our colour schemes of the house.

“Anywhere, pick a spot.” He shrugs, “And not the bedroom.”

“Why not the bedroom?” I curiously inquire.

He glances at me and bites his lip, “Pick a place without questions, my love.” He insists and I comply, giving him my opinion on where we can place it.

I think the painting would look perfect in our living room, there is a unornamented part on the wall I have been meaning to decorate, somehow. A flawlessly painted, monochromatic painting works excellently, in my opinion.

While Harry and I continue to discuss the perfect location for our soon to be new purchase; we proceed to appreciate the other works of creativity hung skillfully on the walls.

I have a feeling we are going to get more than what we bargained for. Something tells me we might not leave here with just a painting.

“What the hell is he doing?” I hear Harry mutter, diverting my attention away from the aesthetic painting in front of me.

My eyes follow Harry’s distinct stare and cast themselves on a figure, a figure that causes Harry’s blood to hum in his veins in a distasteful manner.

Logan Meyer. Damn it.

“Elise,” Logan smiles as he walks closer with a slight grin on his lips, “Harry.” He nods towards Harry.

“Hi.” I politely acknowledge him, inching closer to Harry and resting my head on his shoulder subtly, doing my best to make it known that Harry needs to keep his cool. At the end of the day, I am right here on his arm.

“What the hell are you doing here, Meyer?” Harry does his best to keep his voice low, yet firm, thankfully keeping in mind that we are in public. Surely, they can keep their feud to a minimum.

“The same as you, admiring the view,” Logan smirks, his eyes fixed on me in a purpose to solely piss off Harry.

“Harry,” I peer up at him, “Do you want to go buy that painting so we can leave? I have a surprise for you that we don’t want to be late for.” I lean up and kiss his cheek, he mumbles his response, glaring at Logan before stepping away.

I sigh as I glance at my boss, knowing that his aim was to piss Harry off. “Was the necessary?” I challenge, wanting an answer from him.

“Oh, Elise, it is was harmless.” … “It is sometimes a little too easy to crawl under his skin.”

“This is not business. Please, don’t piss him off away from the business world. I know you two have some sort of ridiculous vendetta against each other, but don’t bring it up while outside of business.” I instruct, internally rolling my eyes at the fact I even have to have such speech with my Boss.

I did not think I would need to scold my boss to not be a conniving little shit. I thought it was implied that business ridiculousness only partakes while in the business world. We are in an art gallery for crying out.

I have an overwhelming feeling that I have stepped in a feud that is not going to be easy or die down anytime soon.

I can already sense Logan is just as stubborn headed as Harry. The only difference is that I love one, and the other one signs my paychecks.

Logan nods, words escaping his somewhat bitter lips, “I will do my best, there are no promises. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” He dismisses the conversation, walking away without saying any other words.

Of all places, why is he at an Art Gallery? He does not strike me to appreciate the creation of art, but more of the type to want to destroy it.

***

The twenty-five-minute drive from the Lower East Side back towards the Upper East Side is becoming a little tedious for Harry and me. Harry kee[s asking me questions on his surprise, doubting that I even have something set up. Keeping him in the dark is excessively hard considering he hates not knowing what is going on and being in control. He is constantly in charge and knows what is going on with his business, so when it comes to me holding the reins fully, he has no fucking idea what to do with himself.

He heavily sighs, his hand on my knee as he pouts his lip, doing his best to convince me to tell him where we are going.

“You are being annoying, relax.”

“Baby, for all I know you could be taking me to Queens, I don’t like surprises.” He announces, reminding me for the tenth time that he does not like surprises.

“Harry, stop,” I mumble, “You will see when the driver parks the car,” I gently scold him like I would a child, an overly dramatic groan escaping his lips, his fingertips softly gliding away from my knee, working their way to rest on my thigh, his signature move.

