#my honour their murderous intent is justified

[kiiyuq]

A Countdown, Of Sorts

And the taint of wine-red and copper bleeds and stains across the foreign skin, like a mark more damning that the kisses fluttered there previously.

Here's the artwork I created for @fleet-off's absolutely amazing fic, Passing Time, for the @kinnporschebigbang. It was such a great experience. The writing in here is incredible, I swear every time I read it I can't even breathe, its so, so, so good and well written.

A really, really special thanks firstly to Fleet for working together with me during this whole period. I loved talking with you about the fic, and getting to see your writing every time genuinely took the words out of my mouth, because I just didn't know how to express myself properly about it. This has been such a fun experience, and you've bought Pete and Vegas to life so perfectly. Another big thank you to the mods of the KPTS Big Bang event for all the work you've put in the past few months, and all of the organisation that's been happening behind the scenes, none of this could have happened without all of you. And an extra thank you to @no1petesimp and @xhangkyuns for dealing with all my screaming for the past few months as I got through all the rough patches, I love you two so much, you mean the world to me <3

#kinnporsche #kinnporsche fanart #kinnporsche the series #kiiyuq #vegaspete #pete saengtham #pete phongsakorn #pete phongsakorn saengtham #vegas kornwit theerapanyakun #vegas theerapanyakul #I love them so much theyre my babies #my honour their murderous intent is justified #we spent so long gushing about these two #esp pete's dimples i just love them so much #seriously go read all of fleet's writing its so fucking good

[nillegible]

(Part 3 of Stay, the MY time travel fic. Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 )

It’s several more weeks before he meets Qin Su again, and it’s like having a sword shoved through his gut a second time.

He thought he’d gotten over her death in the weeks since, but apparently not.

Meng Yao’s skills at administrative work, honed to perfection over years of managing Jin sect, had resulted in a series of rapid promotions, as more and more people realized that Meng Yao was not only capable but willing to do boring meticulous drudge work and do it well. By the time Qin Su returns from her mother’s small, secluded clan, Clan Liu, Meng Yao is one of Qin Cangye’s personal aides.

He keeps his face when she thanks him for saving her life just barely. It’s so hard, when she looks so young and carefree, untouched by the grief for a lost child, of a secretive husband who never turned to her.

Meng Yao had done that to her.

I didn’t have a choice, he’d cried to Er-ge, in a temple and felt justified. In front of her sweet face, that defence dies a quiet death.

She’d killed herself, when she heard the truth, and for one moment, in between the grief, the rising terror of an unknown enemy stalking him, he’d hated her for it. Do you think you have suffered more than I? How dare you take your own life, while I still didn’t give up?

But he owes her better than that, so he smiles, and promises the Young Mistress Qin that it was Meng Yao who was honoured to have been of assistance to her. He remains perfectly cordial, always, in her presence. He doesn’t hide away, doesn’t take paths around the buildings that she frequents, even though every time he sees her again, it hurts.

This pain, at least, Meng Yao deserves.

He’s careful not to get too close though. He makes his excuses not to join her where he can, and never shows her the attention he had in a previous life. He didn’t expect this to be noticed, but as he’s learned the hard way, some eyes are always sharper than Meng Yao would give them credit for.

*

When Qin Tianyu approaches him for tea and a discussion of the talismans that Meng Yao has been reworking to be more efficient, he thinks nothing of it. When they’re working on writing some together after, and the talisman master carefully broaches the topic as if it wasn’t intentional, Meng Yao can see the Sect Leader’s interest in the matter.

“Meng Yao has been noticeably cold to Su-sizhi,” says Qin Tianyu.

Meng Yao looks up, sharply. “I have no quarrel with Qin-guniang.” How did I miss this?

“I said cold, not a quarrel,” he returns calmly. “She is the only one you do not call shijie.”

“She’s the heir, it’s polite, Qin-shishu,” Meng Yao says, even though he knows it’s not good enough. Everyone else calls her Su-shijie, quite enthusiastically. He endures the carefully considering look that Qin Tianyu sends his way. His mask had held up beneath Wen Ruohan, Nie Mingjue, Jin Guangshan, and Lan Xichen. He would not be unmasked by the a simple elder of Laoling Qin.

But Qin Tianyu just nods, as if confirming something to himself. “The idea was floated that Meng Yao joined Qin sect for Su-sizhi.” he says, and Meng Yao freezes, wary. “After all, Sect Leader Jin does not need another spare heir.”

Meng Yao sits in silence, work ignored as he tries to decide on a response. He had briefly considered before approaching Sect Leader Qin that it may look like this from outside, but had reasoned to himself that as long as he showed no interest in Qin Su, it would blow over, and he’d look like any other disciple. That people would find it suspicious that Meng Yao was not angling to marry her to become the next Qin Sect Leader is a surprise.

So, what should he say to turn this suspicion astray?

“This humble disciple is merely Sect Leader Jin’s bastard son. Young Mistress Qin deserves better,” he says, hoping that was vague enough to be acceptable.

“Meng Yao professes to be remarkably unambitious,” returns Qin Tianyu, lightly. Liar, he’s saying, even though for once Meng Yao isn’t actually lying. Qin Su did deserve better than what he’d given her. He’d loved her enough to know that. But unambitious people cannot do what Meng Yao did to keep his place at Wen Sect. Couldn’t remove the head of Wen Ruohan and end a war.

Unambitious people would not do all of that, just to become one of threw personal aides of a minor Clan Leader.

“Maybe I used it up,” says Meng Yao. From the way the elder glances up, he realizes that he had been silent long enough that he believed he wouldn’t get an answer. But Meng Yao has found his words, and there’s nothing to do but continue, “My mother wished to be a Jin concubine. She wanted me to do anything it takes to secure a place within Jin Sect. That it was the only way for me to live well.”

And she was wrong. She was as wrong about this as she was about Jin Guangshan. It had been a constant, grinding pain, to know again and again that the person he loved above all else had been so incredibly wrong. Meng Yao had thrown himself life and soul into trying to prove her right, into gaining his father’s regard and living well. He’d fought desperately, thinking that if only he gathered a little more influence, that if he did just a little bit more, then he’d succeed. Get the recognition his mother craved for him.

At some point, spite and fury had taken the place of love and duty, but he had not wavered in his goal. But he’d still never proved her right; had murdered his own father, and sat in mourning like a filial son, truly mourning how much he’d failed.

Nothing that he did could ever make up for it. This time, he knew better than to even try.

“It was my mother’s ambition,” he says aloud for the first time. Perhaps to a broken woman who did not even own herself, it had been liberating to imagine owning so much, to be in control of her own fate. “It was hers, but I…”

He falls silent, and after a few moments Qin Tianyu returns his attention to his paused work. For several minutes, he just watches the hypnotic way that the talisman master draws the same talisman again and again with the most minute of differences, to be tested and ranked according to efficacy.

“But you?” he prompts, when the stack is complete.

I want to live. That single, animalistic need, that had kept him alive through so much that would have killed others. I will not die here. Not now.

“I want to live,” says Meng Yao. And then continues, unable to stop, “I wanted her to live, too.” And when she didn’t, when illness wasted her away, taking her from him in pieces, unable to save her for want of something as immaterial as gold… something had broken in him.

Qin Tianyu nods, serene, as he gathers up the completed talismans. “Meng Yao would do well to think about why.”

Why?

You think your life is worth more than theirs? All the people you sacrificed, to live just a few years longer?

“Why shouldn’t I deserve to live?” asks Meng Yao, sharp. “Why shouldn’t we… why are our lives to be discarded at the whim of those stronger than us?”

“Silly child,” he says, “You have survived. You are alive. Now what?” Meng Yao just stares. “Perhaps Meng Yao should consider getting on with other things.”

Get on with what? Meng Yao had turned down Sect Leader Jin’s offer, had given up the name Jin Guangyao, just to escape the tragedies that that would precipitate.

But he was alive now. He was alive, and had time – perhaps even unmeasured time, so long as he stayed out of his father’s way. Perhaps he wouldn’t cultivate to near immortality, like those stronger than him, but he could live nearly a century more. Now what? Why are you alive?

It was so unlike him to not have a plan, but for once he hadn’t really. He didn’t…

“Meng Yao,” Qin Tianyu snaps, and when Meng Yao looks up, he’s leaning forward over the table, hand out and hovering over Meng Yao’s wrist.

“Master Qin?” asks Meng Yao, but rather than answer, the elder gently touches his fingertips to Meng Yao’s wrist. The pressure of foreign qi is familiar; light and diagnostic, before it withdraws.

“This old teacher apologizes,” he says, when he’s done. “I did not mean to cause you distress.”

“Not at all, this martial nephew is glad for his elder’s guidance,” says Meng Yao, taking his hand back and holding it to his chest. “I will meditate on how to prove myself more useful to Qin sect in the future.”

“Meng Yao, you misunderstand. No, rather, it was this master who misspoke. I did not mean to imply that you must prove yourself.”

“I understand,” says Meng Yao, after a beat. Spoken aloud, it must have sounded more cruel than he wished. But that was still what he meant.

There is no resolution after that. Qin Tianyu seems unable or unwilling to explain better, though he clearly thinks about it for a while. Finally, he dismisses Meng Yao, who leaves with the talismans. The lingering unease of a conversation that went poorly is left to fester in the room, while Meng Yao retreats to the disciple quarters immediately.

He resolves to work harder.

[AN: What do you think? Too OOC? I'm hoping to give MY a proper and slow redemption story, but it’s a toss up whether it’s going well or not. Thannk you for reading, please drop a comment in the replies if you have writing advice! I’ll be so grateful!]

[Click here for part 4!]

#jgy time travel verse #meng yao #qin sect #meng yao is on qin sect #qin su #OC

[chaoticshareena]

Testimony of an ex witch.

Being able to take/ manifest a lot of power from the higher power and control your surroundings and life, being able to read other people's past, being able know others intentions, having forewarning of something bad and good, being prepared to tackle them, being friends with spirits who will help you back for favours or talking with spirit guides, having daemon friends, conversing with your gaurdian angels, being able to see your past pets spirits, being able to astral project and seeing your past lives, having power to see your soulmate and more and more things were part of my life.

I was happy to know that I could be stronger and control my own life or at least that is what I was told so.

I read tarot readings everyday, cleansed my house of evil spirits and negative emotions, talked with a lot of faeries, made ceremonies, and honoured the fire everyday(fire was my element) was and also had my guardian angel to protect me and guide me.

I made sure I did everything correctly and they all worked wonderfully in my favour, I never even thought of using the Ouija board because I would see spirits (my pets and faeries near my house) after a few months and my guardian angel was with me so I had no worries.

But after a few months, things started going bad, I became narcissistic, a lot of fights and manipulating my mom, I thought I was higher than others because I have gained so much insight in life, my guardian angel who helped me acquire my knowledge and deal and read people properly, now told me to stay away from people, telling me I need to learn more and more and so I did. I was told that my trauma and abuse my father did to us was justified because it equated with my past lives karma. I was told to master in black magic which will help me achieve in my present life and doing this would mean I will balance out all my past karma and would reach nirvana.

My GA (guardian angel) told me to pursue black magic so I could help other women in my position ( females who were traumatized by men) I was happy again. I really loved black magic and I thought i would avenge myself and other women who were in need of help, at first it felt to me reasonable and not alien at this point.

Then one day I came across a testimony of a ex new age person on YouTube while going through multiple tarot readings. I didn't much of it but after I finished the video, I felt all the emotions rush back, all my experience suddenly add up, I felt fear after a long time.

I didn't even do my daily night rituals but just went to sleep. And the next day, after having a nightmare where GA and others were trying to coerce me to stay and not leave. I didnt touch my tarot cards or do my morning rituals either.

I started seeing other topics and watched other testimonies etc. And slowing started reading the Bible. I got convicted and gave my self to Christ after going through the Bible.

After a few months, I kept asking for what reason he chose to come into my life at this certain time. He answered me telling that the GA and the God I believed wanted me to be a scapegoat.i remembered the news where one family in another state was killed and no one found out who could have murdered because a large group of people thought they were witches, and the police won't do much for stuff like this.

I felt very betrayed by my GA and all the things I have done and believed in just has to go away. It was a tough transition for me but right now I am doing much much better than before. I felt a huge burden and mental fog lift of from me. I also started sleeping better and am having a better relationship with my mom. I couldn't ask for anything better than this.

I accepted Christ as my saviour after this ordeal. I haven't gone to any church or denomination or do I think I need to attend one. I think I will make more posts on my experience and what I think. If you read through this and it maybe resonated with you and you have any questions feel free to ask!!!

The video I watched way back in December of 2017 I guess.

Sorry if there are spelling mistakes.

#Youtube #testimony #witchcraft #new age #christianity

[msclaritea]

By Elizabeth Carolyn Miller

The Perils of Public Visibility

Conan Doyle’s resistance to visually identifying the female criminal sometimes appears, nonetheless, as a denial of women’s public subjectivity, a refusal to grant women full citizenry by refusing to grant them full criminality. The anonymous female avenger in “Charles Augustus Milverton” perfectly exemplifies this tendency in the series. Despite the violence of the murder she enacts, Holmes keeps her publicly invisible by chivalrously covering up her deed; her name remains a secret even to readers of the story. This is not the only case where Holmes opts not to pursue legal redress after discovering a crime, but it is the most obviously illegal instance, since he actually witnesses the murder. On the night in question, Holmes and Watson break into the home of Milverton, a blackmailer, to secure some letters written by Holmes’s client, Lady Eva. While searching his study, they inadvertently witness Milverton’s meeting with a lady’s maid who has offered to sell him her mistress’s letters. Page  63

"You couldn't come any other time—eh?"

Fig. 14. From “Charles Augustus Milverton”

Page  64

The maid turns out to be a former victim in disguise. Milverton previously exposed her secret letters to her husband, who died from the shock, and she has returned to enact revenge.

In describing the interplay between Holmes, Milverton, and the avenger, Conan Doyle orchestrates a complicated interplay of the visible and the invisible. An illustration of the avenger shows her thickly veiled—utterly obscured by the accoutrement of feminine propriety (figure 14). Secreted behind a curtain, Holmes and Watson witness her visual revelation: “The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows, shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile” (171). While suggesting formidability, this description counters the visual criminal theory of criminologists like Lombroso, who claimed female criminals have racialized or masculine features such as a heavy jaw (102). The avenger speaks:

“It is I … the woman whose life you have ruined. … you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. … You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound, and that!—and that!—and that!—and that!”

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt front. … Then he staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently and ground her heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room, and the avenger was gone. (171–72)

This passage depicts one of the most violent murders committed by a woman in turn-of-the-century fiction, and its graphic illustration brought that violence home to readers (figure 15). Despite the woman’s ferocity, however, Conan Doyle takes pains to rationalize—even defend—her act. Her invocation of her husband and her insistence on her own humility position her squarely in the tradition of self-renunciatory Victorian wifeliness. The scandalous letters do not challenge this characterization:Page  65

"Then he staggered to his feet and recieved another shot."

Page  66

we know from Lady Eva’s case that most of the letters in which Milverton traffics were written when the women were young and unmarried, and Holmes describes Lady Eva’s letters as “imprudent, Watson, nothing worse” (159). Watson’s reference to Milverton’s killer as an “avenger” also serves to justify her act, as does her seemingly selfless invocation of Milverton’s future victims.

Holmes and Watson choose not to expose the avenger. When Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard tries to enlist Holmes’s help in solving the case, obviously unaware that he witnessed the murder, Holmes replies, “there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. … My sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this case” (174). Even in the moment of watching the woman unload her pistol into Milverton’s breast, while Watson reacts, Holmes holds him back:

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate; but as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton’s shrinking body, I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of ours; that justice had overtaken a villain. … But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the door. … “This way, Watson,” said he; “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.” (172–73)

Holmes not only keeps quiet about the murder, but seizes the opportunity to actively cover it up and destroy all of the compromising letters in Milverton’s safe. Committed in cold blood, with premeditation, this crime would presumably be quite disturbing to contemporary readers: a woman shooting a man with a phallic gun in his own study is a perfect example of the kind of invading and destructive threat that characterized many representations of first-wave feminism.[34] In covering the woman’s act, however, Holmes ensures that the avenger will remain outside of the public forums of the newspaper, courts, and legal system. Indeed, the female avenger remains anonymous even on a metafictional level, for Watson refuses to reveal her name even to the “public” readership of the story.

Conan Doyle’s discomfort with women in public cannot alone account for his shocking and remarkable female avenger, however; it does not explain why he makes her at once so appalling and so appealing. He takes a potentially threatening woman and normalizes her by providing justification for her act and presenting her as a loyal and loving wife; but he goes on to present her, like Irene Adler, as an object of public desire, idolization, and glamorization. At the end of the story, gazing into “a shop window filled with photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the day,” Holmes recognizes what we might call the “mug shot” for the anonymous avenger:

Holmes’s eyes fixed themselves upon one of [the photographs], and following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window. (174–75)

Shop window photography promoting “celebrities and beauties of the day” was part of the new visual landscape of Victorian consumerism. Just as magazine illustrations and newly visual textual formats transformed the medium in which readers encountered crime fiction and other narratives, the display of famous women’s photographs as a means of selling products helped shift public culture toward the visual, consumerist, and feminine. Here, Conan Doyle portrays one such woman—displayed in all her aristocratic splendor to encourage others’ consumption—as a murderer, a sharp distinction from what she appears to signify on a visual, imagistic level. The Holmes series on the whole presents criminality and truth as visually ascertainable categories, but when depicting female criminality, it suggests that the orchestration and framing of an image determines its meaning. Here, the murderer’s photograph is a marketing tool, not a revelation of essential identity. Rather than a low brow, sensuous lips, or a misshapen ear, she has a tiara. The photograph represents the avenger’s invulnerability: she gets away with murder in part because of her social standing, but more obviouslyPage  68

"Following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in court dress."

Page  69

because of her image. Conan Doyle’s depiction of the avenger encapsulates the entire series’ ambivalence about the female criminal, who represents a newly roused feminist power, the failures of patriarchy, and the consumerist appeal of feminine disobedience. The anonymous avenger is not a figure of criminal degeneracy, but of glamour and beauty; she is appealing rather than repulsive to readers. As the illustration accompanying this scene shows, she is literally a representation for the public to admire (figure 16). Thus, while Conan Doyle’s stories do commodify feminine victimization, their commodification of feminine violence and criminality is even more significant. At a historical moment when a faction of the suffrage campaign was becoming ever more violent in its acts of civil disobedience, Conan Doyle’s 1904 story banks on the allure of feminine disobedience for readers. The avenger puts the anger of first-wave feminism into an exquisite, consumable package. Like other female offenders in the series, her image and body project fantasy and glamour rather than criminological stigmata; she suits a consumerist model of vision rather than an anthropological or criminological one. In consumerist discourse, as I discuss in the introduction, to be visible and noticeable is a form of power rather than submission. Late- nineteenth-century advertisers and marketers preached, unlike Holmes, that it was better to be looked at than to look. They also defined, however, what kind of feminine embodiment was worthy of the gaze. Consumerism redefined femininity as public and visible, but only when it conformed to the logic of consumerism.

Given the series’s apparent investment in a criminological theory of vision, one would expect its female criminals to be easily identifiable, but envisioning women is an activity fraught with problems for Holmes, the otherwise expert eye. Women criminals prove capable of resisting the detective’s gaze, and Conan Doyle makes a sustained case for legal interventionism, which he associates (not unproblematically) with state feminism rather than state paternalism. Thus, at the turn of the twentieth century, Conan Doyle’s stories put forth a far more compound and ambivalent theory of gender, vision, and the public than has been previously acknowledged; they support the authority of the gaze and locate ontology in image, except when depicting women criminals. In these instances, Conan Doyle’s detective fiction prefigures filmic genres like film noir, in which femmes fatales reveal a great “truth” about the visual landscape of modern urban culture: that the unknowable is not signified by the invisible, but by a peculiarly modern disjunction between the visible and the real.”

This is an interesting article but it reminded me wasn’t there a meta or mention of a theory saying that it might have been Holmes who actually killed Milverton?

@sarahthecoat​ @ebaeschnbliah​ @raggedyblue​ @therealsaintscully​

#Augustus Milverton #Holmes #Canon #The Mystery Lady

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 22/?)

In which Callum and Ezran confront some of the implications of Harrow’s death; in Katolis, a meeting of the High Council is called.

(Chapter length: 15.5k. Ao3 link)

---

Sarli and Cairon whiled away the hours with their work, waiting until such a time that a runner came from the castle. If there were any watchers in place observing them, they saw no sign of it, though that did little to ease their tension throughout the day. When finally they were called upon, they went, and did not make any particular fuss about it. It came later than anticipated; at a time ebbing closer to evening than afternoon. She wondered if there had been any difficulties that might have caused the delay.

They arrived at the castle and were taken to wait in a receiving room not far from where Sarli knew the Council hall to be. The thick stone of the castle walls blocked all trace of sound, and though she was sure the meet must already be underway, she could hear nothing. So she held silent and still, waiting in calm dignity for the inevitable summons. Cairon, for his part, held a silence and stillness that seemed very intent, as if he were trying to listen for voices through the stone. He would have had to have very good ears to manage it; the castle walls were thick indeed.

Finally, a guard came to lead them through, and the two that had been in the room stood up and followed. When they entered the Council’s grand hall, there had evidently been a great deal of talking already, and a great deal of resistance. Lord Viren was not in the monarch’s seat, but instead stood at the table’s end like a supplicant, cuffed, flanked on either side by well-armed Crownguard. She had a split second to guess that he would not take such debasement lightly, and then she saw his face.