Forty-Eight stories in the air; I step out of the elevator into the Revolving Restaurant rooftop and Lounge. Harry steps out by my side, his eyes extending as he takes a glimpse around at the restaurant that is surrounded by crystal clear windowpanes, expressing a view of the city that lies underneath us.

I know he said he wanted something low-key and quiet, but I think he deserves a lovely dinner in a restaurant just for the two of us.

We are immediately seated at a table set up specifically for the two of us, both of our eyes spontaneously setting themselves on the gorgeous city below. The sunset is painting the heavens with a wonderful tinge of ocherous and lilac, accompanied by a few delicate dawn-tinted colours edging their way into the dusk sky.

***

“Can we please get a cab?” I whine as Harry and I stroll down Seventh avenue together, passing a few other couples,

“Baby, it’s calming. Just breathe and walk.” He responds, seeming to appreciate walking in the coldness. I only assume he’s relishing his stay in New York, no worries, no pressure.

I listen and just take in the cold air, walking beside him and inhaling the calmness of which Harry requested. I guess Harry likes the feeling of being free and not confined to the business world. He has been able to relax and have time to himself for three days without any issues. Maybe I should fly out with Logan Meyer more often. It gets Harry out of his office.

It’s the moment that I overhear a soft harmony that I feel Harry tense slightly, the calm serenity around us immediately fading. My eyes view a man on the corner, sitting against a stone wall with a guitar in his hand. I would say he is middle aged, clothes in a sweater and a coat, jeans, and a pair of brown boots.

I have always been soft-hearted towards those I see on the streets, whether asking for money or playing music just for the heck of it. The man does not seem sad in any way, he seems rather content with life, sitting on the corner, playing sweet harmonies with his guitar.

There is something about the sweet sounding melody that brings warmth to my body and soul, I don’t know what it is, but it is beautiful sounding. Literally, music to my ears.

I stop in my tracks, my arm tenderly drawing Harry back.

“Elise—” Harry begins but stops when I smile up at him, no longer walking, no, I have something else on my mind. Harry gazes down at me, doing his best to disregard the shimmer in my eyes.

“It’s a sweet melody,"I whisper, hinting my intentions. One does not pass up a delightful opportunity to embrace a gentle resonance.

"I don’t dance.”.. “At least not with alcohol.” He shakes his head, reminding me for the hundredth time during out relationship, that he does not dance.

The only time he dances is when it is considered necessary, like at weddings when they play the slow songs for the couples, or when he is intoxicated.

“It’s practice.” I smile, subtly reminding him that at our wedding he will need to dance a few times.

He raises a brow at me, his lips forming a grin. “For what?”

He knows what for, the grin on his face gives it away. “Our wedding, please? Nobody is around.” I continue to beam up at him.

He sighs and to my surprise, he nods, touching his hands to rest gently on my waist, mine resting on his shoulders, our feet moderately moving to the harmony of the man and his guitar.

We move delicately in the moonlight to the beautiful sound of the guitar, Harry only occasionally stepping on my toes, only causing me to laugh.

“This is why I do not dance.” He mumbles, benevolently pulling me closer to his body, my head now resting on his shoulder, his hand moving to rest in the small of my back.

“You’re doin’ fine,” I whisper, appreciating the slow rhythm between us, the smell of his cologne filling my lungs, etching a smile to widen across my face.

Harry puts some distance between us as the melody begins to fade, the moonlight dancing now ending. “Don’t look at me like that.” He sighs, “Baby, that is the best I can do. C'mon, my dancing is over.” He informs me, no longer wanting to participate in sweet, romantic slow dancing. We both politely smile towards the man and his guitar, my heart filling with content as I notice a gleam in his eyes, a smile on his lips.

“Young love, cherish it.” He comments before he glances back down at the guitar settled in his lap, his fingers beginning to strum a few more chords.

“Nice melody.” Harry comments, taking my hand with his, beginning to step away.

I stop as I hear the man calling out,

“Sir, you dropped this.” I turn around, the man scrambling to his feet, leaving his guitar on the raw, hard ground as he wanders closer to us.

Harry shakes his head, “It is yours, have a nice night, and keep playing, true talent you have.” Harry responds before we continue to walk down Seventh Avenue.

The walk to the hotel was full of small talk, a few chuckles, and Harry and I nudging each other playfully. There was something a little different about Harry, something I can’t quite put my finger on, but I let it slip my mind with every witty joke he made on the walk towards the hotel.

I allow my coat to slide down my arms, placing it to rest over my suitcase as Harry sits on the edge of the bed, still wearing his black jeans and a cream coloured sweater that I adore.

When I look over at him, it hits me, he has not touched his guitar in years. I don’t even remember the last time I heard him play a chord. Perhaps that is what is on his mind and why he tensed when the melody first began to play while on the street.

“You haven’t played in years.” I softly bring up, knowing there’s something running through Harry’s mind, his grey eyes, tinted with a shade of blue look up at me— I admire how his eyes alternate appearances at certain times— from a delicate grey they can turn to a green or a blue, it depends on his mood and the shade he wears.

It’s unique.

“’M not very good, you know that.” He shakes his head, his hand resting under his chin as his finger runs over his pink lips, an indication there’s something on his mind.

“You are, Harry.”

“Elise!” He raises his voice slightly, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment. My intentions were not to hit a nerve, but I realise his lack of playing is due to some deeper meaning he has never discussed with me.

“Come here for a second.” He lowers his voice, gesturing for me to step closer to him as he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

I step towards him, standing between his legs as he places his hands to rest delicately on my waist. “Baby, I love you, you know that?” He softly asks and I nod, accompanied by a shrug.

I’m not quite sure where this conversation is leading; I’m not sure if I should be worried and nervous. He sighs as he purses his lips, his eyes staring into mine with a gazing grey tint. “I’ve had to make a lot of changes and sacrifices—” he begins and I feel my heart sink for a moment, a sudden flow of worry coming over me.

“Is this going to end badly?” I manage to whisper, a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that this conversation is going to end in a way I wouldn’t have expected.

He shakes his head, “no, no.” .. “just listen. Things happen and I’ve made sacrifices for my business; I had to put one-hundred percent all effort into it, leaving behind pieces of me. You haven’t heard me play the guitar in years for a reason I can’t quite grasp—actually, I just don’t want to remember it.” He softly announces, the rattling in his brain being in regards to the guitar that he used to play when we first started to date.

On occasions I’d walk in on him playing a few chords, he’d give me his warm smile and finish the melody before putting the guitar in the corner of his apartment, leaving it there until the next time he desired to play it.

Now, the guitar sits in his office upstairs, in a corner. He doesn’t touch it, I don’t even think it has moved since the day we moved into the house.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” I apologise,

“No, I should be saying sorry for how I spoke to you.” .. “I love you, even when I am an ass to you,” He licks his lips lightly, “Do I get a birthday kiss?” He grins, I don’t respond, instead, I lean down and benevolently kiss his lips, sweetly and gradually.

*** ***

Touching down in London was such a relief for me, I don’t know why, but it was. New York was lovely, besides the working part, but London always gives me a sense of a homie feel.

The first two weeks back in London were rather smooth, Logan has been rather quiet and has been teaching me a few different things, setting me up with access to certain things, making sure I understand that discussing things with Harry is to be kept to a minimum.

It seems that the two of them are going to keep bickering over everything, leaving me in the middle of it like a child.

I push the front door open, letting out a groan as I feel the coldness of the house. One day, Harry will remember to turn the bloody heat on when he gets home, but today is not that day.

“Harry?” I call, the lights in the house radiating as I roam the foyer. When I get no response I assume he is upstairs sleeping. He was a bit restless last night, I am not quite sure why, he just kept tossing and turning uncomfortably.