The Lord Protector was tense with barely-leashed rage, his fists tight at his side and his frame set with a proud, furious rigidity that spoke well to his state of mind. He had encountered a challenge and a setback where he had anticipated none, and it had got the better of him.

His eyes moved and fell upon her, and tightened with obvious fury. Sarli stared back impassively.

“I call the Healer Sarli, and her apprentice, Cairon of the Acolytes of Mercy, to speak their testimony to the Council.” Opeli said, steely-eyed and intent. She did not betray any hint of satisfaction or victory, and Sarli respected that, too. One ought not celebrate a victory until it was in her hands. “By what would you be bound?” She asked of them, and Sarli answered without hesitation.

“By Mercy,” she said, and Cairon echoed ‘Mercy’ a bare second after her.

Opeli nodded, and then had them speak the vows in Mercy’s name that would bind them by honour to truth, and then without unnecessary preamble she had their testimony from them. Sarli described the circumstances under which she’d been summoned, what she’d seen of the Lord Protector’s secrecy and the conditions of his dungeon, what he’d said of his past treatment of his prisoner, and the evidence that Sarli had gleaned well from that prisoner’s health. She spoke of the amputation performed in the dark, hidden and faithless, and the insult she’d been dealt in having her patient taken from her. She spoke of the dark magic construct that had stolen into her House of Healing, and presented the ash of it that Cairon had saved in a tiny vial.

Cairon said his part, too, but by that point it was something of an afterthought. The Council adjourned briefly while a fresh party of guards, accompanied by a Councilman, ventured into the Lord Protector’s private dungeon and verified the presence of the prisoner, as well as the inhumane conditions of his keeping. They returned this confirmation to the Council-hall, and Lord Viren was asked to justify his actions.

He straightened, slowly, the rage in his eyes having banked in the interim to something colder and longer-burning. He had evidently been considering his words very carefully. “That elf is the assassin who murdered King Harrow.” He said, evenly, precisely. “And, to my belief, the leader of the party of assassins.” He was commanded to justify this claim, and elaborated at once on the differing position of the elf’s strange binding, the fact that he alone had borne the magical messenger-bird; the claim was accepted, and he went on. “This elf is the leader of a group of six – six – vile Moonshadow elves who somehow made it to the heart of the Kingdom without ever once being detected. A journey that surely must have taken them months – and they were not spotted. Does that not seem suspicious to you?”

The Council rustled. Opeli’s eyes tightened before she spoke. “Make your point, Lord Viren.”

“My point, as you put it, is that those elves constituted a security breach of the highest order,” said Lord Viren, voice coached in all the righteous, compelling concern that he could manage. “A Moonshadow assassin is unstoppable at full moon, but full moon does not account for how they travelled here undetected.”

“Moonshadow assassins are famously skilled.” Pointed out another of the Council, looking nearly interested now.

“Skilled, yes, but skilled enough to avoid all patrols and sentries along the way?” He shook his head. “The most efficient ways here from the border are heavily populated. No, Councillors; even if the assassins kept far from the road, they should have been spotted. Glimpsed, at least once. I’m sure they would have killed any scouts who did spot them, but we’ve had no missing scouts either, have we? They weren’t spotted.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if inviting the council-hall to follow him to his conclusion. “That implies knowledge of where to go to stay hidden – which routes are guarded and which are not – which paths an assassin might take to the heart of Katolis to slaughter its royal family.” The words were inflammatory, and deliberately so; many in the room stirred at the reminder. “That knowledge could only have been gained in one way.”

Sarli knew the word before it was spoken. So, judging by the sudden stillness of him, did Cairon. “Spies.” Concluded Opeli, flatly. “We know we have spies, Lord Viren. Every kingdom does. What does this have to do with your reprehensible conduct?”

The Lord Protector schooled his features into polite surprise. “You haven’t guessed, Lady Opeli?” He asked, falsely astonished. “Why, I have been trying to draw the information from the elf prisoner, of course.” He seemed satisfied as the Council erupted with mutters and rustling, eyes passing from one to the next with careful attention. “As the leader of his party, the prisoner will know how to contact the spies. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had made contact with a spy in the castle-city itself. Our king is dead!” he said, raising his voice, and casting his address around. Though shackled, he still had more than sufficient room to turn and enhance his oration. “Our heirs murdered! The Kingdom is in its hour of greatest vulnerability, and it is our duty to keep it safe. Security of information has never been more important.”

“…You claim your treatment of the prisoner was justified as means to draw information from him.” Opeli concluded, narrow-eyed, watching Lord Viren as though he were a particularly troublesome roach that had the temerity to refuse to die.

“Precisely so, Lady Opeli.” The Lord Protector agreed, voice lined with the artificial smoothness of someone who had lived too long at court.

Opeli did not appear impressed. Nor did her fellows, and Sarli could guess why. She waited for the obvious rejoinder.

It came, eventually, from the Councilman Saleer. “Lord Viren, I agree with your concerns of the security of the realm.” He said, turning a light frown to the man as he spoke. “The security of information must be one of our utmost priorities, and the potential for unearthing spies must be pursued. Your prisoner, doubtlessly, has very valuable information to give, and will likely only give it under duress. I agree that the duress is warranted.” He paused, looking almost disappointed. Sarli thought, by the look of him, that this Councilman might well have been Lord Viren’s partisan before this. Now, though? “What I question is why you did not apply to the proper channels to have it sanctioned.”

Sarli was nodding along as Lord Viren paused, his expression falling into a mask of polite indifference that seemed near-reflexive. “Pardon?” he inquired, mildly, with the look of a man who had been hoping very fervently that this topic would not arise.

Opeli took up the assault with an almost fierce cast to her eyes. “Under Law, Lord Viren, the use of exceptional measures in the questioning of prisoners of war may be granted by tribunal,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You cannot pretend you didn’t know that. There is no good reason, none, why you should have kept the prisoner in unlawful secrecy and unlawful conditions, when you could have simply requested a tribunal verdict. Do you think anyone would deny that this prisoner warrants it? It would be unanimous.” Her stare darkened to a glower. “But you didn’t even try. And I, for one, mistrust the intentions that this betrays.”

“I, as well.” Said one of the others. “It’s untrustworthy behaviour from the Lord Protector.”

“I support without reservation measures for the security of the realm,” said Saleer. “I dislike that I was not offered the opportunity to support this one. Matters of security should not be hidden from the Council. And, by reports, under your care the prisoner’s health has been declining rapidly. Such a valuable source of information should be kept more carefully.”

Opeli turned, abruptly, to Sarli. “Your verdict, Healer, on the prognosis of the prisoner.” She demanded, and Sarli blinked.

She took a moment to collect her impressions. “Under his current circumstances, without the care of a Healer…” She considered it. “If the records on his kind are correct, I would expect him to summarily expire beneath the new moon. In his current condition, and kept underground, I do not believe he would survive its privations.”

“And your recommendations for a course of treatment?” The question was quick.

“Access of a qualified Healer to his care and keeping.” She answered. “Moonlight; as much of it as possible, before the moon finishes waning. He must have a cell with an appropriately-placed window. And I strongly recommend against the use of any exceptional measures before the new moon has passed.”

“You consider it very likely that the prisoner would have died, left to Lord Viren’s care.” It wasn’t a question.

“I consider it a certainty, if he persisted in refusing access to a Healer.” Sarli said evenly. “If by some miracle the elf survived the new moon, he wouldn’t survive his infections without some moonlight to strengthen him. As it is, even should he receive a Healer’s attentions immediately, his survival is far from assured.”

Opeli nodded, sharply, and turned to Lord Viren. “Then we must charge you with endangerment of the security of the realm, Lord Protector, as well as breach of Law.” She said, and – that appeared to break through the man’s carefully-crafted exterior. He looked offended. “In risking the death of a potentially critical prisoner – a prisoner which you did not surrender to the official channels as you ought – you endanger the information security that you claim motivated you. I find your justifications poor and groundless, and call for the immediate confiscation of the prisoner, and sanctions upon your station.”

Oh, but that did not please Lord Viren. His eyes narrowed. His fists clenched, still cuffed, as though he were fighting to refrain from uttering something rash. She imagined she could almost hear the grind of his teeth.

Within minutes, Opeli’s call had the corroboration of the rest of the Council, and orders were dispersing for the appropriation and relocation of the prisoner. The soldiers who had aided the Lord Protector and not spoken up were due for trials of their own, and the Council was in agreement that Lord Viren should receive further sanction, to be determined at a later date.

“Healer, given your prior attendance to the case, I would ask that you take up the duty of the prisoner’s care.” Opeli said, which Sarli had been expecting.

“Of course.” She said, inclining her head, and did not mention that she would have been more than mildly irate to have had her patient given to the care of any other, and certainly would have made her ire the Council’s problem. “I will have the aid of my apprentice, I assume.” This was accepted without pause. Here, at least, the rights of a Healer went unquestioned.

Then she had the privilege of watching the Lord Protector escorted from the throne-room, to rest under guard in his quarters until such a time as he received his next hearing. As he passed her by, flanked by the pikes of the Crownguard, he turned eyes upon her that were venomous and graceless in defeat. “So much for the vaunted confidentiality of Healers.” He said to her, casting his voice so as to be heard, perhaps in some attempt to discredit her vows to the Council.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Surely you’re not surprised, Lord Viren.” She said, and allowed herself a stirring of satisfaction in her gut, though it did not reach her eyes. “It was my duty.”

“Your duty?” He seethed, the guards pausing to allow the exchange.

“Yes.” She answered, and no more. If he had paid better attention, he would have known it. She owed him no explanation at all.

So, in the end, Lord Viren left the hall in disgrace, and Sarli returned with her apprentice to the mouth of the Valley of Graves.

 ---

 The snowshoes, by necessity, limited their travel speed quite a lot. Rayla seemed to be feeling more lenient than usual, or otherwise was treating them gently, because she barely hurried them or remarked on their pace at all. He asked her about it, an hour or so in, and she shrugged. “Never expected to get far today,” she said. “But we needed to get moving. For…morale, I guess, if nothing else.”

Callum thought of staying in that Mercy-forsaken cave for another day and shivered. He could understand that. It felt, in a very real way, like the place had been stained with the grief and turmoil they’d experienced there, and he was increasingly glad to have seen the back of it. “Okay, fair enough.”

The forced break in their travel had at least allowed his legs to recover a bit; this turned out to be a very good thing, because the going that day was almost entirely uphill. Rayla kept cresting the side of the mountain, looking out, and shaking her head. No safe way down to the other side yet. So they were still climbing, in a steady meandering path around the curving edge of Dorel, searching for a way forward.

The snow made everything harder. Going uphill in snowshoes meant having to stamp the snow twice or more before every step, to ensure it was packed enough to withstand weight, which meant that every step forward took three times as much effort as it ought to. And, of course, he periodically fell in. Less so as he got the hang of snowshoeing, but it was a definite setback. They were walking  almost directly into the wind that day too, with the lingering malice of the storm scouring their cheeks until his skin felt red and raw.

After only a few hours of walking, Callum’s legs were aching, he was struggling for breath, and the straps of his bag were digging painfully into his shoulders…but, weirdly, it was still vaguely satisfying. There was a sense of relief to it all, like he was leaving something terrible behind. Like, somehow, if he walked far enough, the grief wouldn’t follow.

It helped that, walking on the outwards edge of an entire mountain, the views were usually incredible. At least half the times he tripped and fell into a snowdrift were because his eyes wandered to the scenery instead of where he was putting his feet.

Rayla had said they wouldn’t go far today, and was true to her word; she was obviously looking for somewhere to camp by mid-afternoon. The snow-clouds made it hard to judge the time of day, but he thought it was only about four by the time she stopped them, setting her bags down in a thick bank of snow beside some well-frosted pine trees. “This’ll do,” she announced, giving their surrounds a critical look. “It’s sort of sheltered, at least.”

Callum eyed the prospective campsite dubiously. The trees were not particularly closely-packed, but the snow seemed only knee-deep rather than hip-deep, so he supposed she was right. There was some degree of shelter here. “Nice view through the trees, too.” He pointed out, glancing through the sparsely-placed trunks to the silhouettes of the mountains. It was clear enough now that he could almost see some actual details past the haze. There was, sort of, a drop-off a short distance away. A slope steep enough that the snow hadn’t adhered to it particularly enthusiastically, in any case. He thought he could see some sort of forest further down.

She followed his gaze, looking vaguely taken-aback, as if she hadn’t even noticed the scenery. She blinked past the branches. “I was mostly just thinking about easy firewood access,” she admitted. “And not having to clear as much snow. But I suppose it looks nice enough?” She shrugged.

Ezran let Bait down into the snow, smiling a little as the glow-toad promptly dropped out of sight, too dense to do anything but sink in immediately. “I like it better than that stupid not-cave, anyway.” He announced, and kicked out some snow before setting his own bag down in the cleared space. “Are we setting up the tent?”

“Definitely.” Rayla said, eyeing a nearby tree suspiciously. She approached it and gave it a kick, then did a circuit of the other nearby trees to do the same. He wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of it was, but she seemed more satisfied when she finished and added “It’s definitely still too cold to be a good idea to sleep outside.” Callum, who was already getting chilly now that he’d stopped walking, nodded ruefully, and bent to take his snowshoes off.

It was bizarrely, comfortingly normal to go about the camp-making process again. The snow occasioned a few extra steps, but Rayla mostly took care of that; she broke off a branch so large it seemed more like half a tree, still thick with pine needles, and used it as an improvised broom to beat aggressively at the thick snow in their vicinity. While they gathered wood for a fire, she exposed an area of frozen earth that would have been large enough for three or four tents instead of just the one. When she was done she stood back to observe it with plain satisfaction, discarding her improvised broom.

Callum inspected her handiwork. The edges of the snow, all pushed outwards, looked almost comically like some sort of perimeter wall. He half felt like he should be drafting Ez to go build a snow-fort with him. Instead: “Tent time?” he inquired, eyeing the cleared space, and she nodded.

“Tent time.” She agreed, and they all set to work.

Rayla had regained the use of her left hand since the last time they did this, and although it seemed weak enough to not be able to grip or brace things properly, it still made enough of a difference that she joined in on the tent-building with a vicious satisfaction, obviously soothed to have some measure of her capabilities back. He was glad for her, though he did spend most of the process worrying that the tent would catch on her arm wounds somehow.

After startlingly little time, they had a tent again. Right at that moment, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I want to crawl in there and never leave.” He sighed, eyeing the open interior covetously. He hadn’t realised how fiercely he’d missed its dubious comforts until now. Sheltered or not, the alcove they’d spent the last couple nights in had been decidedly open to the elements, and the idea of being able to sleep in an enclosed space again was heartening.

“We can spend the evening warming it up. Putting hot rocks in it and stuff.” Rayla offered, and he glanced over to find her watching him with a slight smile. “Should be relatively toasty. At least for the first part of the night.”

“I’ll take it.” He said, wistful at the mere thought. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt warm.”

Ezran, who’d been slipping the egg out and resting it inside the tent, looked down at his boots. “I know what you mean. My toes have been frozen for days.” Bait inspected his own feet, croaked disagreeably, then crawled into the tent himself. Ez snickered at this, as though the toad had said something amusing that the rest of them weren’t privy to.

“Hopefully not literally.” Rayla said, finally dragging some of their wood over to arrange a fire. “Please, no frostbite. That would be so much work to deal with.”

“Seconded.” Callum put in quickly, stomach roiling a little at the thought. He’d heard stories about frostbite, and they weren’t pretty. “No one’s allowed to lose any toes.” After a moment, he went for the flint in his bag, moving over to hand it to Rayla. She murmured thanks and began casting the sparks, holding the left-hand rock very carefully indeed.

Ezran patted his feet, then stuck them close to the designated fire-area. “I think I can manage that,” he said. “So long as this fire picks up a little, anyway. My boots feel all snow-soggy.”

It all went weirdly smoothly from there. Callum wasn’t sure what he was expecting; some setback, maybe. Like the strong winds of that one other campsite, or an unwelcome thunder-clap. But nothing happened. It all just…worked. The first order of business, once they had a fire, was to start heating up some snow and pine needles for tea. The second order of business was to stash all the still-raw meat into the snow-walls around their campsite to ensure it’d stay frozen. With those more pressing matters dealt with, Rayla started hunting around for suitably-sized rocks to stash in the flames for heating. In what seemed like no time at all, they were passing pine-tea around, everyone except Callum grimacing lightly at the taste as they sipped.

And, just like that, they were sat quiet and idle around yet another campfire.

In the smooth, easy progression of the afternoon…there really hadn’t been any opening to sit and dwell on unhappy thoughts. Now though, the quiet fell for long enough to turn pensive in the air, growing heavier between one moment and the next.

“This is so…normal.” Ezran said into that quiet, after a long time. He was staring into the bubbling pot on the fire, looking conflicted. Rayla turned to watch him, eyes sombre with understanding.

Callum offered a low hum of agreement, heart sinking. It had been easier – when the travel and the campcraft had been distracting him – to keep his mind off of heavier things. But there was only so long that would work.

“It’s like nothing ever happened. Like nothing’s changed.” Ez went on, when neither of them spoke. “But…it has. It has changed. And I just…” he exhaled, lifting a hand to his face. “I don’t know. It’s hard.”

He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I know.” He said, softly. “I - it does get easier? But…”

Ezran glanced up at him, and didn’t seem especially reassured. He just looked back at the fire. “I can’t stop thinking about – about how we weren’t there.” He said, arms tightening around his front, as though he wanted to hug something but had nothing there. The egg and Bait were both in the tent, after all. “For…a lot of things. Like…” He breathed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Like the funeral. That would have been a few days ago, right?”

Callum hadn’t thought of that. It was like a stab through his heart. “I – yeah.” He agreed, miserably, after a second of thought. “Seven sunsets. We passed that at least a couple days back.”

“And those memorial flames, in Verdorn.” Ezran went on, eyes shadowed. “And the flags. That was for him, too. Right?”

He winced. Those had both been signs he’d tried, very hard, not to think about at the time. “…Yeah. I think so.”

“And we just…” Ez shook his head. “We just kept going. Didn’t even know when the funeral happened, or – anything.”

Rayla was hunching her shoulders a little now, too. “Should’ve told you sooner.” She muttered, low and guilty.

His brother sighed. “Yeah, probably.” He acknowledged, seemingly too worn to soften the words. “But it wouldn’t really have changed anything.” He thought. “Maybe we could’ve lit a flame for him, I guess, if it was before the funeral. Now we can only do that at his grave. Or – at Ashtide, maybe?”

He saw Rayla frown at the word, apparently finding it unfamiliar. “That’d be a long way away, though.” Callum said softly. “We only just had Ashtide a few months back.”

Ezran was silent for a moment. “At his grave, then.” He exhaled. “I guess by the time I get a chance, I’m probably going to be King. Or, actually, I – I guess I’m already King? I…” He buried his face in his hands. “Callum, I…don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

His gut tightened. Ez was too young to have to be worrying about something this heavy. Too young by far to be King. But… “I know.” He said, quietly, and offered an arm. Ez eyed it for a moment, then sighed, shuffling closer and letting himself be pulled in. He huddled into Callum’s side. “If it helps…you can always pick a regent. The Queen of Duren’s still using her regent, and she’s a year older than you.”

“Regents. Right.” He blinked a few times, and the words did at least seem to have surprised him out of his misery for a moment. “Forgot about that. But…who would I even pick?” He frowned suddenly, like he’d had an unpleasant thought. “Do you think they already picked one for me? Because we’re – you know, here? It’s not like they can just leave the kingdom without someone in charge…”

“They might have, yeah. A temporary one, maybe.” It was similar to what he’d been thinking earlier in the day. His arm tightened. “They could’ve crowned a Lord Protector instead, I guess, but that would be weird. There’s probably just a regent.”

“I wonder who it is.” Ezran said lowly, then huddled in closer, hunching until he seemed tiny. “Stupid,” he muttered, as if to himself, with an edge of upset rising in his voice. “Dad’s dead and I missed his funeral and I don’t even know who my regent is.” There was a self-castigation there that Callum was far more used to hearing from his own voice than his brother’s. Some King I am, it seemed to whisper.

Callum frowned. “Hey, none of that is your fault, Ez.” His voice came out a little more sharply than he’d intended. Rayla stirred a little, like she wanted to say something, but in the end she stayed quiet, watching them with sombre eyes.

“I know.” Ezran’s limbs furled tightly inwards, knees coming up to his chest. “I know it’s not. I just – it feels bad, okay? Now – it’s not just that dad’s dead, it’s – I’m supposed to be responsible for the whole kingdom too? And instead of being there, doing my job, I’m just…” He trailed off, then shook his head. Lifted a hand and gestured tiredly out at the campsite. “I’m just…here. And I don’t know who’s taking care of Katolis.” Before Callum could speak, he’d already gone on. “And that matters, you know? Because of this whole stupid war. What if whoever it is keeps fighting? My regent could be making things worse while I’m-“ he gestured violently around them, at the tent, at the fire. “-sat here, camping.” His voice went bitter on the last word.

Whatever Callum had been about to say died on his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he’d intended to say, but…

Rayla cut in, then. “You’re doing something important here, Ez.” She said, and though her voice was gentle, it was very firm too. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, since we’re mostly just…walking, and camping. But we’re taking the Dragon Prince home. And, coming from you…” She shook her head for a moment. “Do you know how much that’ll mean, for Azymondias to be returned by the King of Katolis? Not just by some human, but a king? That sort of gesture matters, Ez.”