I walk the stairs, shuffling my way into the bedroom, surprised when I don’t find Harry sprawled out on the bed, half dressed with rumpled hair. For a moment I frown as I place my things down on the bed, kicking off my heels, feeling the ache in my feet diminishing.

Sometimes I hate wearing heels, they are a great look, but sometimes they kill my legs and feet.

“Harry?” I call out again, shuffling out of the room, wandering the upstairs area, failing to find him. I walk back downstairs and try my last resort, his downstairs office, the office he scarcely uses, he much prefers his upstairs one, it is fit more to his style.

I glance inside his office, my eyes viewing him as he is perched on his desk, his head in his arms, his laptop beside him still on. I unobtrusively shuffle closer to him, admiring him for a moment as he is fast asleep.

My hand benevolently presses to Harry’s back, rubbing in a circular motion over his soft sweater, his soft snores sounding,

“Harry, Harry sweetheart,” I whisper, tenderly pulling him from his sleep.

With a small moan, he drowsily lifts his head, his exhausted eyes gazing up at me, “Hey,” his voice is dry and raspy but a small grin is pressed to his face as he stares up at me, “You’re home late, you look pretty.” He yawns before settling with a sleepy grin.

He is always adorable when he is first waking up, he always has a drowsy look to his eyes, his voice hoarse and exhausted.

“Thank you.“ I chuckle, "You fell asleep at your desk, c'mon go to the bed.” I encourage, sensing he’s a little off. He shakes his head, rubbing his dreary eyes before flickering them towards his laptop screen,

“I need to work, I have to have this ready within the next three hours,” he sighs and I can’t help but lean down and place a kiss on his warm cheek.

I take the moment to carefully take notice of his face, his cheeks are flushed a deeper red, and his cheeks feel warmer than usual. “Harry, you okay?” I frown down at him as he stretches his back, the sound of his back cracking and a small groan escaping his lips sends shivers down my back.

The sound of cracking bones never puts me at ease.

“I’m fine,” he nods, clearing his throat with a small cough, “can you help me for a moment?” He softly asks, his eyes not prying away from his computer screen. I await an answer, watching as his fingers type away hastily, “can you make me a tea, please?” He graciously requests, promptly looking up at me with a charming, crooked grin, somnolent eyes, and rumpled hair.

How can I resist when he looks so damn cute?

I place his tea on his desk, his eyes struggling to stay open as he stares at the screen, his fingers rubbing his temples.

“Are you okay?” I softly question, knowing my answer already, but wanting him to confess. I lean over and place another kiss on his cheek, draping my arms comfortably over him to hang over his chest as I stand beside him.

“Just a headache.” He sighs heavily, his hand tenderly moving to stroke my arm “I have to go do a business thing in an hour, I should be back home by nine.” He informs me, "Bloody portfolio bullshit. Can I sell my business and live on a beach?” He mumbles cutely,

I chuckle to myself, admiring how handsome he looks, even with messy hair and a grumpy expression. “If that’ll make you happy, but only if I can join you.”

“Of course, can’t sell my business and live on a beach without my lady.” He grins playfully.

“Can I help with anything?” I offer as I remove my arms from around him, his body leaning back over towards his laptop.

“No, I am about to go get dressed to go meet this apparent client.” .. “Don’t know anything about them, their information from what I see is strange.” He continues, his eyes glueing themselves back on his laptop screen, “Like, who the fuck goes from a zero balance to suddenly having millions and owning some sort of establishment.” He mutters, asking a question I have no idea how to answer. This is his thing, not mine. I don’t know much about this business world. I am still learning.

“Does it tell you where the establishment is?” I question, moving to now stand beside him, my hand rubbing small circles on his back as I glance over at his laptop. He shakes his head with a sigh, “I can’t even see where the establishment is. This looks like mumble-jumble to me.” I inform him, a stifled laugh coming from his lips.

“It is here, Elle.” He points to the screen and I still have no idea what the hell is looking at. “It says it is in New York. But that is it. I guess I will find out later.” He shrugs, closing down the tab and opening up something else, the screen filling again with an unspoken language I can’t understand. “Alright, I think I will in like twenty. You okay here?” Harry questions, his eyes occupied with the computer.

“How about, I go meet your client, you stay here and rest, or work, preferably rest?”

“Uh-huh, like last time when you stole my client? who has been M.I.A since he landed back in London a day after you did.”

“Harry, I did not steal your bloody client, you fool.” I huff, he can be annoying sometimes, he knows how to irk my nerves. “I am trying to help you, are you going to be an arse about this?” I remove my hand from his back and he looks over at me.

“Baby, that felt good.” He pouts his lip, already missing my hand against his back, rubbing sweet circular motions on it. I roll my eyes at him, shaking my head at him trying to charm me with his eyes.

“Tell me who I am meeting, I will collect the rest of the missing file. You stay here and take a break.”

“I don’t know, Elise.” He sighs,

“Do you not trust me?”

“No, it isn’t that.” He leans back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t know who this person is. The file I have pulled up is, fragmentary, very odd.”

“I am sure I will be fine,” I assure him, between him and Logan, I think I know the basics of picking up a basic file, making small talk, and figuring things out.

It takes a lot of convincing, but finally, Harry gives in, only because I brought up the fact that he would have to put on a pair of his suit pants and a button up if he didn’t take up my offer. He can’t exactly meet his client while dressed in what he is wearing now, a pair of black sweatpants and a hoodie, not to mention his hair looks disordered. He looks far from presentable.

“Call me or text me if you need me, okay? I can be there in twenty minutes, twelve if I take the Audi. Take a cab, my driver is off for the night, and I don’t want you driving.” He reminds me of his caring and protective side.

I am not going to meet my new boyfriend, I am going to collect the rest of the file, ask a few questions that Harry has left me, and to report back to Harry when I am done.

I go off of the description Harry gave me of the man that I would be seeing; a man taller than me, chocolate coloured hair, light coffee-colored eyes, and more than likely in an expensive suit and tie.

For a moment I bite my lip, unsure of where the descriptive man is, I scan the area and see the only man I can see in a suit with brown hair. Well, from what I can see from behind, anyway.

I wander closer towards the man attired in a grey suit.

He instantly stands and offers me his hand before I can even take a look at him. I am caught off guard and quickly force a smile. As I press my hand with his my eyes meet his and I am overcome by an unsettling vibe. Something about him sets my senses off and makes me feel less at ease. Then it hits me, I know the man, he is not some random business client at all.

Charles Taylor.

Guess he is no longer MIA.

“Ms.Elise, we meet again.” He offers his hand and I politely shake it, “does Harry always have you meet people?” He chuckles, something about him, oddly unsettling me.

“No,” I shake my head, “Harry is unwell and working from home at the moment.” I take my seat, unsure of why he is meeting Harry again.

More importantly, why am I collecting a portfolio that I already collected a few weeks ago?

I contemplate grabbing my phone and texting Harry that his unknown and fragmented portfolio is no other than Charles Taylor, but I am quickly distracted when Mr.Taylors asks me what drink I would like.

At first, I shake my head, not wanting to engage in any sort of alcoholic beverage sharing with him. I am not here for a drink, I am here for the pretty little folder at the edge of his fingertips, a folder that has me rather intrigued. I am quickly dismissed and a drink is ordered for me, Mr.Taylor insisting on me having a drink. I don’t argue him, I have other things to discuss with him that does not include me not wanting his fucking drink.

“So, why does Harry keep sending a pretty lady like you to meet his clientele? Two times we have scheduled to meet and he has sent you. I am beginning to wonder if he even exists and if you are the one in charge of the company.” He smiles at me, but it isn’t warmly felt, it unsettles me and leaves me with my guard up.