Callum glanced at her, surprised. He’d not heard her talk about anything like that before. It rang true, though, and he could see it move Ez too. His pale eyes flicked back to the egg in the tent, expression twisted with indecision. “…Yeah.” He said, at last. “I can see how that’s important. How that’s…a big thing. But…” He went quiet for a few long moments. “But I feel like the kingdom matters too. Who’s controlling it. What if by the time we get to Xadia, there’s armies fighting again, because I wasn’t home to tell them not to?” His hands clenched in Callum’s jacket. “What if more people die?”

His gut twisted. “It’s a good point.” He admitted, after a moment. There hadn’t been all-out armed conflict with Xadia since, pretty much, Harrow had been crowned. But in the wake of a royal assassination on either side… “It’s – scary to think about. But I can’t help but think-“ he hesitated, and stopped, not sure if he should say it.

Ezran noticed, of course, and frowned up at him. “Think what?”

“…I can’t help but wonder if it’d actually make a difference. You telling them not to go to war.” He admitted finally, throat feeling tight. Ezran stared at him, confused and almost a little offended, so: “It’s not like child kings are unheard of, Ez. But – sometimes, if people think they’re not making the right decisions, and they’re not ready to rule yet…they’re forced to take a regent anyway. At least for a few years.” He hesitated again, and added, more quietly, “Or they get deposed. Or…worse.”

It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. But kings were valid targets for assassination, as far as Pentarchy standards were concerned. Ezran was King now. It wouldn’t matter that he was only a child. If people didn’t like what he was doing…then there’d be assassins. Probably a lot of them.

There were always people who didn’t like what kings and queens were doing. That went without saying. But something like this?

Ezran’s expression had gone a little stricken, like he hadn’t thought about that. Callum felt like he had to elaborate, at that point. “You’d want to stop the fighting, right?” He said, quietly. “Make peace with Xadia. But – you’d need support for something like that, Ez. You’d need at least most of your council to think you know what you’re doing. Or at least a few important people who’ll back you up.”

He’d been pretty much raised with the idea that he’d be Ezran’s most trusted royal advisor someday. He’d never thought he’d have to start this soon. If he’d known, he’d have paid better attention. But now…he couldn’t help but remember some of his lessons, and think about what they meant for his brother now.

It’s not that simple, Harrow had said, when Callum demanded to know why he couldn’t just make peace, stop the assassination. Thinking of it made frustration rise and seethe in his throat, harsh with upset, because – for all his words, Harrow had had so much more freedom than Ezran. He’d been an adult, beloved by the kingdom, with a history of both peaceful and warlike actions. He’d surely have faced opposition, and assassins, if he made unpopular decisions. All kings did. But if he’d tried, if he’d just tried – Callum was sure he’d have had the clout to see it through.

But he hadn’t. And now the weight of that responsibility was on Ezran. Ezran, who was ten years old, and untried, and didn’t have the trust and support that comes from a decade of ruling. It would be so much harder for him. It wasn’t fair.

“I – I didn’t think of that.” Ezran said, into the silence, looking shaken. “But – it’s not like I can’t try to make peace. That would just be…wrong. But you’re saying…” he swallowed. “You’re saying they might not let me.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Callum hedged, head aching a little. He’d always disliked the politics lessons. But enough of them had sunk in that he was seeing the implications here. “It kind of depends how scared of Xadia everyone is at the moment. But…yeah, I think you’d need someone backing you up to declare peace, or you could lose control of the court.”

“Like who?” He asked, a little miserable now. It was plain he didn’t want to be thinking about this. Any other time Ezran looked like that, he’d be sneaking out of lessons to steal jelly tarts. But that wasn’t an option here, and he knew it. This wasn’t a responsibility he could shirk. Not without terrible consequences.

Callum thought. “Aunt Amaya would do really well, if we could get her on our side.” He said eventually. “She’s a war hero, you know, and everyone trusts her to defend us from elves.” He saw Rayla’s expression and added “Sorry Rayla. But yeah, she’d be a good choice. If she backed you up on the peace thing, a lot more people would trust it. It would just…be hard to convince her about it. She really doesn’t like Xadia.”

Ezran’s eyes were shadowed. “I know.”

Rayla exhaled, then spoke up. “I’m not going to pretend to know anything about your human court politics,” she started, and waited till their eyes were on her. “But don’t you think, maybe, that some sort of grand gesture, like returning the Dragon Prince, might win over your – council people, or whatever?” Her voice was more than a little sardonic, like she thought they were missing the obvious option, and she was getting a bit exasperated about it.

There was a slightly startled pause. “I mean, maybe.” Callum said after a moment. “It depends. But if you told it the right way, it could make people feel a bit less like we’re going to be attacked with dragons the second Ezran lets our guard down.” He thought. “Especially if we can get some sort of diplomatic thing out of the Dragon Queen. Some sort of agreement or gesture or something.”

Ez didn’t seem convinced, though. He looked back at the egg, troubled. “You’re saying that the best idea might just be to…stick with what we’re already doing.” He said unhappily. “Go to Xadia. Give the egg back. Let whoever’s running the kingdom keep running it.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe so.”

He didn’t speak again for a while, only watched the egg with unblinking eyes. Then he looked away. “I want to just do that.” He admitted, lowly. “I want to stay with Zym, and make sure he gets home safe. But…I feel kind of like that’s running away. Like maybe I just want to do it because it’s easier than going home and being King, and not – because it’s the right choice.” He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know.”

Rayla made a face, like she understood uncomfortably well. “I get that, Ez.” She said softly. “I do. But…”

“I don’t know that I could let you go to court without someone I trust guarding you.” Callum admitted, uncomfortable. “And even then – it’s risky, Ez. It’s not safe.”

Ezran looked up, eyes uncannily pale. “No one’s safe,” he said, with a sombre gravity. “Not in this war. It’s my duty to stop that, right?”

“Yeah,” He acknowledged, gut twisting. “But you’re not going to do any good if you go home and make a mess of things and get killed because someone didn’t like the choices you make.” His heartbeat felt weird; too heavy, too hard. The thought of Ezran leaving made him feel sick. The thought of him being in danger, alone, made his skin prickle with cold horror.

“All kings have to deal with that.” Ez countered, but there was no heart in it. Just a rote objection.

“You’re not ‘all kings’, Ez.” His arm tightened around his brother’s side. “You’re ten.”

He ducked his head, ever-so-slightly, then sighed quietly. He looked away. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s kind of a moot point at the moment, anyway.” Rayla said, and their eyes turned her way. “We’re up a mountain right now, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s not like you can go back alone, Ez. And I don’t know how long it’ll be until we’re near a town again, but-“ She squinted out past the trees for a moment. “-it’s at least three mountains off, I think.”

“No settlements in this part of the Belt.” Callum supplied quietly. “There used to be a lot of towns along the Rhodane river, a long time ago, but – not anymore.” He shook his head. “If we’re travelling down that way, the first ‘town’ we find is probably going to be Greatport. And that’s all the way over on the Bay.” He was hard-pressed to call Greatport a town, really. It was one of the biggest cities in the Pentarchy.

“There you have it.” She nodded, briskly. “No point worrying about this now when going home isn’t even going to be an option for weeks. And at that point maybe we can have a poke around your ‘Great Port’ and get some news.”

“Weeks,” Ezran repeated, in a very plaintive tone. “That’s so far away. I’m going to be worrying about who my regent is for weeks?”

Callum hesitated. “I…” He stopped, considering his words. “If it helps, there really isn’t a lot of people it could be. Not many people have the kind of reputation they’d need to get appointed without your decision.”

Ez blinked, looking up at him out of the corners of his eyes. “…Like who?” He sounded wary, but a little curious too.

Callum thought. “Opeli, definitely. But she’s got a lot of jobs already, so she’d probably have to pass one of them off to do it. Aunt Amaya, same. She’d probably need to step down as General. And…” he hesitated on the last one, gut twisting a little. “And Lord Viren. He…wouldn’t need to step down from anything, I don’t think. He’s just the High Mage. There’s not a huge amount of work with that.” He exhaled. “So, if I had to guess, I’d say…probably him.”

Ezran was silent for a few long moments. “I don’t think I like that.” He said, finally.

Rayla scowled. “Isn’t he the dark mage who killed the Dragon King?” She asked, with an edge to her voice. “The one who stole the egg? And-“ She broke off there, but Callum thought he could guess what else she was thinking: if her parents weren’t cowards, it would have been Viren who killed them.

“Yeah.” Callum nodded, shortly, and remembered the phantom sensation of a dark hand stealing his breath away. He lifted his fingers to his scarf, adjusting it uncomfortably, and – wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything. Was it relevant? Did it matter? Was there any point in mentioning it?

He should have known better than to think Ezran wouldn’t notice his indecision. His brother turned a little to stare at him, frowning a little. “Callum?” He questioned, with sudden concern. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated, then looked away. “…He was there, when I went up into the tower that night.” He said, in the end, not meeting their eyes. “Lord Viren, I mean. He was guarding the royal chambers with Soren, and the other Crownguard.” And that was a thought. Had Viren even survived? Had Soren survived? The other Crownguard had died so fast… “I tried to get him to let me in, so I could tell – dad – about the egg. But…” He trailed off, throat feeling tight.

“…He didn’t let you?” Ezran guessed, unhappy, and Callum shook his head.

“No. I mean – no, he didn’t, but-“ He clenched his fists. “He made it sound like Harrow already knew. And then he said some…stuff.” Mongrel, whispered his memory. Thinking of it made him feel so…confused? Angry? Betrayed? He had no idea. Viren had never seemed to be fond of him, maybe, but he’d not expected that. “And he used dark magic on me,” he concluded, quietly. “To stop me from calling out to Harrow. It didn’t last, but-“

“What?!” He and Ezran jerked with surprise at the vehemence of Rayla’s voice, both of their eyes snapping to her at once. She’d half-risen, looking murderous, like she wanted to spring to her feet and go for someone’s throat. Her hands were twitching for her weapons.

Warily, Callum repeated it: “He used dark magic on me. Some kind of spell to take my voice away.” She made a noise that was almost a hiss, a sharp exhalation of tightly-held air. She looked furious. “It didn’t hurt,” he hastened to add, which didn’t seem to reassure her at all. “I just – couldn’t call out. Couldn’t get through. When my voice came back I…ran. And then I found you guys.”

“He used dark magic on you?” She bit out, now actually on her feet, pacing around the fire like she was searching for something to fight, hands flexing at her sides. “That’s – you never mentioned – ugh.” She stopped, brought a hand up to her face in a brief agitated motion, then whirled suddenly on Ezran. “You are not going back there!” She snapped, almost angry, with a protective fury in her eyes that he’d never seen before.

Ezran was watching her with a measure of surprise. “…We don’t know if he’s the regent, though.” He pointed out, a little soothingly, and Rayla made a disgusted sound.

“He’d still be there. You can’t live in a castle with someone who cast dark magic on your brother.”

“I’m fine, though?” Callum attempted, and she whirled on him, staring fiercely down from where she’d paused in her pacing.

“That’s not the point, Callum.” She said, tersely, hands shaking with her tension. “The point is – if he did it once, he could do it again. Maybe not just to you. Maybe to Ez, too. You’re royalty, right? Isn’t it a big deal if someone does dark magic on you?”

“…It is, yeah.” Ezran agreed, before Callum could say anything. He looked sidelong at him, brow furrowed. “It is a big deal. He could get jailed for that, right? Executed, even, if it actually hurt you. I…had no idea Viren would do something like that.”

Callum opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss. “I…” he started, uncertain. “I – get the feeling he mostly just did it because he didn’t like me.” He remembered the man’s diatribe again, throat clenching. It hurt to recall, even though he’d never been close to Viren.

The remark didn’t seem to please either of them. Ezran scowled, and Rayla made a sound like an angry snake. She knelt down, and for a second rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rested’ was the wrong word, actually. It was more like she was gripping it, fingers tense and tight. “You matter too, Callum.” She told him lowly, quietly furious. “It’s not okay that he did that to you.”

He stared at her, struck as mute as he’d been when Viren had stolen his voice. In the end Ez sighed and turned away, staring at the fire. “So, it’s not safe for me to go home.” He concluded quietly. “Not until I’ve got…court support, and – someone to make sure I’m safe. From assassins. And…maybe Viren.”

Rayla withdrew her hand, then sat down at Callum’s side as heavily as a dropped stone. “Sounds about right to me.” Her voice was still tight, her expression angry. Angry on Callum’s behalf.

Still he didn’t speak, looking away, staring at his gloved hands. Inanely, he observed that they looked weird fully-covered. He was more used to seeing them in his usual half-finger ones. What a stupid thought to be having now.

Ezran was right, was the thing. There were very, very heavy restrictions on when and how dark magic was allowed to be used. Claudia using it against Rayla that night at the castle would have been perfectly allowed and justified, but – Viren using it on him? That was illegal. That was really, really illegal. And…he was the prince. He didn’t really like to think about how important that technically made him, but – it was true. And Viren had used dark magic on him.

Could he be sure that Ezran was safe from that? That it was just a one-off, because Viren hated Callum specifically?

…No. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t be sure of it at all.

“We’ll find out more about what’s going on in the kingdom later.” He said, finally, when he found his voice again. “But…yeah, you’re right. If – if Viren’ll do dark magic on me, we can’t be sure he wouldn’t – that he won’t…” He trailed off, and shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

All of them sat in a very glum, very heavy silence after that. Ezran probably would have been perfectly able to brood on his thoughts for the rest of the day; Rayla, apparently, was another matter. She started to look agitated only a couple of minutes into the quiet, then finally said “Right,” and stood, going for their bags.

Ez turned to look at her. “What are you doing?”

She pulled out a jar. “There’s no point sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.” She said, determinedly, and returned to the fire already struggling for the leverage to uncap the thing with her bad hand. She didn’t manage it, and Callum could see her frustration at that, flitting across her face. Instead, she switched hands, holding the jar against her chest with the left and twisting the cap off with her right. “Might as well have dinner. Some food should cheer us up a bit.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.

“Well, worst case, we’re unhappy and full.” Callum offered optimistically. “Which is probably better than unhappy and hungry.”

“Exactly.” Rayla nodded resolutely, then started pulling the cooked meat out. After some prompting, Ezran begrudgingly admitted to a preference for eating it warm, so Rayla emptied the residual pot-tea into their waterskins and stuck the meat in it with only a thin film of water in there. Callum didn’t feel quite as picky, so got started on some of his while the rest was heating. In short order, they were all chewing on rabbit or venison, and it did make him feel a little better.

Ezran seemed a little more fixed in his preoccupation, though, and was eating his food quite unenthusiastically. He didn’t look particularly cheered. Rayla was adding a second batch of meat to the pot, insisting that they all needed to stuff themselves, when Callum had an idea. He inspected their surroundings, smiled a little, then sidled up to his brother to nudge him conspiratorially.

“You know, Ez, something just occurred to me.” He said, pretend-thoughtful, and Ez looked at him suspiciously.

“What?” he asked, wary.

In a dramatic, sweeping gesture, he indicated the thick snow-banks around their cleared camp area. “Been a while since we made a snowman, don’t you think?” He asked, and saw Ezran blink; first understanding, then sceptical. “And we’ve got plenty of sticks and spare scarves and stuff.”

“Really?” Ezran seemed very unimpressed, which was as good a sign as there’d ever be that he was determined to stay miserable. Callum had no intention of letting that stand.

“What, are you too old for building snowmen now?” He pretended to swoon in horror, and saw Ez trying very hard not to let his lips twitch. So, naturally, Callum piled on the dramatism as heavily as he could manage. “Alas! My little brother is all grown up and boring!”

“Nooo,” Ezran muttered, protesting half-heartedly.

“No what?” He prompted, aware that Rayla was watching them from her periphery, hiding a smile. “No, you’re not too old for building snowmen? No, you’re not boring?”

“I’m not boring.” His brother grumbled, folding his arms. “You’re boring.”

“Oh, am I?” Determinedly, Callum poked and prodded at Ez until there was enough space in his posture to reach out and tug him encouragingly to his feet. “Then I bet you’ll make a way better snowman than me.”

“This isn’t going to work.” Ezran told him severely, but didn’t really protest being frog-marched to the snow-banks. He eyed the packed snow with a look of extremely un-Ezran-like disdain. “I’m not gonna magically cheer up because of snow.”

“Oh really?” Callum asked…directly before he lobbed a snowball at his brother’s face.

It was only a little one, assembled secretively behind his back, but it did the trick. Ezran spluttered with shock, looked briefly outraged, then responded in the only logical way: he picked up a handful of snow and threw it back.

It seemed like more of a reflex response at first, or even almost genuine annoyance, but that didn’t survive the next rounds of the impromptu snowball fight. In short order Ezran’s eyes were alight with vicious glee as he launched his projectiles, crowing triumphantly when he nailed Callum in the forehead and dislodged his hat. The next ten minutes were a mad haze of chasing and throwing and falling over in snow; eventually Callum accidentally tumbled over the snow-bank, Ezran following a second later, and they both fell with a muffled oof into the cleared camp-space.

“You done murdering each other with snow yet?” Rayla asked them, eyebrow raised, looking very amused. She’d been watching the spectacle but hadn’t made any move to join in, and suddenly, Callum thought that sorely needed correcting.

He locked eyes with Ezran, who had just finished picking himself up off the ground. Slowly, both of them reached for more snow. “That depends,” Callum said, secretively, and saw her eyes narrow with suspicion.

“On what?” She demanded, then spotted what they were doing. Her smile widened into something closer to a smirk. “…If you throw that, you’d best be prepared for the consequences.” She informed them, watching in an almost challenging way. Daring, even.

Ezran never had been good at resisting dares.

Rayla dodged the first projectile launched at her face with almost insulting ease, then rose to her feet. “You have surprisingly good aim, Ez.” She said, ominously, still wearing that smirk. “But now-“

Callum interrupted her. With a snowball.

His aim wasn’t great, so he only got her in the neck, but her astounded face more than made up for it. He had a second to admire it and guffaw before she was leaping at them, and both he and Ezran scattered, shrieking.

In a bizarre parody of the day they’d met, he and Ez ended up fleeing Rayla through and around the campsite for the next fifteen minutes, creating chaotic trenches through the deep snow. Occasionally she threw snowballs after them; other times she tackled them down. Gently, but she made a point of it: flattening them onto their fronts in the snow, chucking a snowball at the backs of their heads, and then jumping off in pursuit of whichever of them was still up.

He and Ez did get a good number of hits in, but in the end Rayla sat triumphant atop a pile of the both of them submerged in snow. Literally sat, at that; she’d deliberately set herself down on Ezran’s back, who was in turn on top of Callum, and grinned victoriously at them. “I win.” She announced. “And now, your forfeit is going back to the fire and eating.”

Callum, who was now very winded as well as very cold, said faintly “Fire sounds good.” Ezran was giggling madly on top of him, so all told, the endeavour had been a marvellous success.

Rayla graciously got up and pulled them both to their feet, then ushered them back to camp to warm up and get stuffed full of food. “Meat isn’t great for keeping fed, so we’ve got to have a lot of it.” She informed them, ushering yet more of the stuff into their hands. “We need all the energy we can get. Especially if we’re going to be having snowball fights, on top of all the walking.”

“That was pretty tiring.” Callum admitted ruefully. “Fun, though.” He thought. “We never did make that snowman.”

“We can do that after we eat and warm up.” Ezran suggested, clearly thoroughly knocked out of his glum mood. It was a very Ezran sort of thing to find any excuse for messing around in snow.

“Take your outer layers off first.” Rayla ordered, peeling her hat off tentatively. She inspected it and made a face. “Think we’ve got ourselves all wet with the snow. Better dry that off a bit.”

So they all shed a sweater, their hats, and an outer pair of gloves. Callum was left with just one thin pair of gloves over his half-finger ones now, and flexed his hands over the fire, feeling them sting as they warmed up. That was normal enough; if you warmed up really fast when you were really cold, it did hurt a bit. It was only to be expected. But then he spotted Rayla starting to wince and cradle her arm, and- “Did you hurt yourself?” he blurted, alarmed, and she looked up. “In the snowball fight – did you open anything?”

That she didn’t answer immediately wasn’t reassuring. “Pretty sure I didn’t.” She said, after a moment, and twisted to stick a hand down the collars of her arrayed sweaters and jackets and shirts. She felt around the site of the wounds experimentally, while saying “It just got numb from the cold, you know? Didn’t hurt so much. And now it’s warming up again, so…” After a careful investigation, she seemed satisfied, and withdrew her hand. “Feels fine.”

He subsided a little, and for that moment was relieved enough that she’d not re-opened her wounds that he didn’t think of the other part. But then Ezran shot her a look, set his food down, and said “You can take something for the pain now, you know.”

Rayla paused, thrown. “What?” She asked eventually, but she was plainly thinking through it herself. Callum was thinking it through too, for that matter, and cursing himself a little for not considering it earlier.

“You can’t have the willow bark because it messes with your healing. And you couldn’t have the lilium earlier because we needed to travel, and it wasn’t safe.” Ez laid it all out very matter-of-factly. “But we’re camped now. We’re not doing a fire-watch, so it’s okay if it makes you fall asleep. And there’s nothing tricky or important to do, so it’s okay if you go weird and loopy again, too.”

Callum had expected her to be reluctant about it. She hadn’t enjoyed the loss of control associated with the lilium, and wasn’t keen on the idea of fostering a dependency. But instead of objecting, she just listened to Ezran speak, exhaled with plain relief at the words, and went at once for the bags. That, more than anything, told him how much pain she must have been enduring. She didn’t even offer a token protest, just extracted the bottle and returned to the fireside to measure the tiny dose out.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she said at last, dipping her fingertip into the tiniest drop of red. Callum had seen enough blood recently that the colour left him slightly uncomfortable. “I honestly kind of forgot.”

“More like you forgot to stop ignoring how much it hurt.” Ezran amended, and she flapped a disgruntled hand at him, setting the bottle down.

“Same difference,” she claimed, and licked the lilium off of her finger. If previous experience with that dose level was anything to go by, it’d take a while to take effect for her, but Callum was just relieved she’d not made a fuss over it. She’d been in constant horrible pain for days now. She deserved a respite.

“I can do your bandages once that kicks in.” He said, deeply relieved. He was fully aware that the whole process did hurt, given the fresh lividity of the wounds. “And your hand.”

“The hand doesn’t hurt anymore.” Rayla pointed out, flexing it. “Well, not really. Still aches a bit, but it’s nothing much.”

He paused. “And the…numbness?” he asked, carefully. He’d already observed that it still seemed just as weak as earlier, but…

She grimaced and shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It’s cold, so it’s hard to say.” She said, dryly, then deliberately changed the topic. “Weren’t you two going to build a snow-elf?”

Ezran snickered at her. “Snow-man.” He corrected.

“Close enough.” Her lips twitched, and then she was prodding them all over to the snow-banks again. Apparently she had every intention of joining in from the start this time.

Callum and Ezran cooperated on the creation of the giant snowballs necessary for the endeavour, but even so, it started to feel an effort once the bases got heavy enough. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” Callum admitted, pausing to catch his breath, one hand braced on the giant snowball that was to be his snowman’s base to stop it from going anywhere.

Rayla rolled her eyes at them, abandoning her own snow-boulders, and came to commandeer theirs. “Give that here,” she said, and proceeded to demonstrate that she was more than equal to the task of pushing snow around. Once she deemed that they were large enough, she returned with relish to her ‘snow-elf’, going at the task with an enthusiasm that surprised him a little. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes, smiling reflexively at the grin she didn’t seem to realise she was wearing, and wondered when she’d last had a chance to play around in snow. A lot less recently than them, he was sure.

In the end, after an hour or so, they each had a crude snow-person constructed at the campsite, positioned as if standing guard. Rayla had made use of a couple of large sticks to put horns on hers, and after a little packing and chipping of snow, Callum helpfully produced two pointy, icy ‘ears’ for her to attach.

“Thanks.” She said, after she got them affixed, and stood back to observe her work with satisfaction. “Suppose we can put the wet hats and scarves on these for decoration, since we’re not wearing them.”

“Won’t that mean they’ll just freeze solid?” He asked, amused, and she shrugged.

“We’d better take them off there before we go to sleep, yeah. Leave them close-ish to the fire. But for now…” She grinned, and went to fetch a scarf. He and Ez followed suit, and in the end, they had an array of snow-people that, amusingly enough, vaguely matched their party. In the encroaching sunset, they were shaded somewhat orange, braced against the darker reddish shadows of the trees.

“Mine’s a bit taller than I am,” Ez decreed, when this was pointed out, surveying their creations with interest. “But they’re pretty good. Yours is even a little bit shorter than Rayla’s, Callum.”

Callum blinked, and checked them. Ezran’s was in the middle, which made it a bit harder to judge, but… “I think you’re right.” He agreed ruefully, and after a second, arranged his snow-person so its scarf was more appropriately mimicking how he wore his own.

Rayla snickered, and said “Shame you don’t have any more of those half-finger gloves. That’d really complete the look.” He snorted, and glanced down at his hands. He’d already been reduced to just the one pair of extra gloves, and now that those were also snow-wet, he’d likely be down to just the normal half-finger ones in short order.

“I’d better make a snow-egg and snow-Bait.” Ezran decided, while Rayla was still scrutinising her snow-elf. “Or they’ll feel left out.”

“You do that.” She said generously, then stepped away. “I think I’m going to go sit and warm up a bit though. Starting to feel a bit…” She waved her hand a little, expressively, to evoke some sort of wooziness.

“Oh, it has been a while since you took the lilium.” Callum remembered, and eyed her with interest. “How’s it feeling?”

“Well, I’m cold-numb again, so still hard to say.” She said dryly. “But…better, yeah.” She glanced down at her arm, and flexed it a little. “Not so sore. Anyway, you two have fun.” With that, she adjourned to the campfire, a short enough distance from the snow-group that she glanced over at them periodically as they went back to work. She also apparently took the opportunity to carefully extract the heated rocks from the fire and take them, towel-wrapped, into the tent. She closed it up and went to find a new round of rocks to heat, and finally settled back at the fire while they put the finishing touches on their snow-group.

Progress was quick, all told. The egg was very simple to render. Bait was more or less just a lump with two rock-eyes and a grumpy face drawn on, so very easy as well. “Perfect,” Ezran declared, and then they were done. He went to retrieve the egg from the gradually-warming tent before sitting down, and Bait followed it out, going over to inspect his snowy facsimile with disgruntlement.

Rayla was pressing gingerly around the edges of her injuries when Callum and Ez finally planted themselves down beside her at the fire. She seemed to be testing the wounds, even through the various layers she wore. She caught Callum’s questioning glance as he sat down, and explained “Think I might’ve taken a bit low of a dose, honestly. It does feel better, but it’s still…” She made a face.

“Think you’ll take some more?” Callum offered, after a second. “You’re taking well under the…recommended safe dose. It’d be fine to take another little one.”

She seemed to seriously consider it, which was yet more evidence for how much pain she had to be in. She was reluctant this time, though. “Dunno.” She said, dubious. “That seems like a great way to go off my head and maybe start scratching these open too.” She nodded to her arm, and he winced.

“I think you’d probably have a harder time doing that with so many layers in the way.” Ezran eyed her, then reached out and touched his fingers to her neck; the most easily-accessible bare skin on her. He made a face even as she shooed his hand away with a glare. “Yeah, I think you should take some more. That’s…really not that much better.”

“Didn’t we talk about you empathy-ing my pain?” She demanded, irate. Callum thought uncomfortably about the discussion they’d had while Ezran was sleeping, and her observation that he was trying to manage them. He could see it a lot better now that he was on the look-out for it, and…yeah, he thought this was a pretty good example.

As if to wilfully reinforce Callum’s bad feelings on the topic, Ezran looked away, a little sulkily. “I was just checking on you.” He muttered, petulant. “It only hurts for a second when I do that.”

Rayla exhaled and seemed to be very carefully keeping her first choice of words in. “I appreciate you’re worried, Ez,” she said in the end, very precisely, “but there’s better ways to check up on me than hurting yourself, even if it is just ‘for a second’.”

“But you always deal with more pain than you need to.” Ezran persisted, glancing up at her with a stubborn and mulish glint to his eyes. “And…downplay it, if we ask. You don’t tell the truth if I ask a normal way.”

She twitched at that, looking genuinely annoyed, and Callum hastened to intercede before she said anything she might regret. This was looking like the beginnings of a potential sibling-argument again, and he was keen to interrupt before it got to the snapping and spitting stage.

“Ezran,” he opened, firmly, and both of them turned to look at him. They seemed almost surprised, like they’d forgotten he was there. That was what happened when two stubborn people got caught up butting heads, he supposed. The surprise was useful, though. It meant Ezran was listening, rather than stuck in stubborn-mode. “If Rayla doesn’t want to talk about – her pain or feelings, or whatever, then you just need to accept that, okay? That stuff’s private, and it’s kind of a jerk move to…empathy-read it on purpose when she doesn’t want to share it. So don’t do it. Alright?” Rayla shot him a grateful look for that. Ezran meanwhile had gone a little shamefaced.

“…Right.” He said, after a moment, eyes averted again. He held the egg tighter to his chest. “I – yeah, that’s kind of rude, isn’t it.” He glanced sidelong at her. “…Sorry, Rayla. I just…I get…worried. And…I don’t like it when you put up with stuff you don’t have to.”

She didn’t quite seem to know what to say to that, so Callum moved onto his second point, looking at her this time. “Yeah, and about that. Rayla-“ he hesitated for a second, then pushed on. “If you don’t want to take more lilium, because you don’t like the side effects, or whatever…I guess that’s your choice too. Just…” He exhaled, and rubbed at his temples a little. “Even if you take some right before you go to sleep, so there’s no time for you to act weird, and you can at least sleep better…I think we’d all be a bit happier.”

“It’s not like we’re going to judge you.” Ez spoke up, before Rayla found a reply. He glanced at her, still vaguely mutinous, and her eyes looked startled as they settled on his. “For acting weird when you’re on medicine. You don’t need to be embarrassed or anything.”

“He’s right, you know.” Callum said, after a moment. “You act kind of like you think we’ll judge you, or like…you need to be totally composed around us, or whatever. You don’t have to be.”

“…Easier said than done.” Rayla said finally, voice a little dry. She looked away. He could practically see her debating whether to speak or not, and then – finally – he watched her shoulders slump a little as she decided to open up. “Moonshadow elves…it’s not really just fear we’re not supposed to show. Fear’s just the worst thing. We’re supposed to be…controlled. Composed, like you said.” She shook her head. “It’s okay to be…emotional, around friends and family, I suppose. Even in public, sometimes. But you’re still supposed to be in control of yourself.” A grimace. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“…Most of the time?” Callum asked after a moment, unable to hold the question in. She glanced at him sourly.

“Full Moon.” She informed him, looking like she’d rather not think about it. “It’s…a lot more okay to be mad and emotional in public then. You’re supposed to be, even.” For a moment, she looked almost nostalgic. “We do these community dances every Full Moon, you know? Kind of like a party. Everyone’s plenty unrestrained at those. But aside from that…” He eyed her with interest, feeling the familiar thread of fascination at this latest revelation about elven culture, and wanted to question her further. It wasn’t the time, though.

“Being out of control of yourself in public is kind of like dropping your pants in public, huh.” Ezran guessed, and Rayla seemed to choke on her next breath, snorting with laughter.

“Yeah, not a bad way to put it, actually.” She agreed, with a little mirth.

“We do get that, you know.” Callum offered, after a pause. “We’re…royalty. We’ve had decorum lessons for years. How we’re supposed to act in public or whatever. It was pretty relaxed if we were at home – in the castle – but anytime there were dignitaries about, or we went out into the city?” He shook his head ruefully. “Not fun.”

“Oh, ugh, decorum lessons.” Ezran agreed with distaste. “I hate those.”

Callum very kindly did not remind his brother that he’d have to mind said lessons a lot better now that he was King. “Anyway, point is, we might not be as…” He searched for a diplomatic word. “…strict, as Moonshadow elves are. But we get the idea. And-“ He hesitated, glancing at her almost cautiously. “It’s…just us here, right? This isn’t exactly public.”

“And friends and family are fine.” Ezran added, with a stubborn set to his jaw as he looked at her. “You said.”

“I did say.” Rayla agreed, after a pronounced pause, voice a little rueful. “I know you’re not going to be weird about me being weird on pain drugs. It’s just…kind of a hard habit to break. And I don’t like being out of control of myself, even if I’m not in public. But…” She sighed, shook her head, and reached for the little bottle she’d set aside earlier. She eyed it consideringly.

“…Please don’t feel pressured into it, though?” Callum spoke, while she was still making a face at the bottle. “It feels weird to be trying to convince you to take something that’s technically the same thing as an illegal addictive drug. Even if it will stop your injuries from hurting. So, just…” he shrugged, awkward. “It’s your decision.”

She was silent for a few moments longer. Then: “I am pretty sick of being in pain all the time.” That sounded final. She opened the bottle, dipped her finger in it again, and imbibed a full drop. Still considerably lesser than the dose that fit into the little provided spoon, but considerably more than what she’d taken earlier. As she capped the bottle, she levelled a flat stare at the two of them. “If you let me pick my scabs open while I’m moonstruck, I will be annoyed.” She warned. “And if I start acting like an idiot again – well, you know what you signed up for.” He thought she still sounded a little uncomfortable at that last part.

“Well, if you just act dumb while you’re high, you’re doing better than Callum.” Ezran said, casting a mischievous glance sideways at him. “He acts dumb all the time.”

The only reasonable response to that was to hook his brother in and bestow a very firm noogie while he squawked. The hair was, as ever, quite a shield; but he had plenty of practice. Rayla looked very amused, both at Ezran’s comment and at its rightful rebuttal. “Is that so?” She asked, voice dry.

Callum shrugged, and didn’t bother to deny it. He wasn’t exactly the most serious of individuals, after all. “It’s a talent.” He claimed solemnly, and her lips twitched.

In the end, the second dose took effect noticeably faster than the first. Rayla started getting vague and smiley not fifteen minutes later, and responded to queries about her state of mind and pain levels with “nice” and “itchy” respectively. It did seem like significant lilium doses sapped pain and left a sort of irritating itchiness in its wake, because she kept lifting her hand to her arm to scratch and then lowering it with consternation. “It itches,” she complained to them, shuffling over to Callum unsteadily. “But I’m not supposed to scratch it. I think.” She frowned. “Right?”

He patted her on the forearm as she settled beside him, a smile pulling at his lips. “Right.” He agreed. “Good job remembering that. Keep it in mind, okay? No scratching.”

“Mm,” she accepted, and seemed to think about it. “I’d bleed everywhere again, wouldn’t I. That wouldn’t be fun.” She glanced down and pulled at her sleeve. “Don’t want to ruin any more clothes.”

“I’d be more concerned about the bleeding part than the stained clothes part,” Callum said dryly. “But yeah, that helps too.” He glanced at the sky, which was now very nearly completely dark. “Speaking of, I’d better get the bandages changed soon.”

“And my hand?” She offered, looking weirdly interested, and he nodded.

“And the hand.”

“Should we deal with your wrist binding again?” Ezran asked, and both of them looked over. After a moment, Callum understood the ‘we’ in question to be his brother and the dragon, whose egg was sat in his lap. “Is it getting tighter?”

“Mmhm.” Rayla agreed, indistinct, and the fingers of her right hand went to her wrist again. “Getting a bit sore again, actually. Well, it was earlier, anyway. Can’t feel that so much now.”

Ezran frowned at her and shuffled over. “You should’ve said,” he told her, almost admonishingly, and reached out to push his fingers up her sleeve to touch her binding. A second later, there was a little flicker of the bright light of the egg, and he leaned back. “There. Done.”

Callum blinked. Rayla looked startled as well, even as marsh-whacked as she was. “That seemed easier than before?” She offered, perplexed, and Ez shrugged.

“It is, yeah.” He rested a hand on the eggshell. “It’s getting easier for both of us. He’s still…all full of magic, from the storm. It’s not so hard to deal with anymore, but…he’s definitely awake now. Which does make it a lot easier to focus on stuff.”  He frowned. “I think it’s gonna make it kind of annoying to get to sleep, though. Unless he sleeps too.”

“…Maybe being connected to you while you’re sleepy will make him sleepy?” Callum suggested, a little weirded out by the idea, and his brother shrugged.

“Maybe.” A pause. “Please let it work like that. I’m so tired.”

“Bandages.” Rayla reminded him, nudging him in the side, and he jolted a little.

“Oh, right.” He shot her an evaluative glance, wondering at her impatience, then reached over to help her with her layers. She was much more sluggish than usual about facilitating the process, and even clumsy; it took a fair bit longer, and he kept catching things on her horns. Weirdly, she giggled when he unhooked her shirt from one, looking a little light-headed. “You okay?” He asked her, dubiously, and she offered a lopsided smile.

“Uhuh,” she said, then mumbled something indistinct that he thought had the word ‘horns’ in there somewhere. She seemed to find this hilarious, and started snickering under her breath, cheeks vaguely flushed, while he finished pulling the shirt away.

“If you say so.” With her upper arms finally exposed, he reached out to untie the bandages, and had his customary look at the wounds. There hadn’t been much visible progress, but he supposed there had to be a lot going on under the surface, what with how deep the gouges had gone. He winced a little in sympathy, unable to imagine how much that must be hurting. “Well, nothing’s opened.” He judged optimistically, and had another look at the shallow shoulder-stab before wrapping it all up again. “And nothing’s infected. So I guess that’s the best we can really ask for, right now.” Something occurred to him, then: “How’s the bruising?”

“Hm?” Rayla seemed confused for a moment, as if uncertain what he was talking about,

“You know, those horrible bruises around your middle?” Ezran interjected helpfully. “From the chain?”

“Oh. Those.” She blinked, then leaned forward and pulled up her undershirt without further ado. It was almost a reflexive instinct that saw Callum looking away, flushing, but then he remembered he was supposed to be checking on her and made himself look back. “Can’t really feel them at the moment.” She reported, seeming very cheered by the thought. “Maybe I’ll be able to lay down without it hurting tonight.”

He hadn’t been aware that was an issue. But now that she said it…he winced, looking at the bruises in question. A couple of days hadn’t done much for their lividity. They looked dramatically dark, and still swollen in the lines where the chain had pulled so tight around her. They must be viciously sore to sleep on. “No problems?” He asked, a little anxiously.

Rayla shrugged. “Think I passed a little blood, the first day, so I might’ve bruised a kidney or something. Been fine since then though. Just….” She waved vaguely. “You know. Tender.”

“Sleeping on hard stone probably didn’t help that.” Callum muttered, with a twist of concern in his gut, and he frowned. “Do you think we can sleep on the cloaks again today? Or is it still so cold we need to wear them?”

It took her much longer to think through that than it ought. Plainly, the lilium was well and truly in effect. Eventually, she said “Could try it. But we might get cold in the night, when the…rock-heating wears off.” She squinted backwards. “Has anyone changed the rocks yet?”

“Er. No?”

She made a vague grumbling noise, then swayed like she was trying to stand up. “I should do that…”

Callum put a hand on her arm to stall her. She looked down at it as though perplexed by the sight. “How about you tell me what to do and I do it?” He suggested, not at all convinced that she was in a state where she should be allowed to extract hot things from a fire.

Ordinarily, she’d probably have protested. Under the artificial lassitude of the lilium, however, she just blinked placidly and said “Okay.”

In a vague, disjointed sort of way, she talked him through prodding the rocks out of the fire with a large stick and then picking them carefully up with the towels salvaged from the first round of rocks in the tent. The heat seared through quickly, and his hands were starting to hurt from it by the time he got them into the tent and placed them around its corners, refastening the door-flaps as he left. “Definitely feeling warmer in there.” He claimed, cheered by the thought, as he sat back down by the fire. “Should be a much nicer sleep than the last few days.”

“That’d be nice.” Rayla mumbled, already looking vaguely drowsy, and his lips twitched at her as he shuffled back to her side.

“Let’s get your layers back on, and do your hand, and then we can all get an early night.” He suggested, and she…perked up. Visibly. She instantly shoved her hand at him, and seemed a little confused when he pointed out that the layers should probably come first, or she’d get cold.

“…I’m not cold, though?” She offered. Beside her, Ezran was watching with interest, like he’d seen something that surprised him.

“Layers first.” Callum repeated, a little amused. “You’re probably just not feeling the cold because of the lilium, or something.”

She grumbled, but accepted it; so he helped her back into her various layers and then rolled up her sleeve a little, exposing the dark ring of stiff still-healing skin around both sides of the binding. “Hand now?” She asked, a little plaintively, and he eyed her strangely.

“…Yes?” He offered, perplexed at her insistence, and bemusedly accepted the hand she thrust at him. “…Is it sore, or something?” he tried, searching for some reason she might be so insistent about it.

“Nope,” she pronounced, with obvious satisfaction, and settled in to wait. Ezran was trying to hide a smile, like he had figured it out. Whatever ‘it’ was. “Kinda numb and prickly. But doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“…Okay. Good?” Callum accepted, a bit confused, but got to work anyway. He wasn’t quite expecting the pleased hum she offered at the first press of his thumb into her palm.

“Thought so,” she said, and then – entirely devoid of any sort of self-consciousness – shuffled closer and leaned comfortably into his side. A second later, she claimed “Feels so much nicer now. Last time, it still…sort of hurt. Ached? Doesn’t anymore, though.” She huddled down a little, and let her head drop against the edge of his shoulder. Callum stared down at her, suddenly and abruptly flustered, and didn’t realise he’d frozen until she flapped her hand impatiently between his. Still, he didn’t move.

He cleared his throat, heartbeat feeling strange, but didn’t actually say anything. He suddenly found himself sitting very rigidly indeed, hyper-aware of the way she was leaning on him, and oddly transfixed by the sight of her hair falling over his shoulder.

She grumbled at him when he’d been immobile long enough, peering up at him as though to check what the delay was. He found himself looking quickly away as her eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat again, and finally found the wherewithal to keep moving his hands.

“…Were you looking forward to this?” he asked, finally, because that was suddenly the only interpretation he had for her behaviour.

He still wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but when he snuck a glance he saw her pursing her lips in thought. “Kinda, maybe.” She said, eventually, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not she wanted to be saying it. “It’s nice now.”

He had literally no idea how to respond to that, so…he just sort of didn’t.