I give him a faked polite smile as I ponder over the right response to his comment, “I am flattered, but Harry is far more intelligent than I, he is the brains of the business; I am just helping Harry out for the night. He exists, believe me. Entirely an intelligent man, I do not have the means to be in charge of his business.” I inform Mr.Taylor, my hand nonchalantly reaching for my phone—Harry definitely needs a heads up to re-read his files because the man sitting in front of me seems to have more than one.

“Elise. Since I am not able to discuss business with you— like intended with Mr.Styles— what are we to engage in?” He again distracts me, my fingers not even managing to unlock my phone.

“And why can we not discuss business? You have a file I am here to collect, I have questions from Ha- Mr.Styles.” I correct myself, forgetting that this is business and Harry should be referred to by Mr Styles.

“You seem rather, feisty today, Elise.” He snickers, “I am rather amused.” He modifies the material we are to be speaking of.

I am not here for small talk or to get off topic, I want to get this over with so I can get back home. “Forgive me if I am impolite, but I am rather tired and here to get these questions answered before leaving,” I answer in a polite manner, doing my best to get my point across.

Harry always used to tell me about times he would have to keep his cool with clients and bite his tongue, despite his want to tell them they are being morons. I never really understood his frustration until now—now that I have his apparent client, beating his ass around the bush, to waste my time and not speak of the business arrangments with me. For what reason, I do not know.

“Hmm. Harry certainly has instructed you well, ambitious with a little spice. I like it.” He nods his head, leaning back in his chair in a relaxed manner, “You know, I admire Harry for having such confidence in you, you are art to the eyes. It is not every day people of your nature are this far up in the business world.” He comments, his words catching my attention, my hand instantly dropping my phone to rest in my lap.

What the bloody hell does he mean by that?

I raise a brow at him, unsure of whether he is trying to talk down to me, or whether he is getting tongue tied and confusing his thoughts with his words. “What do you mean by that statement?” I challenge, a waiter placing our drinks down on the table.

“Well, I mean.. It isn’t every day women excel in the world of business, it is mainly dominated by men.”

“Yes, and maybe that is the problem with the cocky mind of a businessman. They think dominance is the key to their sucess—really, they are fucking imbeciles, now, do you mind if we get back to discussing that file.” My eyes glance over to the portfolio at his fingertips. He grows silent, seeming surprised by my comment.

I already know Harry is going to have a few words with me about it, but I don’t care. Mr.Taylor is leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Our first encounter was rather pleasant and fine, but this one, he is coming off as a cocky bastard who is acting as if he is more dominant and entitled. Anyway, I am sure Harry will be pleased to know his client is being a sexist twat—I can’t wait to see the expression on his face when I tell him.

“Well, when you put it that way, this moron is reconsidering his decision in trusting Mr Styles with my file.”

“Mhm. Are you sure? Would you trust someone else? Perhaps someone in New York? Someone closer to your estate?” I question, still bitter with his comment.

He smirks, seeming amused, for what reason I do not know.

“Ah, someone did some snooping, does Harry know?”

“If you’d excuse me, I need to use the bathroom, I m sure we can get back to business when I return.” I politely stand to my feet, Charles doing the same thing.

“I am going to get a drink from the bar, seems like I might need it with your feisty attitude. It is rather intriguing.” He smirks, only causing me to scoff before I walk away.

When I come bak to the table I am informed by a waitress that Charles has decided to as well excuse himself to the bathroom, giving me more time to compose myself and wonder about why the hell he has had a change of character.

I gasp as I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I am quickly reassured when I hear the familiar voice. “Hey, it is me. Did you lose the client?” Harry questions, staring at me as he glances around the area.

“Your dick of a client is in the bathroom, why are you here?” Harry’s gaze instantly narrows down on me, he leans down and kisses me before pulling away.

“What did he do?”

“Charles Taylor is a prick. I am bitter with him, here is your file, he hasn’t answered any of the questions.” I bitterly hand him the file, his fingers instantly curling around it.

“Charles Taylor? That is who it is?” He raises a brow, rather stunned with the name leaving my lips.

“Yes. Why are you here? Did you not trust me?”

He shakes his head, “Baby, I trust you. I kept going over the shitty file at the house, it didn’t add up. I called Anastasia, did some digging and realised that it is sketchy, there is no name to the estate in New York, and the file was nameless. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out something is going on and that this is not just some innocent uneducated client who forgot how to fill out their fucking stuff.” … “He is up to something and I am going to find out what.” He informs me as I take a drink of my beverage….

I take a deep breath as I move uncomfortably in my chair, Harry’s hand pressed to the portfolio he sent me to get, the folder that should be in Harry’s office already. I didn’t fly it back here for no damn reason.

I still don’t understand the whole damn point to this. I am rather confused, to say the least. I know Harry is going to do his best to find out why the hell things seem sketchy, but he is not going to do it here, not in public. No, he knows better than to make it known when he is on the prowl. He is going to make it seem like he is clueless to what he told me earlier, making Charles presume that Harry is an idiot falling for whatever plan he may be scheming.

I do my best to concentrate on the men as they discuss business, but I can’t seem to grasp anything between trying to focus on my breathing and disregard the slight dizziness that keeps creeping up on me. I take a deep breath, my eyes concentrating on Harry’s glass of water situated in front of him. As the two men speak, I lean over and grasp it, hoping that the chilled water can put an end to what feels like I’m struggling to concentrate accurately.

I tenderly drop my hand to my side, gliding it over towards Harry, my hand doing its best to locate his without making it obvious. I ultimately feel his fingers lace with mine and that’s when I give him our signalled code.

No matter what, three hand squeezes means it’s time to go, no questions asked between the two of us. It does not matter if we are doing business with the Queen, three squeezes and it is time to go, no ifs, not buts.

It has been our code for a while, he squeezes my hand three times if we need to leave an event—mainly due to his business— and I squeeze his mainly when I’m uncomfortable around a particular person. In this case—I’m uncomfortable and not feeling like I need to be here.

I feel Harry’s hand mildly press back, acknowledging that I wish to leave without being impolite or obvious.

“Elise, another drink?” I hear Charles’ voice distract me and I glance up at him, trying to fake a smile. Before I can respond, harry answers for me.

“No, we are actually about to leave. I have a business thing I need to get to right away.” Harry informs Mr.Taylor who in return raises a brow, not seeming too convinced. “Unless, of course, you’d like a drink, darling?” Harry gives me the option to speak up, but I shake my head.

I did not want the first drink, I most certainly do not want a second.

“No thank you.” I politely respond, wanting to dismiss this whole arrangement. Mr.Taylor nods and goes to reach for the file but Harry presses his hand to it,

“I’ll make sure it’s in good hands,” Harry inches the file away from Charles Taylor’s fingertips, “thank you for your time, I insist on paying the check for the drinks,” Harry stands to his feet, offering his hand over the table.

Smart move, well played.

I manage to cast my eyes on Charles, trying my best to focus. From what I can gather, he seems irritated for a reason I do not know. He briefly nods and gives me a small and fake smile before he walks away.

I stand to my feet and lightly stumble, my hands instantly pressing to the back of the chair to regain my balance. I feel Harry’s arm wrap around me, a kiss on my head as grabs the check he insisted on paying.

“You have too much to drink?” Harry questions, keeping an arm around me as he grabs his wallet from his pocket.

I only had one drink and that’s because it was insisted upon.

I shake my head, “No, I had one.” I mutter while he delicately grabs my coat from its position hanging over the chair.

“Mhm, you’re stumbling.” He reminds me of my stumbling moment a few seconds ago as I stood from my chair. I don’t respond to his comment, I just allow him to slide my coat up my arms before he kisses my cheek. “C'mon darling,” he intertwines his fingers with mine.