“Makes sense to me.” Ezran piped up, and when Callum looked over at him, he seemed to be fighting very hard to keep his expression level. His eyes, meanwhile, were alight with a kind of mirth that made Callum intensely suspicious. “I mean, most people who have hand massages do it because it feels nice, not because they need to keep their hands healthy. Right?”

“…Right.” Rayla agreed, after a moment. “Guess so.” She glanced down at her hand, eyes half-lidded. “Still medical for me. But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. That was…” She blinked a few times, vaguely. “Didn’t like that.”

“…I didn’t like that too much either,” Callum muttered, face feeling weirdly hot, hands over-warm on hers. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “Wasn’t fun making you be in more pain. So…” he coughed. “I’m – glad? That it’s better?”

“Mm.” Apparently done talking, she let her eyes fall closed, sighed, and settled her weight fully against him. It was…unexpectedly cosy.

There wasn’t really anything to do except keep going, so that was what he did.

Ezran kept shooting him amused, vaguely mischievous looks, so he sensed trouble brewing there. Callum was relatively certain that if Rayla wasn’t there he’d currently be receiving a lot of sibling-style mockery for something. He wasn’t entirely sure what, but he’d had a little brother for long enough to see it looming. He shot Ez a warning look, and in general tried to be less excruciatingly aware of the warmth of Rayla leaning into his side.

He held silent, tongue-tied through the whole thing, and tried to figure out why it felt so different to before. He’d leaned on her plenty yesterday, and even today, when she was comforting him. She’d leaned on him a bit the first time he’d done this, even, the first time she’d taken lilium. But…

He glanced down, flustered, and saw her head loosely propped on the edge of his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and she was tucked into his side so thoroughly that he felt sort of like an upright human mattress. It looked weirdly comfortable.

Maybe that was the difference. He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he found himself tense in a way that seemed almost directly proportional to how relaxed she was, and it was almost a relief when he could declare himself finished and put her hand down.

She didn’t appear to notice for a while. Evidently, the lilium had well and truly gotten to her, and now she was drowsy enough that it didn’t seem to register that he’d returned her hand until most of a minute later. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, looking drowsy. “Oh. Hm. You stopped?” She mumbled, sleepily.

Mutely, he nodded, and watched as she peeled her head from his shoulder.

“You’re quite comfy.” She informed him, and patted him on the arm as if to congratulate him for a job well done. Finally, apparently unable to hold it in, Ezran started snickering. Quietly, maybe, but he was definitely snickering.

Determinedly, Callum exhaled, reclaimed his voice, and ignored his brother. “You should get to bed,” he decided, pretending that nothing was unusual about this situation at all, and that Ezran wasn’t giggling at him, and that his face wasn’t still weirdly warm. “We all should, honestly.” When she didn’t seem liable to get up, he carefully took her hand and stood; she followed the pull automatically, stumbling to her feet. She blinked at him hazily, and then followed agreeably along as he led her to the tent.

The interior was surprisingly toasty by this point. He set Rayla’s cloak out for her and guided her to it, and much like the first time she’d taken lilium, her consciousness didn’t survive contact with the floor. The second she laid down she was out like a light, dropping instantly into sleep. He rather envied her that.

He went out to meet Ezran with unmistakeable wariness, and this turned out to be warranted. “Good job on being comfy, Callum.” He greeted him at once, grinning. “I bet you’re proud.”

Callum rolled his eyes, ignoring the weird unidentifiable squirming of his insides, and ushered his brother up. “I am, thank you.” He said, with great dignity. “Now, if you don’t mind, there’s two cloaks and a comfy tent with our names on them, and I’d like to get to sleep.”

Ezran followed along agreeably enough, egg in his arms and Bait at his heels, but couldn’t resist another remark. “Your face when she laid on you was amazing.” He informed, gleefully. “You went so red.”

Had he? He coughed, self-conscious, and wondered how much of this evening Rayla would remember. “Uhuh. I’m sure.” He accepted, steadfastly refusing to rise to the bait, and prodded Ezran into the tent. “Now get in there before all the warm air goes out.”

Thankfully, Ezran did calm down a bit once he was in the pleasantly-warm interior, glancing at the already-sleeping Rayla and shutting his mouth. Insistently, Callum poked him through the process of laying his cloak out, and then down onto the thing.

“Get some sleep.” He told him, voice low so as not to disturb Rayla. He wasn’t entirely convinced she could be disturbed, right now, but it only seemed polite to be careful. Finally, he laid down himself, body feeling astoundingly pleased with even the bare padding his cloak provided. He wondered how he’d feel when he next encountered an actual bed.

He listened to the sounds of Ezran rustling his way into a comfortable position, sighed, and arranged himself on his side. He spared one more glance for Rayla, soundly asleep, then closed his eyes.

It took maybe five minutes for the strange tumult of emotion to quiet. Five more for his body to remember how profoundly exhausted it was. And then, barely a second later, he was drifting off.

 ---

 Sarli was quietly satisfied when she returned home. Some part of her that had lifted its hackles from the first moment Lord Viren had questioned her vows was now soothed. There had been an itch in the back of her mind that had been insisting, every minute of every hour, you have a duty. This cannot be borne. And now it was quiet, and she had done her duty, and she was satisfied.

Cairon…Cairon was not.

He was tense and plainly distressed as he swept the room, yet again, for shadow-bugs. Upon concluding his search he settled with plain unease into his customary chair, and sat there bristling as Sarli watched him. He’d held quiet and composed all through the Council meeting, but it had dropped from him like a burdensome cloak as soon as he was past the doors.

Perhaps driven by his plain agitation, he didn’t stay seated for long. Within minutes he was up again, near-vibrating with tension, fluttering through the motion of tidying away their things with an anxiety she’d scarce ever seen from him.

“Cairon,” She said to him, finally, when he failed to put words to his discomfort. He stilled, shoulders taut, and glanced at her with troubled eyes. “You would do well to speak of what troubles you.”

He exhaled, slowly, as though forcing some of the stiffness from his frame. Then, quietly, he asked “What just happened, master?”

“The prisoner was confiscated from Lord Viren according to law.” Sarli said, watching him curiously. “He will now be interred in a proper dungeon, under proper guard, in a cell with access to moonlight.”

“I know that part.” He said, with near-impudent impatience, pacing in shallow strides to and fro from the coat-hangings, straightening and rearranging the cloaks as if he found some new issue with them every time they passed his eyes. “But what about ‘exceptional measures’?”

She tilted her head at him. “I was under the impression that you were acquainted with the Millennium War Crimes Accords.”

“I am,” he said, with the sort of fervency that betrayed a particular interest in it. “But – I didn’t realise-“

“It did not occur to you that such a prisoner would become an immediate candidate for legally sanctioned torture.” Sarli concluded, and his head dipped glumly.

“It should have, I know.” Cairon exhaled, dropping into a chair and staring into the wood-grain of the table as though it might offer him answers. “I just…didn’t think of it.”

She inclined her head, thoughtful. “We will have to solve that.” She said, after a moment, and he lifted his head to regard her warily. “It occurs to me that I have perhaps been remiss in your education on the various philosophies of Mercy at work in the kingdom. All Healers should have a thorough grounding in religious ethics.”

He eyed her. “I’m not a Healer.”

“Plainly.” Sarli said, with an amused twitch at her lips. “But that is no excuse for lesser conduct from my apprentice. I will be called on to attend our patient’s exceptional measures tribunal, for certain; I will take you with me. I imagine it will be very educational for you.”

That, at least, seemed to interest him. “I’ve never heard about how the tribunals work,” he offered, after a moment. “Based on the name, there must be some sort of…council, or panel, of three people? Officials?”

“One representative of Mercy,” said Sarli. “One representative of Prudence. And then the final representative varies case-by-case. Usually it is Justice, and it may be so this time as well. The tribunal speak for their respective positions, and hear the arguments of those permitted to attend, and then take a vote at the end. Two votes of three are necessary to permit the use of exceptional measures in the interrogation of prisoners of war.”

“Mercy for the perspective that suffering should be alleviated wherever possible,” Cairon guessed, eyes narrowed. “Prudence to decide whether the suffering is worth its price. Justice for the legal perspective?”

“You have the basics,” Sarli allowed. “But the positions are rather more complex than that. Mercy’s, especially. As a Healer’s apprentice, you have dealt entirely with…face-value mercy, shall we call it. The representative of Mercy in a tribunal hearing must balance the suffering of one against the suffering of many, and that is a more difficult thing.” She watched the flicker of understanding on her apprentice’s face with satisfaction. No dullard was he, her boy. “Yes, you begin to see, I think. But enough on this for now. It grows late, and we have had a long day.”

He watched her. “And you’re relieved that your duty is expunged.” He guessed, a little impudently, but she allowed it.

“Yes, Cairon.” She agreed, a little amused. “It has been a wearying strain, these past days, and now that the weight is from my shoulders I feel I have earned my rest.” Her eyes turned a little watchful, then. A little penetrating. “And you? Do you not feel that your duty is done?”

He tensed, just a little, then let his eyes fall as if to study the wood-grain of the table. “…I’m concerned that we may face retaliation from the Lord Protector.” He said, eventually. It wasn’t quite an answer to her question, but it rang with truth regardless. “He seemed very angry. I think that he is the sort of man to do rash things when he’s angry.”

It was an apt character assessment, she thought. However: “That may be so,” she allowed. “But I think he knows better than to strike at a target that he has been caught fouling already. It is known that he sent dark magic for us; were we to be harmed, or to disappear, he would fall under such heavy suspicion as to dethrone him. I think that we will be safe.”

“Until the dust clears, maybe.” Cairon muttered, plainly not very reassured.

Sarli shook her head at him. “Keep to your caution if you prefer it, boy. Only remember that you are my apprentice, and an Acolyte of Mercy; not a guard. Yours is not the duty of policing the Lord Protector.”

He sighed. “As you say, master.” And that was all.

In the morning, no doubt, they would be called to their patient again; but for now, Sarli’s duty was to rest. She attended to it gladly.

 ---

End chapter.

  Chapter Notes:  https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OGBo7nKVDIfWjhxGe90fwaS3lP0IfQJ3?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

  This chapter's notes cover: provisions for ‘Exceptional Measures’ within the Millennium War Crimes Accords, Ashtide, and Pentarchy politics.

  Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

  PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

  Author Notes: 

Credits: one of Sarli's lines in this chapter is taken from a book I like very much, 'Even the Wingless' by M.C.A Hogarth. The original line is as follows: "Surely you aren't surprised, Most Exalted. It was my duty. Even the wingless need the sky." It's an extremely cool moment of the book and I couldn't quite resist using it where the vibes were so right.

  Reminder: Callum and Ezran have no idea that the entire kingdom (plus literally everyone within communicating distance of Katolis) thinks they're dead. They also have no reason to guess that Viren pre-empted their dad's funeral, and would assume Harrow had his pyre on the dawn after the seventh sunset as tradition dictates.

  Anyway, that sorts that chapter. At the moment it’s looking like 24 is going to have some of my oldest, most beloved scenes in it, so I’m excited. 23 has a while yet to go, but there’s not a huge amount pencilled in for it, so hopefully shouldn’t take too long.

  I’m enjoying everyone being super sus of Cairon, by the way. Lots of fun.

#tdp fic #rayllum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #tdp ezran #piaj chapters

[marchlione]

rant

started rewatching naruto and ohhhhhhh boy.....

people who call naruto ‘sunshine boy’, like i get that different strokes for different folks but, naruto is straight up annoying. i can excuse 12 year old naruto for being annoying, he’s 12. i hate all the 12 year olds, even sasuke who is my favourite character. like wtf stop being a little shit for two seconds and cut back on your ego. sasuke has no business being that prideful, and he needs to be cut down a little. but he’s 12. again, sakura, i’m a girl too, i was not that insanely boy crazy at 12, stfu and sit down, you’re a child.  

but even at 16 when you’re supposed to be slightly less annoying, naruto managed to get worse. i just want to gag him. sakura gets slightly more bearable when sasuke isn’t around, but i still don’t care for her. and this curse of hatred is such bull shit. like imagine taking an entire ethnic group and telling them, yeah you’re all insane and messed up people. like that’s fucked. can we think of real world examples of this? :)

so anyway, i turn to fanfic because that should make it better. no. the only thing worse than naruto canon is its fandom. good god. if i see one more ‘good uchiha sasuke’ tag where sasuke ‘lets go of all those silly notions about honouring his family because they’re dead and don’t matter anymore’, i will lose it. like do you people not understand what honour and family honour is and what it means? and then we talk about how vengeance is bad but really. how do you expect sasuke to act. “i know that the brother i loved and idolized so much went and murdered everyone that i have known and massacred my entire ethnic group on orders of a military dictatorship that profits off of conflict after years of marginalization and hatred from the village our ancestors helped create because of blood, buuuuuut revenge is bad uwu”. is that what you want??? revenge isn’t good or pretty or right, but you have to admit, sasuke is at least a little bit justified. genocide is considered an awful thing in their world too.

this doesn’t even cover the whole ‘Team 7 family uwu’ thing. they were not a family. they were barely even friends. naruto and sakura eventually became friends, but they weren’t sauke’s. i get being a fan of found family, but this ain’t it. they were a couple of messed up kids who were thrown together for a couple of years at best. sasuke most likely stuck to the uchiha clan kids pre-massacre, and was alone post-massacre. sakura didn’t respect any of sasuke’s boundaries and naruto was obsessed with sasuke. if they really were his friends they would have recognized the horrors that their beloved village had enacted and even if they didn’t help sasuke get revenge, they would have slowly helped him try to heal, instead of trying to kill him when he didn’t fall into line and become another brainless soldier. and naruto most certainly wouldn’t have said that godawful line “i will break all your bones and drag you back to konoha kicking and screaming” if he was sasuke’s friend. that alone should show you how well konoha indoctrinates its soldiers. they took the kid that had largely been abused by the village throughout his childhood and turned him into the model soldier that sprouts the villages propaganda verbatim.

i also don’t understand why fanfic authors feel the need to give sakura a sob story. like the other members of this team are messed up, so we gotta fuck you up so we can have a matched set. i mean you can do that if you can justify it but for the most part, authors write it like they have to give her serious trauma for her to be a strong character or have her become a “BAMF”. you are allowed to have mentally healthy characters, team 7 has suffered enough, give them one sane characters. also you do not need to justify power with trauma, you don’t. trust me. also its ok to not be the most overpowered person in the room. you can be fucked up for no reason, you can be perfectly average and still be valuable. no offence but “uwu sakura queen” won’t make you a feminist, and disliking her doesn’t make me a misogynist. none of the character are written well and least of all the women. kurenai, tenten, sakura, hinata, and karin all had potential. too bad every character was just a representation for one ideology or another with the intention of showing that yes propaganda does work and is effective and repeating something enough times will make it true. after all, we need not look further then the fandom itself. after all, if everyone took the time to peel back the fluff and padding and look at the themes and ideas presented in the story, you’d see how problematic some of the ideas conveyed by canon are. in conclusion i hate everything about canon AND fanon

#naruto #sasuke #pro sasuke #pro uchiha #sakura does not need to be op #nor does she need trauma #she can be a great character even without those #if all of them are similarly fucked up no one will get anywhere #naruto is obsessed #sakura is a femcel in canon #you need to realize that stanning a woman doesn't make you a feminist #and disliking sakura doesn't make me a misogynist #if you think im being biased #maybe i am #but here's the tea #almost all of the naruto characters are so poorly written #and the girls most of all #for gods sake let sakura be friends with tenten #that would be fun #sakura has anger issues (and no she doesn't need a reason to have them) #and tenten has pointy things #they'd make a great team #and while sasuke is my favourite character #he is also annoying #your clan is dead #its not the vengeance you need to get rid of #its the stick up your ass and the gigantic ego #he should have been a lot more desperate #he should have been more hungry #stop throwing kunai at a tree and start being useful

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 5, chapter 3

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: fantasy religion, death mention

Morgan's golem eventually warned him of people approaching. He didn't need to look to guess it would be Blaise and Icharion. It had not been an especially dignified departure. Blaise would have questions, and would have dragged him along with her to satisfy the sentry. Morgan took a steadying breath and raised his head. This conversation might as well happen now. He made a cursory effort to wipe the tears from his cheeks, not that it would make it any less obvious that he'd been weeping.

Icharion was the first to speak once they had rounded the corner and spotted him. "It was cruel of Master Ordan to lie to you as he did," he said stiffly. That didn't sound right at all. Morgan hadn't known Icharion especially well, but he hadn't been one for that sort of reflection. It was the sort of sentiment he would expect from Blaise, though. He glanced over and saw her watching him intently.

"We both know that cruelty was not the Master's intention," he said, addressing Icharion. "And we both know he was in the right."

Icharion exhaled. "I told you," he said to Blaise. She elbowed him.

"There's nothing right about what he did. Don't sell yourself short," she said to Morgan. "You've gotten so much stronger since we met. Just look at everything we've done together."

"That has nothing to do with it," Morgan replied.

"I told her, she wouldn't listen-" Icharion was silenced by another elbow to the ribs.

"Explain it to me, then," Blaise said, crouching in front of Morgan to look him in the face. "Because it sounds like this Ordan just sent you out to die without even telling you what you did to deserve it, and I really don't understand how the two of you seem to think that's justified."

"You know we don't perceive death the same way you do," Morgan reminded her. She nodded grudgingly. "Master Ordan's primary concern is the maintenance of our Order. Our numbers are few enough, but even a small tree can benefit from pruning its weakest branches." That had been one of the master's favourite metaphors. He'd usually used it in the context of seeking out weakness within oneself, but it seemed apt enough here too.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what he said, but you aren't weak." Her voice was rising, the frustration clear on her face.

"I am weak in the ways that matter to the Order," Morgan explained. The heat of shame prickled at his neck. He had no desire to enumerate his failings to her here, in front of someone who could verify the precise degree of his inadequacy. But Blaise was a force to be reckoned with, and he couldn't let her focus her anger on the Order. They were important, even if he was not, so he tried to explain. He started reluctantly with the most fundamental issue, the lowest bar he'd failed to surpass.

"In order to uphold the Balance, we must be objective in our judgment. And we cannot do that if we are beholden to emotions. It's some of our most basic and essential training, and I have never been able to master it properly." He could hear the bitterness creeping into his voice, feel the familiar weight curling in his gut. Even now he was failing.

"So, let me get this straight. You have feelings, like a regular person, and for some reason you think that's so bad you deserve to die for it." Blaise cocked an eyebrow at him. "It's not like that's something you can just turn off."

"I should be able to. It's one of our central tenets. We must be able to separate ourselves from our emotions so we can remain clear-headed. I truly thought I had myself under control when I set out, but... oh." He trailed off as the pieces finally clicked into place, tracing an unmistakable pattern back to its origin. It had felt like it had finally started getting easier by the time he'd left on his quest. The doubt he'd had in himself had been erased by the Master's assurance that he was ready. And he had found it to be possible, if not exactly easy, right up to a very specific point.

Proper control had been impossible ever since the fight against Andariel. Whose venom had caused a lasting change in his sense of pain, lingering even after all physical traces of the wound were gone. Permanent, Jamella had said. And Cain had also mentioned that Andariel could cause emotional sensitivity. So this, too, would be permanent. A heavy feeling settled over Morgan, coming to rest behind his ribs. The rest of his shortcomings were insignificant in comparison to this. There was no hope of redemption. It would take years more dedicated training to overcome this weakness, if it was even possible. And he had nowhere to train, no mentor to correct him when he inevitably strayed. He couldn't return to the Order, not after the story Ordan had woven. Icharion's reaction would be amplified a hundredfold. Why had he-

"Speak, Morgan. You're inside your own head." Icharion's voice was not unkind, but Blaise shot him a dirty look.

"I was clearly mistaken. I just don't understand why Master Ordan lied about the request," Morgan said, voice so low it was nearly a whisper. "He only had to ask. I would have gone willingly." If the goal had simply been to remove him, that could have easily been accomplished in a number of simpler ways. Everything else made sense. Morgan looked up at Icharion, half hoping to find an answer, half dreading what it might be.

"Politics, most likely. Any expulsion from within the Necropolis must be approved by the council, and Jostan is too troubled by our numbers to let anyone go, no matter the reason. No one would have believed you decided to go of your own volition, and Ordan has too many eyes on him to stage a convincing accident."

"Ah." Morgan looked back down. That explanation made sense enough, he supposed. He had simply been so intolerable, so far from adequate that it had forced the Master's hand. The man was fiercely loyal to the brotherhood, if rather unyielding in his views. His decisions were unswayable, and clearly he'd decided - he'd seen - that there could be no place for someone as weak as Morgan in the priesthood, no matter how earnest his devotion.

"Hang on," Blaise said, "when you talk about 'going', do you actually mean-"

"Dying, yes," Icharion interrupted. "It is an honour to lay down one's life in service to the Order." It was an honour he would never know, Morgan realized suddenly. That twisted like a knife.

"You're really not convincing me that any of this is okay," Blaise said.

"You don't need to believe the truth," Icharion replied. "It will be true all the same, with or without your approval."

"Blaise," Morgan said quickly, "wait." She looked ready to explode, glaring murderously at Icharion. Morgan tried to find the right words, ones she might take heed of. "Master Ordan was right. I cannot serve the Order of Rathma. I am not capable of meeting their standards. He saw that and acted in their best interest because that is his duty. The only fault here is mine. I should have seen it too." Should have recognized the truth and gone long ago, saved them all the trouble.