We make our way outside, the fresh air filling my lungs, not helping me in the slightest bit, nausea settling in the pit of my stomach, dizziness casting itself upon me rather strongly.

“Elise, you’re going to fall, be careful.“ Harry sighs, gently pressing his hand to my arm to steady me.

"I-I, I don’t feel too well,” I mumble with a deep breath, feeling my hand shaking as I press it to his arm.

“How much did you drink before I arrived?”

“Just one the whole time.” .. “I promise.” I softly respond, my breathing feeling as though it is getting heavier. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, he just looks at me, studying my appearance as my whole world feels as though it is spinning.

“Alright, I’ll carry you back to the car,” He responds, commencing to pick me up before I can respond to him.

I drop my head to his shoulder, breathing in his scent, Tabaco Vanilla- Tom Ford— my favourite scent he has, the scent that he wears more so for my desire.

“Are you cold?” Harry softly asks as he continues to carry me towards the car, I mumble into him, not wanting to lift my head or speak a word. “Elle, I don’t know if that was a yes or a no.” He sighs, “I gotta get my keys, darling, I’m still holdin’ you though, don’t worry.” He immediately assures me as I let out a small gasp, the feeling of falling for a second overcoming me. “Not going to drop you.” He whispers, the sound of his car unlocking ringing in my ears.

He places me to stand to my feet, despite my muffled whines before he helps me into his car, “I swear you have to be drunk.” He sighs, leaning in and pulling the seatbelt over me as I rest back on his leather seats.

“Swear, ’m not. Jus’ feeling really unwell.” I mumble, struggling to keep my eyes open and my thoughts processing. I watch as he slides his jacket down his arms before he carefully places it over me like a blanket. I try to say thank you, but the words don’t come out, instead, I feel a sweet kiss to my forehead before the door closes and so does my eyes.

My eyes open as I feel a bright light radiating, I whine, trying to focus them with great struggle, I wiggle my legs, confused as to what the hell is going on, my hands feeling shaky as I feel a warm material between my fingers,

“Hey, it’s okay, just carrying you upstairs.” Harry’s familiar voice comments as I try to lift my head off of his warm shoulder, but I can’t.

“Where-” I cough, my words not coming out like anticipated. “H,” I mumble into him, my body feeling paralysed, the only thing properly functioning is my thoughts. I want to speak, but it feels as though it is the biggest struggle. “we.” I cough, feeling his arms leave my body.

“You’re in bed, it is okay, just relax.” His voice is a somewhat soothing sound to my ears, but it doesn’t answer to my disorientation or my weakness.

I lie in bed, warmth pressed to my body, my eyes wishing to close as I stare up at the ceiling, my body still struggling to move no matter how much I try.

The quietness of the room leaves me feeling anxious and worried, I want to feel his touch, or something reassuring. “Harry.” I try to call out, but it comes off as a whisper, my eyes welling up with tears without much effort from me.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry. Elise, can you tell me what you drank?” I hear his voice before I see his blurry shadow casting in my eyes. His touch to my cheeks, causes a whimper to escape my dry lips, my eyes getting heavier. He sits on the edge beside me, pushing a few strands of hair away from my tear stained cheeks, “Elle, what did you drink?” He questions, my hand shakily reaching up and pressing against his chest. I feel his hand rest over mine, my fingertips delicately feeling the material of his shirt.

One drink, one, that is all I had. I promise.

But the words don’t come out of my mouth, instead, I manage to let out a small mumble, something I don’t even understand. “Sweetheart, I know you are exhausted, but can you try to tell me? Hm?” He whispers,

“One,” I mumble, trying to convince him that it was just one drink. I take one last glance at Harry before my eyes close, my hand slowly dropping from his chest…..

Anyone putting the pieces together? I sense a takedown. What do you guys think?

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