"That's stupid. The whole time I've known you, everything you've done has been in the name of the Balance. I've watched you work yourself nearly to death for it, and you're telling me that's not good enough? Bullshit."

"I've no doubt his intentions are pure," Icharion said with surprising gentleness, "but effort alone cannot overcome inability. Not all people are capable of all things. Few are suited to our work, fewer still are able to carry it out."

"Bullshit," Blaise repeated, but it was quieter this time. "That's not fair."

"It is important work," Morgan said. "It cannot be entrusted to those unfit to do it."

"And you really believe that includes you? Even after all the shit you've been through for it? After how hard you've worked?"

"I do." Morgan closed his eyes against the surge of emotions that swelled up at the finality of that admission. He had no choice but to accept the truth. It was nothing new, after all. Hardly the first time his best efforts had proven to be insufficient. That didn't do much to soften the blow. At least his ineptitude was likely to have prevented him from doing any real damage to anything in his efforts, he thought dully.

"I could witness your departure," Icharion offered after a time, breaking the silence. "We are far from home. The rules would allow it." It was an unexpected gesture, permitted but not necessary by the laws of the Order. Morgan studied his face for a moment. He found nothing; of course Icharion could make himself unreadable, like a priest ought to be able to do. There was an undeniable thread of kindness in the offer, though. At least it could be done properly. That would be a small comfort.

"I would appreciate that very much," Morgan said, getting to his feet. Blaise sprang up as well as Icharion drew his sword.

"Whoa, whoa, hang on a second here. Somebody tell me what's happening. I'm not going to let-"

"It's not that kind of departure," Icharion interrupted her. "Sit back down." Blaise bristled.

"It's just a ceremony," Morgan reassured her. "An oath. Nobody dies." She seemed slightly mollified but did not sit down, instead crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes. She would let them proceed, then.

Morgan fished out a vial of oil from his chest pocket. Uncorking it, he pinched the tip of Icharion's proffered blade with his thumb and forefinger and squeezed several drops of blood in to mingle with the oil. Then he poured out the contents in a rough circle around himself. The circle glowed faintly as he imbued it with intent. He had never seen this particular ceremony, but the steps were as familiar as all the others he'd ever committed to memory.

"On my heart's blood I swear I shall never again interfere in the Order of Rathma, nor in the affairs of the dead." The words left a heavy feeling in his chest, but it was a little better than the jagged hurt that already sat there.

"On your heart's blood it is witnessed," Icharion replied, "and so are you bound." He traced a line under the circle with the bloodied tip of his blade. It drew in the light from the circle, which faded to nothing as he dismissed the magic with his free hand. Morgan wiped his fingers on the hem of his shirt.

"Thank you for that," he said quietly. Icharion nodded an acknowledgement as Morgan handed over the rest of his ceremonial oils. He no longer had a use for them. A thick, protective numbness was starting to settle in, blunting the world's edges.

"So that's it? You're just... done?" Blaise hadn't moved, still regarding them suspiciously.

"It is a very straightforward oath," Icharion pointed out as he wiped his blade clean and returned it to its sheath.

"Oh, fuck off."

"I will continue to do my part in the effort against Baal," Morgan clarified, the words feeling far away and hazy. "But on my own behalf, now. I think I'd like to join you in battle tomorrow." He could still work toward a purpose, still make himself useful. He needed that. To hold him together.

Blaise slung an arm around his shoulders. "I'll be glad to have you by my side." Morgan leaned into her gratefully. "And I think the barbarians are going to like your golems. If you're still..." she broke off, glancing over at the one still standing watch.

"He cannot raise the dead, but the earth is still fair game," Icharion confirmed. "Now if you're quite finished, I'm going back inside." He turned and left without further comment.

"You should go back with him," Morgan said. He pulled away from Blaise, but her hand lingered on his shoulder.

"Hey," she said softly, "are you... okay? I mean, fuck, obviously not, this is... I know the Order is important to you. Can I help? Somehow?" Once again, she was looking at him with earnest concern. He should have felt something about that, probably, but the numbness was there instead.

"I don't know," Morgan replied. "I'm going to finish checking the wall for damage," he found himself saying, "and then I think I'm going to meditate." Being fully rested would be a good idea. He'd been getting so much sleep recently, he didn't need any more and he certainly didn't want to risk the nightmares. But he found he didn't want to be conscious either. Though the specific techniques had been developed by the Order, the act of meditation was hardly exclusive to them. It wouldn't interfere with anything. He could still have that little peace, at least.

Blaise squeezed him gently. "Think about eating something too." That was probably also a good idea, but less appealing. He nodded anyway. "I'll leave you to it, then," she said, then followed Icharion's path back toward the gates.

There was still more to do, Morgan reminded himself as he walked slowly around the wall. Tyrael had bidden them to slay Baal. He still had a purpose, for now. Between that and the numbness, it was enough to propel him through the rest of the day's actions. His body patched a few more damaged spots in the wall, and put some food into itself, and found a bed to lay itself in, and then it rested as his mind drifted in meditation, carefully focused on absolutely nothing at all.

#my writing #story: unbidden #fantasy religion tw #emotional whump #death mention tw

[extraneousdominomask]

Family.

This was, technically, Elyna’s second ever Día de Muertos.

That first autumn had bled into winter in a blur. Things in the house had been hectic, and tense. Understandably tense. Justifiably tense. Even without the exceptional circumstances, the ghost of a murderer hanging over this lovely home, it was easy for traditions to slide a little. It had taken a lot of careful effort to “adopt” her.

Oops. She was doing it again. The thing her therapist had pointed out where she didn’t classify the things that happened to her as real, because she didn’t see herself as real, but everything she felt was more than real so it only made sense to drop that habit and accept herself.

It had taken a lot of effort to adopt her. Yes.

That was what had happened. About fourteen months ago, this family, this wry and well-liked pillar of the local community, had revealed that they actually had a second daughter. Older and taller and much more purple than the pre-existing daughter. And they included her in everything. Last night, she had shared a wonderful Hallowe’en with them.

And now it was November 1st. From one holiday right into another.

Sly wasn’t a particularly spiritual man, despite - because of? - all the actual, literal undead creatures he had battled in his youth. He loved a good excuse to celebrate, though. As well as the big, basically secular holidays, he was happy to join his wife in her own traditions. The Montoyas and the Foxes were spread across pretty much the entire Spanish-speaking world and beyond, and at this point Carmelita essentially just picked her favourites. Factoring in all the globe-trotting they had both done, separately and together, the household’s annual calendar was… interestingly blended.

So, an archetypal Hallowe’en was always followed by a traditional Día de Muertos. It wasn’t a total shift in tone - it was important to remember the deceased with love and good humour, something this household could produce in industrial quantities - but there was a certain reverence to proceedings that was noticeably absent on the preceding night of pumpkins and candy and horror films.

Carmelita took this fairly seriously. That was why Elyna was dreading it.

Sly had stepped out, taking B with him. An annual raid for clearance candy. A shared activity Elyna preferred them to keep for themselves. This was her best shot. She had no idea how she was going to get through this conversation, even removing the possibility of her father bursting in with a poorly-timed joke.

‘Her father’. She reflected on those words as she stalked towards the living room. Sly Cooper was the source of half her genetics. The necessary ingredient that made her a test-tube baby instead of an unfeasible clone. And despite a… tense first meeting, she hadn’t had much difficulty accepting the fact he was her father. It was exactly that. A fact. His overtures of friendliness, everything he did to make her feel welcome, came with a solid, scientific basis.

His wife, though… 

Elyna let herself into the living room. It already looked so different from the makeshift movie theatre it had been last night. This was a small town, with an almost suspiciously low crime rate. There wasn’t that much work even for the Chief of Police, and that leftover energy meant quick and efficient decorating and undecorating and redecorating. 

The only survivors were the skeletons, grinning and painted, specific to Día de Muertos but certainly not out of place last night. But the pumpkins and cobwebs and big orange candles were gone. The back wall had been cleared, making space for several beautiful ofrendas. 

Elyna’s eye lingered on one corner, distinct from what was otherwise a sea of severe foxes. A photograph was the focal point, per tradition. It depicted two raccoons. One had black hair and sharp, intelligent eyes - still noticeably green in the otherwise faded colour palette. She was giving the camera a quiet smirk. The other was only identifiable as a raccoon by the hint of his striped tail sneaking up through the bottom of the frame. His arm was lovingly around the woman’s shoulders, but his face was totally obscured. 

Every year, Carmelita asked if Sly seriously didn’t have a better photo of his father, and every year, Sly would make a fresh joke about the man’s lifelong animosity with cameras. Just another tradition. Another ritual, part of the smooth running of the holiday.

“Your grandparents.”

Carmelita was adjusting a small figurine of an acoustic guitar with pinpoint precision, getting it in exactly the right spot relative to a smiling ancestor. But she had heard Elyna come in, and knew where those hazel eyes were focused.

“Conner Cooper, and his wife Beatrice,” she continued. “B is named after both of her grandmothers, actually. It’s made easier by the fact Sly’s mother preferred to be called Trixie.”

Elyna took another look at the bulk of the ofrendas, remembering her sister’s full name. “But, um, Zoe’s not up here, right?”

Carmelita smiled to herself. “Not yet she isn’t. Or my father. Too stubborn. At this rate, they might both outlast you.”

It was a harmless joke. One Elyna had to stop herself from hearing as a threat.

Carmelita straightened up, turning thoughtful. “We’re overdue for a visit,” she said. “I thought we had introduced you, but apparently not.”

These sorts of forgetful exchanges were becoming rarer. Elyna fiddled with a stand of her black hair - she was growing it out, and still getting used to it, and didn’t need distractions right now. Didn’t need to think about how she never met her father’s wife’s parents. Her step-mother’s parents. Her step-grandparents.

This was her chance. Her best shot. She should just follow her training and seize the moment. Without fear.

“I have a question,” she mumbled. “About this, I mean.”

“Oh?” 

“I, uh,” said Elyna, “have no idea whether I should put up a picture of my mom.”

The living room went silent.

Silence was one of the reactions Elyna had been expecting, and it was honestly one of the better ones. But that didn’t make it comfortable. “It’s just,” she attempted, “it’s kinda unclear to me if it’s all your family, or just the ones you…”

“The belief,” said Carmelita, crisply, “is that by setting up an ofrenda you’re inviting that person’s spirit into your home.”

“Right.”

“So you do it for people you want in your home.”

“Right,” said Elyna again, quieter.

A few moments passed. And then Carmelita sighed. Her posture, which had become rigid, uncoiled a little. “There’s no one answer,” she said, more diplomatically. “The spirit of the holiday is remembering the togetherness of family. But we both know that’s how things should be, not how they always are. Not everyone is so lucky.”

“I’m sorry.” Elyna was back to fiddling with her hair. “I know it’s a stupid question.”

“Not at all. I’ve always held there’s no such thing as a stupid question.” She put on an expression of exaggerated tiredness. “Or at least I used to say that, before moving in with your father…”

Elyna chuckled at that, and Carmelita smiled. That was always Sly’s strategy for smoothing a bumpy discussion - knowing when to include a soft joke. Carmelita had gotten better at it herself over the years.

“Has this been worrying you for long?”

“It’s kind of been in my head on and off for the past month. Sorry for only bringing it up now. And sorry for…” Elyna sighed. “I shouldn’t even be asking you about this. I know how much Mo- …how much Neyla hurt you both. Obviously you don’t want a picture of her in your living room.”

“The question,” said Carmelita softly, “is do you?”

Said question hung in the air for a few moments, unanswered. Carmelita intently watched the teenage girl in front of her. She looked so much like Neyla. But standing there, her paws awkwardly clasped, her gaze nervously on the floor, she couldn’t be more different.

“Do you know the origins of this holiday?”

Elyna managed to tear her eyes off the carpet, watching Carmelita carefully.

“It’s pre-Columbian,” she explained. “The practice of honouring the dead is rooted in the ancient cultures of Mexico. It was an important part of life for the people who lived there long before the Europeans came.  The modern version we celebrate today is a mixture of those original practices with a Catholic influence. That’s why it’s held on this date, for instance - to sync up with the church calendar. I think it’s important to remember it’s a blend.”

Elyna’s ear flicked. “A ‘blend’? That’s a pretty nice way of putting it. I’m no historian, but Hernán Cortés didn’t just step off his boat and ask everyone to play nice, did he?”

“No,” said Carmelita quietly.

“It’s not a blend. A blend would be if the Europeans and the natives set out to make something nice together. This is some kind of Frankenstein monster made when one group was just minding their own business and someone else came up behind them and-”

It was Elyna’s turn to fall silent.

“Oh,” she said.

Her face scrunched up a little, and Carmelita sighed. “That’s… not what I meant. Or at least not exactly.”

“You only kind of meant to call me a Frankenstein, got it,” muttered Elyna, who was, fantastical circumstances or not, still a teenage girl.

“I didn’t call you anything.” Carmelita’s voice was steady. Not sharp, but steely, leaving no room for argument. She hadn’t thought much about motherhood earlier in her life, but she had always been able to keep a firm grip on an unpleasant discussion, and that was one of the fundamental requirements. “Try not to assume the worst of what I’m saying.”

Elyna stayed quiet.

“But… yes. I suppose it might be an applicable metaphor. You’ve got two sides to you, too. You’re Neyla’s, and you’re Sly’s. You’re the result of some cruel revenge scheme, and you’re a person with your own desires. Who you are now is a product of both.”

“That’s… yeah.” Elyna rubbed her arm sheepishly. “That’s pretty much what’s been eating at me. Neyla was an objectively bad person. And like, I never even met her, so it’s not like I’m attached. Or at least I shouldn’t be attached…”

Not for the first time, Carmelita privately despaired at the uncertainty in the girl’s tone. That therapist had a lot to work through.

“…but the fact is, I wouldn’t exist without her. At all. And that’s… It’s just weird.” She paused. “Yeah.”

“And now all those confusing feelings have a physical problem. Whether or not to put up her picture.”

“Yeah…” 

“I’m not being flippant when I say I don’t know what to tell you,” said Carmelita. “Not everyone in my family tree was a saint. No-one can claim that. But as far as I know, we never had a Neyla.”

“As far as you know,” echoed Elyna. “That sounds like the answer, then. Monsters get written out of the family history.”

“They don’t get invited to parties, at least,” she replied. “Which, like I said, is the spirit. It’s keeping your family close, because you never want to forget their warmth.”

Elyna resisted the urge to scoff. Purely for Carmelita’s benefit - it wasn’t directed at her. ‘Remembering warmth’. There wasn’t any warmth to remember when it came to Neyla. To the brisk, clipped instructions Elyna had been left in lieu of a childhood.

She felt the decision click into place.

“Let’s not do it.”

Carmelita, to her credit, kept her reaction diplomatic. “You’ve decided?”

“Yeah. If the point is remembering the good times, well… A photograph of Neyla is just a waste of space.”

In other circumstances, Carmelita would have shown more enthusiasm for an insult that harsh, that confidently delivered. But she knew to tread relatively lightly, so she just offered Elyna a smile. “Well said. I’m glad I could help.”

“Yeah. Thanks a lot.” Elyna nervously returned it. “I was hoping you’d know what to do. And, I knew that you, y’know… I mean, I can ask Dad for advice on a lot of things, and it’s usually pretty good, but-”

“Happy Skeleton Day~!”

The door swung open, revealing a grinning Sly. They hadn’t heard him come through the front door, but he had no qualms about announcing his presence.

“How’s it going?” His eyes, the same hazel as Elyna’s, fell on the ofrendas. “Oh, wow. These look better and better every year, ‘Lita.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much differently…” said Carmelita, but her face betrayed how much she appreciated the comment.

He planted a kiss on her cheek, then planted himself beside her, husbandly. 

“Where’s B?”

“Oh, she ran straight to her room,” he said. “Pretty sure she’s stashing her candy in a secure location. Or locations. Who knows how many caches she might have…”

Carmelita sighed. “Is that raccoon behaviour, or fox behaviour…?”

“Oh, both. Absolutely both. It’s a marvel she eats anything at dinner.”

He turned his warm smile more towards Elyna.

“So, what are you two talking about?”

“Just, uh, holiday stuff,” said Elyna. “I had a weird question. Carmelita is a good person to ask.”

“She is! Honestly, I just follow her lead.” He glanced over to her. “Speaking of, there’s still a few things to figure out about the big dinner. Bentley and Penelope are easy to cook for, but I like to give Murray new options where I can. Any thoughts?”

Seizing this chance for a tactful retreat, Elyna began to drift towards the door. “I might, uh, go check on B.”

“Good idea,” said Carmelita. “Again, I’m glad I could answer your question. You can always talk to me, Elyna.” That earned a smile, once much less nervous.

“Thanks, Mom.”

There was a pause.

Sly was pretty sure that blushes weren’t supposed to show up through fur, and yet, the lilac of Elyna’s face seemed to briefly veer into a much more reddish purple. Her hazel eyes were wide and unblinking. “mrrghg,” she said.

“Come again?” said Sly, unruffled.

“I said ‘okay bye’,” said Elyna and she was gone an instant later.

The door clicked shut with surprising gentleness. Sly chuckled. “Well…”

He stopped, finally noticing his wife had a similar facial expression.

“‘Lita? Everything alright?”

She blinked, twice, and suddenly she was back. It was still hard to slow Carmelita Fox down. “Sorry. Just wasn’t expecting that.”

Sly’s smile was wry, but his voice was soft. “I was.”

Carmelita leaned against him, and they stood there for a moment, half-embracing in their living room. Logistical questions about dinner plans and decorations fell away, briefly, as they savoured the feeling in the air. What had just happened, and the unique atmosphere of the day, and, of course, each other.

The silence was broken by a soft murmur.

“She’s a good kid.”

“Really?” said Sly innocently. “She doesn’t get it from me!”

Carmelita scoffed. 

“Okay, maybe she does,” he admitted. “I have many wonderful qualities to pass on, as is evident in both our daughters…”

He cupped his wife’s cheek. Lost himself, for a moment, in those deep brown eyes.

“But you’re a better influence than I could ever be.”

Her reply was a kiss. 

The moment passed, slowly, but they didn’t hurry to get back to decorating. It was still early, and they had several hours before the annual dinner they held for Murray and Bentley and Penelope - familial relations just as important as the gallery of photographs in front of them. As the girls engaged in hushed discussion of cheap chocolate upstairs.

“Oh,” said Carmelita. “While she and I were talking, I realized that Elyna’s never met my parents. We should fix that.”

“We should,” said Sly. “Sometime in winter, maybe? Whenever suits your folks. Might take us a little while to get over there, but we could throw in a few detours on the way, really make use of the journey…”

She smiled. “And when did I say we’d be going to them? They’d be perfectly happy to come here. You’re just-”

“-taking every chance I see to go on a trip, yes,” he smirked back. “C’mon, ‘Lita, you can hardly be that surprised. Old habits, etcetera…”

“Are you really so eager to escape?”

She said it as a joke, but he didn’t bounce back with another quip. He stood there, in his living room. His daughters upstairs. His parents watching over him from behind the glass of their picture frame. His brothers and sister-in-law, still thriving, quietly, the same way he was, on their way in a few hours. And, above all else, the love of his life in his arms.

His smile was as warm as his voice.

“Nah. We’ve got something pretty good here.”

#SlyFox #Elyna #just some regular-boy prose to close out!

[trustthechef]

On Moash and morality

When I first finished Stormlight and finally got to delve into the fandom without fear of spoilers (mfw I realized they’re part of the Cosmere) one of the things that struck me was the level of hate out there towards Moash. For fans of a book series which thematically emphasizes second chances, the genuine vitriol really surprised me – particularly when Moash’s actions seem far easier to justify to me than some of what seems to have been forgiven and forgotten by other characters (Dal that’s you darling). I’d love to talk this through with people. There seem to me to be two central reasons to hate Moash: either for killing Elk, or for betraying and hurting Kala. Let’s take the first: Killing Elk. To Moash, this is justice. Elk was responsible for the indirect murder of Moash’s grandparents, his only living family and his caretakers. Certainly, without Moash’s intervention there will be no reckoning of any description for this crime, and there is no plausible option for Moash to seek a more legal or less extreme form of justice - the man’s the storming King. It’s assassination or nothing. With this in mind, it’s the injustice of Elk’s death that gets many people – he was trying to be a better person, he was young and misled when the deaths occurred, etc. These are generally reasonable and I don’t condone Moash’s actions. That said, I completely understand them. I wouldn’t accept character growth a reason to forgo traditional legal justice in our world, so why should I expect grief-ridden, justifiably angry-at-the-world Moash to accept them as a reason to forgo the eye-for-an-eye (only) form of justice available to him in his world. In addition to this, while Elk was developing and under constraints not instantly identifiable to an outside observer, he was still a King presiding over horrific injustices – some of which Moash suffered through (see: bridgemen). There’s a reason Kala nearly went through with the assassination himself. Again, this is not to say Moash was in the right, merely that I think his actions under this particular standard are both understandable and forgiveable in light of other second chances given (Gaz, Dal, Elk himself, etc). Is it simply that everyone else made their mistakes in the past, whereas we lived through Moash blowing his first chance? So, now to the other (in my eyes far more grievous) sin of almost killing Kala for getting in his way. Moash betrays the loyalty of the man who rescued him from certain death and devastating slavery. Not ideal. And yet. One of the reasons Kala was so close to Moash was because Moash never treated him as a saviour, but as a friend. Fallible. Human. Moash was not going to take Kala’s will or beliefs automatically as his own, and ultimately, Kala approves of that free will and independent thinking. And so, where Kala takes principled stands and is a “destination before journey” kind of guy, Moash is a consequentialist. The ends justify the means – again, not my philosophy, but also not an uncommon one societally. Certainly, an understandable one. When the clash between what Moash believes to be right and what Kala does occurs, they both actually make the same decision – you stand up for what you believe in regardless of who stands in your way. Moash tries to kill Elk even if he has to go through Kala and Kala defends Elk even if he has to hurt Moash to do so. If one has to choose between one's morals and one's friends, one should choose their morals, right? Altogether, I think what Moash did was wrong and killing Elk was wrong. But storms, I get it? Particularly given I don't object to the principle of the thing Moash did - if anyone killed Amaram (or indeed, when Adolin kills Sadeas) I'm perfectly willing to stand over that morally. The issue for me lies in the scale, directness, intent, likely future, etc of Elk's mistakes, rather than the lack of honour in the act of murdering him. Add to this that the hate seems so disproportionate to the crime in a fandom that adores Dal and deals well enough with Szeth and Tar, etc. There’s also something for me in the fact that his drive to avenge the only family he had was how he ended up in the bridge crews in the first place, so Kala saved him, but for what purpose, if not this? Bridge Four breaks Moash along with everyone else, and then Kala comes along and relights his purpose, and here is this guy who also hates lighteyes and wants justice and Moash trusts him, thinks he'll be on his side. And he's not. Devastating. Moash has also shown regret over hurting Kala, and you see from his perspective chapters how truly angry he was and still is to get to that point in the first place – Moash thinks /he/ was betrayed /first/. Incidentally, I’d also love to just overall debate the moral philosophy at play here: Ultimately, the reason Kala refuses to assassinate Elk is because it would break his oath to protect, rather than because he believes Elk’s death would certainly be wrong in and of itself. But lying/oath-breaking is a complex moral area (@shallan); isn't it preferable to break your word than to allow injustice like murder:slavery:torture to continue? Hmu people. I love debating moral philosophy and I'm a very amiable person to disagree with.

#Moash #kaladin #stormlight archive #morality #kaladin stormblessed #quandries baby #elkohar #king elkohar #bridge four #dalinar #words of radiance #oathbringer

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

The Sleeping Prince and The Fair Folk Boy

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word Count: 13359

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

Read on AO3

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

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

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

“I shall defeat Natasha,” he announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it seems,” the old king replied.

“I expect my reward.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And what would those be?” David asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And for my last gift, I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then come out and say hello.”

“If I do, then you’ll be afraid.”

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

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

“Hello,” Simon chirped like a bird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Simon,” he said.

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

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

“May I hear it?”

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

“My name is Baz,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I-I could,” Baz started. “But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You should go to her," Baz said.

"Yeah. Wanna play again soon?"

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

“Goodbye, Simon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm, interesting.”

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

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

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

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

“Obviously you were not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Most do,” Baz replied.

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

“Do they all have horns?”

“No. Only people from my family do.”

“May I touch yours?”

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

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

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

“Well, I’m aware of that now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll see,” he said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Baz sighed. “I suppose not.”

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

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

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

Simon’s eyes were wide. “Really?”

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

Simon grabbed it without any hesitation. “Absolutely.”

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

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

“What is this?” Simon asked.

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

“Do the fae need protection?”

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

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

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

“By all the gods,” Simon whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he said.

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

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

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

“It’s normal for me.”

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

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

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

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

And Simon smiled back.

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be back very soon,” Simon said.

“I await your return,” Baz replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baz!” he yelled. “Baz! Come out!”

“I’m here.”

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

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

“Fiona,” Baz said with no inflection.

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

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

“How?!”

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

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

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

“Allowed?”

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

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

“I never pretended.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He mounted the horse with nary a second thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With what?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not right!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that it was impossible,” Fiona hissed.

“Yes, but I must know!”

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

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

“Yes.”

“But that’s so simple.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything is hopeless sometimes, Basil!”

The flames burned brighter. Simon reached out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s gone,” Baz choked out.

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

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

“No,” Baz hissed. “Don’t touch me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet dreams, Simon,” he whispered.

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

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

“Hello, Simon,” he said shakily.

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

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

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

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

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

And then Simon kissed him.

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

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

“I’m sorry Simon,” Baz whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon looked around in confusion. “What-”

“Simon, look out!”

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

“Baz!” Simon screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Auntie.”

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

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

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

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

“Baz-”

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

“What’s that?” a knight shouted.

“Get down!” Another added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was trying to save him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Simon whispered.

“He could not admit defeat,” Baz said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————

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

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

[thebrochtuarachs]

I just watched it and I just cry because I suddenly don’t recognise Claire and Bree anymore and I feel super bad for Jamie - not because Roger deserved that beat up - but that Brianna and Claire did nothing - NOTHING - to, at least, make him understand.

HERE ARE SOME OF MY OTHER THOUGHTS ON THE 4x10 EPISODE: 

1. Though I really missed the JB fireplace/cuddle scene (which I feel is equally, if not more important scene to be featured), I did like that they included the part where Jamie provoked Brianna and showed her that she couldn’t fight Bonnet even if she tried her hardest. I loved that Jamie was hesitant about hurting her but it was the only he knew how for her to realise that it wasn’t her fault. I hope Brianna knew that Jamie did it as his way to show his love for her. 

2. That scene in the end where Bree revealed he knew Jamie understood what was done to her because she knew it happened to him is indeed another block in the building of their relationship. I loved the fact that Bree opened up to him even though the topic was about murder, but trusted Jamie enough to guide her  in understanding the situation. I loved that Jamie said that he did for Claire and he would do all over again if need be - in some way, its his way of telling her that he’ll do anything for her too. 

3. I skipped all the Roger parts. All of them. 

4. I felt that the “abortion” conversation ran too long and Claire keep circling around the topic in very vague terms which elongated the conversation. When Bree asked if she considered it with her, my heart swelled a bit when Claire declared that “she and her father wanted and loved her” (I just didn’t like that the dialogue went ‘I wanted you, I loved your father and he wanted you’ - I mean, why can’t it be a collective like ‘we loved each other and we wanted you’, small thing but meh). I loved that revelation thinking about what happened in 2x13 and Jamie and Claire’s decision to part forever for her sake. Brianna, I think, also needed to feel that she is loved unconditionally by both of them and that they’ll do everything they can to help her whatever they decide. 

5. Loved that when Claire suggested that she leave back for the stone now, she didn’t want to leave. I think she wanted to spend more time with her mother and Jamie as well. She wanted to know Jamie. 

5. Again, bummed that the writers didn’t include Jamie and Claire’s argument when she was contemplating suggesting abortion to Bree. It was to be another impactful moment for J/C as they navigate being parents together, especially to a daughter caught in a complicated situation as Bree. 

6. TIME TRAVELING THEORIES TIME!! Hahaha!

7. Wee Ian being all grown-up and Brianna finally having a cousin! What a momentous moment. 

8. Am I the only one who cringes and hurts for Jamie every time Brianna refers to Frank as “my father”? UGH UGH UGH 

9. “I CAME HERE TO FIND YOU TOO” JUST PULL MY HEART OUT ALREADY. I NEED MORE JAMIE X BREE MOMENTS. THANK U, NEXT.

10. Is Lizzie even sick anymore? I guess not? 

11. I honestly didn’t get the trade scene? Is it important? Was it in the book? 

12. Claire must’ve really done herself in with all the gardening cause she looked awfully tired in the dinner table. 

13. Love Claire and Bree scene just talking about stuff in the future. Of course, these are things they cannot mention to anyone but to each other and surely, there’s a certain relief and freedom that they can talk about it now and its such a relief for both of them. Love this mother-daughter scene (though not sure how this scene adds to the story, I mean they could’ve used this airtime for some other important thing?)

14. OMG THE NIGHTMARE SCENE - DANG, BREE IS GOING THROUGH PTSD JUST LIKE JAMIE DID BEFORE AND I FEEL SO BAD FOR HER. It’s the same when Jamie thought he saw Claire and then Randall will seep through. For a while, I thought Bonnet was really there! I guess that’s how victims feel inside their head - good representation for me. Kudos to Sophie and Ed for giving me the chills. 

15. OH GOD HERE WE ARE IN THE MISUNDERSTANDING SCENE THAT TOTALLY MISSED THE MARK FOR ME. Though I dinner justify Roger’s beating, Jamie couldn’t have known what Roger looked like. Lizzie said it was the man and she was sure and Jamie was acting on pure instinct to save his daughter’s honour. But the way Bree explained it to him at the beginning of this argument was confusing already and Jamie, albeit not intentionally, thought otherwise of Bree’s intentions because he did not know there was another man. But slapping him? I get she’s angry, but he’s still her father and he deserved some respect. I wonder how many times in his life Jamie have been slapped, not many I’m guess, and especially from the people he loves. I think this part went a bit far especially when the “other man” is revealed. AND CLAIRE JUST STOOD THERE AND NOTHING, DID NOT EVEN MITIGATE A BIT, DID NOT DEFEND HER HUSBAND NOR LIGHTLY REPRIMAND HER DAUGHTER. I get that she had to appease Brianna but her face says that she’s angry with Jamie too but that was not the time nor place to show that anger. Jamie apologises and Brianna just blurts out “go to hell” I MEAN WHAT IS THAT. THAT IS JUST CRUEL. AND CLAIRE DID NOTHING STILL. (I AM SO ANGRY AT THIS SCENE AT THIS POINT). AND THEN WE GET “MY FATHER WAS A GOOD MAN AND YOU’RE JUST A SAVAGE” MORE CRUELTY THAT JAMIE DID NOT DESERVE. Gosh, I wonder what Frank Randall would do if he found out his daughter is unwed and pregnant - I bet he’d suggest losing it first. Brianna has been Frank Randall’s daughter for 20 years and it shows and I don’t like it one bit). 

16. WHEN CLAIRE REVEALED IT WAS BONNET, THE WOMAN HAD THE NERVE TO LOOK AT HER HUSBAND WITH ANGER AND RESENTMENT - WHEN SOME EPISODES AGO, SHE WAS TELLING HIM ITS NOT HIS FAULT BUT NOW, SHE’S BLAMING HIM. I HATED THAT LOOK CLAIRE GAVE HIM. I HATED THAT SHE HAD THE GALL TO EXPRESS IT. I JUST HATE THAT SCENE. THAT IS SO NOT JAMIE AND CLAIRE. THAT IS NOT HOW THEY DEAL WITH FIGHTS AND ARGUMENTS. NOT LIKE THESE. THEY DO NOT RESENT EACH OTHER BUT NOW, APPARENTLY, THEY DO. Jesus Christ, I AM SO SAD. 

17. DEAR LORD SAM HEUGHAN. HE IS THE SAVING GRACE OF SEASON 4. THE LOOK OF DESPAIR IN HIS FACE WHEN BREE ASKED “WHERE WAS ROGER” AND HE HAD TO HOLD HIMSELF TOGETHER. DAMN, THAT WAS SOME FINE GREAT ACTING. WHEN HE GOT ANGRY AND BRIANNA CALLED HIM OUT, THE RESTRAINT IN HIS ACTING, JUST WOW. HE DESERVED ALL THE NOMINATIONS THIS YEAR. JESUS, HIS ACTING IS JUST SO STRONG AND IMPACTFUL THIS SEASON. 

18. BREE IS JUST ALLOWED TO HIT PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY?! HERE WE ARE DEFENDING ROGER’S BEATING AND BREE JUST HITS PEOPLE. AND JUST THEN DID CLAIRE TRY TO REPRIMAND HER. SERIOUSLY. THE INCONSISTENCIES OF THE WRITING THIS SEASON IS JUST DESTROYING THE SHOW. 

19. I don’t even have words for the “Planning” scene other than Brianna is so demanding and Claire is being dramatic and everyone is just in a foul mood. 

20.  AND THEN WE GET ANOTHER UN-JAMIE/CLAIRE-LIKE SCENE. Jamie, now, wants to understand and he asks his wife for answers too. He’s asking so he can understand the extent of the damage he’s done, if he can repair his relationship with his daughter, he just wants to know and understand and what does Claire do - WALK AWAY. If this was the Jamie and Claire I know, they would hash it out all in the open until all is said and done (aka First Wife scene, Blade under the grass scene, FAITH scene, etc..) SHE DIDN’T WALK AWAY. HE DIDN’T WALK AWAY. THEY TALKED THE PAIN AND ANGER OUT BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT THEY DO - that’s what healthy relationships do, that’s always been them, it’s why they work. Secrets but no lies (well, Jamie lied about the hand but the Claire I knew will call him out then shut him down). I AM SO ANGRY THAT THIS SCENE DIDN’T GO TO AN ALL OUT CONFRONTATION CAUSE THAT IS WHAT I EXPECTED FROM JAMIE AND CLAIRE. Clearly, the writers had them in a different light where they walk away from each other - I DO NOT LIKE JAMIE AND CLAIRE WHO CAN EASILY WALK AWAY FROM EACH OTHER. NO. NO. NO. Because if it was easy to do that, then Jamie and Claire’s relationship are in trouble. 

21. I hated this “goodbye” scene too. ALL JAMIE WANTED TO DO, AND YOU CAN SEE IT IN HIS FACE, IS TO HUG IS DAUGHTER AND SAY A PROPER GOODBYE TO HER - BECAUSE TO HIM THIS IS A MISSION HE MIGHT NOT RETURN FROM (spoiler: it’s why Bree made her mama go with them). NOW MAYBE I JUST WANT JAMIE NOT TO RETURN TO BREE CAUSE SHE DOESN’T DESERVE HIM (okay, I went a tad overboard with this but I am so frustrated with these characters and story, im letting me feelings out). AND CLAIRE JUST STOOD THERE, DID NOT EVEN ENCOURAGE HER OR HIM TO PROPERLY SAY GOODBYE. SERIOUSLY, WHERE IS CLAIRE FRASER? THE REAL CLAIRE FRASER?! Seriously, and then Claire and Bree hug and Im just imagining Jamie there at the side, wishing he could too. I mean, he even passes by them again just so maybe he could but still, nothing and they all went in their merry way. (im so emotional about this scene) 

22. MURTAGH AND JOCASTA MEETING AND REMINISCING ABOUT ELLEN IS THE ONLY SAVING GRACE OF THIS EPISODE. I HAD SO MUCH FUN WITH THEIR INTERACTION. 

23. “WHILE MY MOTHER AND JAMIE...” Wow, I just don’t like Bree in this episode. So Jamie is relegated from Da back to calling him Jamie. Wow, such a disrespect. Could’ve called her “father” if she wanted something more formal or distant to call him. But calling him just “Jamie” just boils my blood with anger cause Jamie doesn’t deserve this cruelty. Jesus Christ, he sacrificed himself for all and it still is not enough, especially for the people who mean most to him. Brianna’s bratty attitude didn’t sit well with me this episode and I hate it. 

Bottomline, I knew this scene was coming. From book to TV, I didn’t expect the writers would delete important parts to give more context to feelings to justify it. No, they just jumped from one place to another, trying to go through the chapters so fast, they missed the point of it all. I missed a lot of scenes from the fireplace cuddle to the abortion argument. But Brianna’s and Claire’s attitude towards Jamie in this whole ordeal have felt nothing short but cruel for me. They didn’t give him a chance to explain, give themselves a chance to make him understand the depth of the situation. Instead, they shout at him, keep secrets from him, call him names, don’t acknowledge them, walk away from him, shut him out, and I hate that because he knows he’s done wrong and just wants to make it right but no one would tell him how or at least, again, make him understand. Jamie must be frustrated as heck between his wife and daughter, the only family he cares most about but he just stays silent. The turmoil inside must be killing him and he’d already decided that he will bring Roger back even if it costs him his own life. 

But damn, the writers just missed the mark so much with Jamie, Claire and Bree and how to handle the progression of their situation and I am so sad because I’m anticipating this moment most and they ruined it. 

Now, I don’t even have the courage or will to watch the last 3 episodes. They story, characters and actors (except Sam) aren’t just there this season and I just sad because this is my favorite book in the series. 

Fin. 

#outlander #4x10 #410 #personal #thoughts #opinions #who let me have a blog #the deep heart's core #jamie fraser #Claire fraser #Brianna fraser #murtagh fraser #Jocasta cameron #Ian murray #lizzie wembyss #jamie x claire #jamie x claire x bree #Roger mackenzie #Stephen bonnet #sam heughan #caitriona balfe #Sophie skelton #sam x cait

[thirddoctor]

Imagine an alternate universe where the doctor is evil and the master is good. Everything else is still relatively the same (like the master still builds castrovalva but actually to help), and in terms of their morals the doctor is still rigid (but hypocritical) and the master is more flexible. And missy and twelve still have the “stand with me” thing going on and missy would eventually?? but like yeah. And the master still does all their plots but to stop the doctor, not destroy earth.

(sorry for taking so long to answer this great ask, anon!)

Oh, now that’s an interesting concept. I can see it not even being an alignment swap exactly, just a shift in how far they’re willing to go to achieve their goals. Like, the Doctor still has the same personality and goals, but has gone all Full Fathom Five and is willing to justify any means to achieve what they think is the greater good. The Master, meanwhile, isn’t on any sort of crusade to save the universe—they’re just trying to build up a power base for themself, but through less murderous methods. However, they find themself playing the role of the hero because they keep running into the Doctor and then having to stop them from causing too much trouble.

For example, I could see Terror of the Autons going like this: the Master decides to set his next scheme on earth, so he can keep an eye on the Doctor who he’s discovered has been exiled there. He’s still using a lot of his usual tricks like hypnotism, and he’s still trying to take over, but he doesn’t kill anyone. He involves the Nestene in his plan because no matter the universe the Master will always be dumb, but has given them strict instructions not to harm anyone. The Doctor, meanwhile, quietly kills Farrel when he finds out he’s under the Master’s influence, because he’s too busy saving the earth to waste time de-brainwashing one insignificant henchman. The ending would be the same, with the Doctor and the Master working together to stop the Nestene when the Master realises the Nestene have no intention of honouring their agreement, but this time he’s not just worried about himself being killed—he does’t want them to slaughter the earth’s population either.

Castrovalva would probably be a case of the Master creating a fake reality to trap the Doctor in so he’ll stop interfering in his schemes or hurting anyone.

I could see the Master becoming a sort of reluctant hero—not unlike One’s character development—as they go from a power-hungry troublemaker who just wants to stop the Doctor from interfering in their schemes to someone who genuinely wants to help. The Doctor, meanwhile, would become darker and more outright evil as time went on and they became consumed by their actions.

It would make the Twelve/Missy s10 dynamic quite different, and a lot more like what some people seem to think it was—the Doctor kidnapping Missy and locking her away so he can brainwash her (for the greater good of course).

Anyway, I’m not sure if this is exactly what you had in mind, but it’s where my thoughts ended up going!

#Replies #Anon #The Master #Ranger yells about the Master #Ranger shut up about Doctor Who #Master meta

[clerichoard]

worn thin

shen & ahaz (& crew), 1.4k, atla campaign

ahaz of course belongs to @darlingicarus​

They’ve been travelling for weeks, on the road. He hasn’t walked this much before in his life, his feet are blistered and his patience is worn thin.

Of course they have to fight off a group of thugs who just happen to be travelling in the opposite direction. Of course Suni gets hurt and Shen uses all his remaining energy to heal her and the rest of his clean gauze to bandage Bai-lee’s wound. They’ve run out of healing salves and Shen has run out of his personal stash of herbs.

He’s not built for this grating consistent travel. He’s built for cars and trains and boats. But Ahaz never even falters. It’s getting on Shen’s nerves more and more as each day passes.

They sit by the small fire Ahaz has made while Suni shovels down the last bit of Shen’s rations. He’d handed them to her without saying anything and she’d only handed him a quarter back. Progress at least.

Ahaz is listening intently to Bai-lee tell some over exaggerated story of her pro-bending career, or at least he’s pretending to listen intently, and Shen feels the slight pinch of irritation at even that alone.

His arm has been bothering him without his herbs. He hasn’t had a nightmare free sleep in a month. He hasn’t slept in a real bed for longer than that.

He’d rather blame it on this than on the fact that everything between the two of them has been building inside of him like a balloon ready to burst. And Ahaz has a pin pressed against the thin surface with his pointed grin.

They hadn’t killed the thugs earlier though Ahaz had certainly tried. It took all of Shen stepping between the unconscious form of one of the men and Ahaz’s blades. He can feel the unspoken argument brewing between the two of them now, Ahaz’s eyes flashing something dangerous in the firelight. Shen tries to keep his devoid of anything and is not sure if he succeeds.

It’s only once the other two have gone to sleep that they’re left alone with the boiling silence.

They’re sitting on the ground a few feet away from each other when Shen glances at Ahaz. Ahaz is looking right back with a poised raised eyebrow.

“You have something to say,” Shen states. Ahaz grins in the way that makes Shen’s skin crawl. He knows that many people have seen that grin right before meeting the end of his blades.

“Don’t I always?” Ahaz asks it breezily as if he wasn’t staring at him moments earlier. Shen narrows his eyes and looks away. There’s a heavy moments pause before, “But now that you ask.”

Shen feels himself tense.

“Why would you put yourself between our enemy and my blade?”

Shen’s shoulders reflexively pull up towards his ears as he tries to shake the innate fury that is begging to be let out. He breathes out through his nose and counts to ten and desperately clings to the minute calm part of him.

“How many times do we have to have this conversation,” Shen mumbles. He runs his hand over his head and leaves it on his forehead, frustration clinging to the movement.

“Enough until I understand, I suppose,” Ahaz quips. Shen can feel the heated gaze without seeing it. Firebenders, he thinks.

Shen feels a lick of the flame like it’s inside him and he opens his mouth to let it out, to let whatever anger he has to finally let loose.

“Nothing good will come of protecting the lives of thieves, of those who would kill you in kind. Do you not know that?”

Shen stands up quickly and paces away from the fire, heading into the trees, away from Ahaz before he does something he’ll regret.

His patience is gone and the calm part of him he was holding onto with iron-tight grip has slipped out of his hands like rushing water. There’s a rational part of him that knows this was bound to happen but the majority of his thoughts are geared at the seething rage Ahaz has provoked in him so suddenly.

He’s tried. He’s honoured his commitment. He’s told Ahaz time and time again that no one should get to decide death. He’s done his breathing exercises and he’s abandoned his emotions on the roadside and he’s felt the rushing blood of new friends flow through his fingers and-

He grips the trunk of a nearby tree and feels the bark cut into his palm with the strength of it. There will be blood there, he knows. But it grounds him for a moment.

The tell tale jingling of chain armor alerts Shen to his presence. The anger comes flooding back. Shen isn’t sure that it even left.

He promptly turns on his heel to face Ahaz and glares up at him.

“You’ll never understand,” Shen states hollowly. “You take the lives of other for money. If you don’t see how that’s wrong, I doubt you’ll ever understand why I would never kill someone.”

Ahaz seems surprised at the intensity of Shen’s response. He knows that the anger bled through his tone. He can't seem to suppress it any longer.

“My job is just that, a job. It doesn’t hinder my understanding. My work is like any other,” he says but there is unrestrained anger in his tone. Finally, Shen thinks.

“Your work,” Shen spits out. They’ve been circling each other for too long about this. He’s done hiding his feelings on the matter. “I’ve met men like you. Mercenaries. Hired killers. Those who use their bending ability for death and destruction. Who get paid to ruin lives. You’re no different than them just because you don’t have a contract right now. You ruin lives. You ruin families. You decide who you think should die, like you’re a god. But you’re not.”

He steps closer and glares up at Ahaz. There is a sneer lining his mouth. He can feel his jaw clench and unclench beneath his skin. Ahaz’s eyes are wide but there is an undercurrent there that Shen cannot decipher. Will not decipher. He doesn’t care what Ahaz could possibly be feeling right now.

“It’s my job,” Ahaz bites between clenched teeth. “I do not believe I am a god, I’m doing my job just like you did yours.”

Shen growls and thrusts his arm up against Ahaz’s throat, knocking him back against the tree behind him. His vision has tunneled to a sea of red and blood and death-

He pulls water from the earth to bend his arm and uses it to yank down the collar of his shirt, exposing the wretched scars that litter his collarbone and torso. The ones so deep they couldn’t be covered by the tattoos like the rest. The ones that ache and burn under his skin when he thinks about them. About how he got them.

“Someone like you did this to me,” he hisses. “Someone like you was paid to do this to me. I should’ve died. I would’ve. And you would have me believe that I should let death befall others? That I should let you do to them what someone like you has done to me?”

He knows he’s letting too much out, that the emotions are pouring out of him like water, that he can’t control himself anymore like this. But he doesn’t care. He needs Ahaz to understand.

“I am sorry for what was done to you,” Ahaz says steadily, like there isn’t an arm pressed tightly against his throat. “I am glad it was not by me.”

Shen feels himself fold. His arm drops and he suddenly feels...exhausted. Water splashes to the ground around his feet. Everything inside goes quiet all at once. He blinks at Ahaz and takes a step away.

“You’re a murderer. And nothing you say will change or justify that,” he says evenly. “I don’t want your pity.”

He walks away, turns his back on Ahaz who is still pressed against the tree, and turns his back on every emotion that had finally boiled to the surface. With a final breath, he shoves it all back down and bottles it back up where it belongs.

Ahaz comes back to camp twenty minutes later without a hair out of place. Shen ignores him for the rest of the night.

They reach their safehouse the next day and they only notice Ahaz is gone the day after that. Shen thinks its for the best. Who can sleep well with a murderer watching their backs, anyways?

#r: blood and water #ch: shen #t: writing #friends ocs #wrote this in september rip..... #anyways i....love them

[tipsycad147]

Animal Sacrifice and Witchcraft

By The Alchemist

This title may have already brought chills in your bones. However, if you know us at all, you know where this is going. In this article we are going to examine the historical and magical value of animal sacrifice. But before going on let me be clear. We won’t give and advice on how to kill or torture animals, you know how my we love them. On the other hand we won’t try to sugar-coat the truth. So buckle up!

Animals and Rituals

Many religions, ancient and existing ones –  along with several magical practices, employed animal sacrifice in their annual sacred calendar, as parts of their rituals or customs. There are thousands of examples. From the sacrifice of crocodiles with a certain sign on them for Sobek – the Egyptian crocodile god, to legendary sacrifices described in homeric tales and other ancient accounts. But even nowadays, there are whole feasts connected with holiday meals based on animals like turkeys, lambs, fishes or sea food… the list is endless.

However, most of these customs and rituals were established very long ago. Now that the Aquarian Era has kicked in, questions about the ethics of these and other magical customs and rituals began to rise.

Ancient Magic and Animals

Let me be clear. It’s true. There are thousand spells written in ancient texts like the Magical Papyri or other ancient grimoires which demand the blood of animals or other parts of them. Frankly, we were shocked many times when we came across extremely bloody and brutal rituals in old grimoires. We asked ourselves, did they really do this? And more importantly could ever be worth this?

We live in a world were several animal species gone extinct or are really near that. Even now, hunters go after Rhinos to use their horns for their non-existing but still fabled aphrodisiac properties. We’ve got so many powerful herbs and spells but they still look for rhinos. Of course the horns have no aphrodisiac properties. But even if they had, would this justify killing Rhinos?

Therefore, modern witches – like us – have questioned several times the effectiveness of these ‘ingredients’. This didn’t happen because we just want to be politically correct. There are much more serious reasons: magical, ethical and ecological.

1. Secret knowledge

Many of the ingredients are in fact plants in disguise. Witches and Sorcerers almost always tried to encode their books of shadows. This happened for many reasons . For starters protection. Leaving the information uncoded, was like leaving a nuclear bomb unprotected. Magic is power and everyone knows it including the ones who hunted us. And this is the other reason. Not only Witches tried to hide magic from the naive, but they also tried to protect themselves from the inquisition.  Thus,  coding the rituals so that the naive or fanatics would never find out the truth about these spells was a first step protection.

Some examples of the coded ingredients:

Unicorn root – Ague root

Blood of Hephaestus – Wormwood

Fairy fingers – Foxglove

Wolf’s foot – Bugleweed

Hare’s beard – Mullein

Lion’s tooth – Dandelion

Deer’s Tongue – Wild Vanilla

Dragons’s blood – Dracaena

2. Karma

We live in a different time of history. Thus, we do not hunt for food – well some do, but we do not depend on it, in the advanced countries at least. Witches of the old times, used parts of the animals, hunters brought them for food. Nothing would go to waste. It was actually a way to honour the body of hunted prey completely. They hunted for food and used the other parts for other activities including Witchcraft. Therefore, Witches did not -usually- killed an animal just for a spell. They utilised already dead animal parts.

Furthermore, pain is pain. Whether used for a healing spell or a blessing, if you use pain or death in magic, this counts as bad karma – and this does not come from a vegan. Of course, good intentions and thoughts play a very important role too, but there are alternatives. You don’t have to kill anything. But we’ll get there.

3. Gods, Goddesses and sacred animals.

A very common love spell – supposedly – requires to sacrifice a white dove. Allegedly, sacrificing this sacred bird of Aphrodite, conjures the love of the Goddess. Let me stop right here and ask you to think of what you’ve just read.

I mean,  do you really think that Aphrodite would be thrilled if you murder her sacred bird? Would she give you help or her rage? Surely we cannot even begin to think like Her or any other God or Goddess but this is a very important issue. I personally think that (any) God is Love and Love is the key to unlock divine gifts.

You can easily guess where I’m going with this. Although there are many ancient spells – performed even by the ancient priests and priestesses of the gods – which actually sacrificed animals – there also accepted alternatives which were equally effective.

Alternative to Animal Sacrifice – our Way

So please, never sacrifice an animal. There are many alternatives and you should know how to use them. Let me tell you some examples:

Animal figurines and statuettes were very popular and still are. So instead of sacrificing an animal, just devote a figurine of this animal to the God/Goddess of you choice. For example in the love spell, use a figurine of White Dove. I’m sure Aphrodite will appreciate it.

If a spell requires you to sacrifice an animal or needs a part of it use a candle in the same shape. So in this love spell just light a white dove-shaped candle.

Watch the Animal Protectors video of Witch TV for more insight!

https://www.magicalrecipesonline.com/2019/06/animal-sacrifice-and-witchcraft.html

[fuckthe10essays]

Discuss the roles of Desdemona, Cassio, Brabantio, Emilia, Rodrigo and Bianca in contributing to the tragedy.

Without these characters the tragedy of Othello would not have progressed past the dark recesses of Iago’s mind.  They contribute in no great amount to Othello and its tragic conclusion. In each of their own ways these characters all contribute to the tragedy of Othello and throughout this essay I will explain how and why they did this.

Of all the tragic elements in this play Desdemona and her death is certainly one of the more unjust ones, especially when you consider that, not only did she die an innocent death, but she also blamed herself for it. While we cannot ignore that her constant badgering of Othello definitely had a part to play in her untimely demise ‘Your lieutenant Cassio. Good my lord if I have any grace or power to move you his present reconciliation take.’ this did not warrant a death sentence. Even her asking of Cassio’s health ‘What! Is he dead?’ after Othello announced that he was going to kill her spoke more of her innocence then her stupidity. She is so naïve and so childlike in her actions that is really lends itself to Desdemona as a victim. Desdemona died a very innocent death. She did not understand what she did wrong and it was her innocence that ultimately damned her. Her contribution to the tragedy of Othello is perhaps one of the largest. A pure character, untainted by the viciousness of the world, dead by her husband so tainted with jealousy that to him to only reasonable option was to murder.

As for the other character murdered by her husband, Emilia is not as innocent as Desdemona, in beliefs and in life, but her death remained as tragic still. Emilia provided the only bit of ‘real’ evidence to further Iago’s theory of Desdemona’s infidelity. She did this by stealing her friend's handkerchief, a loss she knew would upset Desdemona ‘Poor lady she’ll run mad when she shall lack it.’ but did it anyway in the hope of some affection from Iago. Emilia is willing to betray a friend to try to gain some endearment from her husband who is otherwise horrible to her ‘To have a foolish wife.’ Even when she tries to take it back or to ask what he wants with it he rudely brushes her off. The handkerchief is then used in the indictment of Desdemona and Cassio and sets the scene for their murder. Emilia has not only betrayed her friend for an uncaring husband but has helped aid in him in his plan to avenge upon Othello. This all accumulates when Othello kills Desdemona and claims it was because she was unfaithful, and that Iago told him so. ‘He lies to the heart.’ this is what Emilia says about Iago. She then goes on to expose him and all of his lies about Desdemona and Cassio and dies for her efforts. She died having restored Desdemona’s honour after helping write her death warrant but this willingness to betray Iago shows that their relationship was also a lie. Emilia died to help someone she unwittingly hurt and was killed by the person she exposed who brought about Desdemona’s death. This tragedy left not one-person untouched, least of all Emilia, the person who tried to make it right in the end and was murdered for her efforts.

We would not even have the tragedy of Othello if it weren’t for Cassio and his rampant inebriation. It is Cassio’s own lack of self-control that led him to accepting drink after drink from Iago even though he acknowledged himself that he cannot hold his liquor. ‘I’ll do it, but it dislikes me.’ It is this weakness of the will that leads to the riot and Cassio’s subsequent duel with the Duke of Cyprus that loses him his job. Mourning the loss of his reputation Iago suggests he go ask Desdemona to ask Othello her husband for his job back. This is what leads to the eventual death of four characters and Cassio’s own attempt on his life. It seemed like such a small thing in the beginning but watching Iago spin it into something much larger and untrue shows us the true depth and possibility of Cassio’s lack of self-control and just how much of an impact it could have on the outcome of the play. Cassio’s inability to hold his wine helped to bring about so many innocent, unnecessary deaths that when coupled with his relationship with Bianca there was no chance for a redemption arc. Iago used him and Bianca with the handkerchief to insinuate an affair with Desdemona. Between this and Desdemona nagging Othello about Cassio there was no other possibility in Othello’s warped mind. This act not only began the tragedy but helped to end it. As when Othello heard of Rodrigo’s death not Cassio’s Emilia heard Desdemona underneath the sheets and cried murder, bringing an end to Iago’s bloody plot and Cassio’s spoilt reputation.

Alas we cannot give Iago all of the credit for leading Othello to eventual uxoricide. Brabantio, Desdemona’s father must also be given some recognition. It was him that sowed the initial seed of doubt in Othello’s mind of Desdemona’s ability to be unfaithful ‘Look to her moor, she hath deceived her father and may thee.’ Which only helped Iago in his revenge plot, but Brabantio was a smarting man who had just lost his only daughter, leaving him alone after the death of his wife. He had been betrayed not only by his daughter but by the man he had trusted and regularly invited into his home, it’s not to say his jab at Othello was justified, especially when we see the harm it helped cause but it’s no wonder why he said it. Brabantio was jealous, yes and wanted revenge on Othello for stealing his daughter but he has lost his only child, his wife is dead and now he’s an old man all alone who discovered the news of his daughter’s elopement through way of crass hollering from the street. It’s the sense of betrayal that adds to the tragedy, the feeling of losing one’s loved ones and feeling cast aside. His actions are not justified but are understandable and they are born of tragic circumstances, the loss of a child. This adds, in no small part, to the overall tragedy of the play.

Possibly the character that came out most unscathed from Iago’s rampage but contributed the most damning piece of ‘evidence’ is of course Bianca. She and the handkerchief signed Desdemona’s death warrant the moment she confronted Cassio about it ‘This is some minx’s token.’ while Othello was secretly listening. Othello seeing his first gift to Desdemona in the hands of a prostitute who got it by Cassio only helped to enrage Othello to the point of asking how he should murder Cassio and Desdemona. ‘How shall I murder him Iago?’ It is Bianca’s possessiveness of Cassio and her jealousy of the mere thought of him being with anyone else, despite the fact that he’s married, that drives Bianca to confront him. If Bianca wasn’t so easy to give in to her emotions, she would not have presented Iago with the perfect opportunity to prove the ‘affair’. It’s her petty jealousy and possessiveness that damns Cassio and most of all Desdemona although she did it all unknowingly. But even stranger is that after all this Bianca still invites Cassio to her home for dinner. Bianca still desires Cassio even after she thinks that he’s bene with another woman. This shows that her confrontation need not have happened and if it didn’t so much violence and death could have been avoided. It is this almost aversion to the ending that really makes Bianca and her character tragic because she held the key to allowing Desdemona and Emilia to live and she gave it away, unwittingly yes, but the tragedy is still there as at the day four people are still dead and Bianca is the one who got away with the least amount of scars.

Out of them all Rodrigo is the most pitiful character, not only because he dies but for the circumstances that lead up to his death. Rodrigo is filled with gullibility only on par with how Desdemona is full of innocence. His only desire we see is how he wants Desdemona and is willing to do anything to get her, even sell all his land and come to Cyprus with Iago. ‘I’ll sell all my land. ‘Put money in thy purse, follow these wars.’ He takes everything in good faith, especially Iago’s promises that Desdemona will become bored with Othello and rush to him instead. But in reality, Iago is only using Rodrigo for his money. To Iago, Rodrigo is just a way to fund his schemes, he has no intention of delivering on his promises. When Rodrigo finally realizes this, he confronts Iago about his obvious lying ‘Your words and performances are no kin together.’ but Iago easily reels him back in, promising sex with Desdemona the next night if Rodrigo murders Cassio and if he doesn’t, he may kill Iago. But it’s the betrayal of friendship that truly adds to the tragedy of this play, Iago ends up killing Rodrigo and sparing Cassio’s life in the end. Rodrigo dies betrayed, broke and never having been with Desdemona. All throughout the play he has been used to meet other people’s ends only. Constantly lied to and abused through his gullibility and good faith in everyone. He only existed to further Iago’s revenge plan and never got what he truly desired. He also died an innocent death brought about by the ruthlessness of Iago, but Rodrigo died alone betrayed by the only person he thought of as a friend, which in itself is incredibly sad.  

In conclusion each of these characters brought something different to contribute to the overall tragedy of Othello. Rodrigo and Desdemona with their innocent, underserving deaths, Emilia and her unknowing betrayal, Bianca and her possessiveness, Cassio with his rampant inebriation and of course Brabantio and his jealous streak. Without these characters there could be no great tragedy of Othello, while they might not be the main characters they do after all provide an essential part in the overall tragedy in Othello

[khalilhumam]

Report into Australian special forces war crimes in Afghanistan ‘gut-wrenching’

New Post has been published on http://khalilhumam.com/report-into-australian-special-forces-war-crimes-in-afghanistan-gut-wrenching/

Report into Australian special forces war crimes in Afghanistan ‘gut-wrenching’

Twenty-five defence force personnel face charges over thirty-nine killings

Screenshot: Australian Broadcasting Corporation Four Corners video 16 March 2020 ‘Killing Field’

A report published on November 19 into alleged war crimes by special forces in Afghanistan has stunned Australians. Australia has had troops in Afghanistan since 2001 as part of the International Security Assistance Force. Combat troops were withdrawn in December 2013, with 400 trainers and advisers remaining till today. Despite media stories and widespread rumours of troop misconduct, the Afghanistan Inquiry report has been described as a horrific bombshell. The inquiry was conducted by Paul Brereton, a judge and Army reserve Major General. The independent investigation, commissioned by the Inspector-General of the Australian Defence Force (ADF), reviewed over 20,000 documents and 25,000 images and interviewed 423 witnesses. “57 incidents and issues of interest” were examined in detail. The investigation followed a 2016 review of special forces culture by military sociologist Dr. Samantha Crompvoets. Crompvoet's investigation was commissioned by the ADF in 2015 after rumours of war crimes circulated in the special forces community. She found that there was, “illegal application of violence on operations, disregard for human life and dignity, and the perception of a complete lack of accountability at times.” The review has a comprehensive list of media reports about special operations overseas from 2000 to 2015 but was finished before the sensational 2017 Afghan Files revelations mentioned below. Her review did not document specific incidents. Media stories helped to inform the Brereton investigations but are not specifically detailed in its report. Guardian Australia reporter Paul Daley summarised the background and findings of the recent report:

For more than four years, the Maj Gen Justice Paul Brereton has investigated allegations that a small group within the elite Special Air Services [SAS] and commandos regiments killed and brutalised Afghan civilians, in some cases allegedly slitting throats, gloating about their actions, keeping kill counts, and photographing bodies with planted phones and weapons to justify their actions.

Among the findings of the Brereton report are the following:

39 Afghans were killed and 2 others treated cruelly between 2009 and 2013. 25 current or former ADF personnel are implicated in one or more of the 23 incidents identified.

The killings did not happen ‘under pressure in heat of battle’.

Junior soldiers were required by patrol commanders to shoot a prisoner for ‘their first kill’, a practice called ‘blooding. The commanders were usually senior NCOs (non-commissioned officers).

So-called ‘throwdown’ weapons were carried by Special Operations Task Group to be placed next to bodies to justify killings.

This screenshot is an example of the heavily-redacted nature of the report, with names and other details blacked out:

Screenshot: Brereton report extract (page 73).

Incidents involving 19 individuals have been referred to the Australian Federal Police (AFP) for criminal investigation, which may result in murder charges. The report also explores the fostering of a ‘warrior hero culture’ as a contributing factor. An example of the toxic culture emerged in September 2020 when an Instagram account run by special forces soldiers, past and present, mocked war crimes allegations. Many Australians on social media were appalled at the time:

These soldiers DO NOT represent MY Australia. They make me sick. I want them OUT. Australian special forces Instagram account mocks war crime allegations, calls to ‘Make Diggers Violent Again’ https://t.co/OLWTkMBf1S — Oh for crying out loud! (legitimate blue tick) (@iabanon) September 3, 2020

The report has dominated social media. Afghan-Australian human rights lawyer Diana B. Sayed posted this statement on Twitter:

“We hope that this leads to justice and accountability for those impacted by these alleged war crimes and that this starts the process of healing for a country that has experienced a long and protracted history of war” #BreretonReport #AfghanFiles pic.twitter.com/49Kk2qJ3xF — Diana B. Sayed (@DsSayed) November 19, 2020

There has been ‘shock and anger’ in Afghanistan. Hani Marifat, CEO of the Afghanistan Independent Human Rights Commission, raised the implications for other nations:

Heinous violence such as war crime cannot be concealed forever, no matter how much efforts are made to do it, as the Australian case shows. That should be an important takeaway for other countries too. https://t.co/hmg0knUzuI — Hadi Marifat (@HMarifat) November 19, 2020

The Australian government’s intention to pay compensation to the families of victims in Afghanistan has been welcomed. However, not everyone accepts the report’s recommendations:

We sent our special forces to fight a a dirty war in Afghanistan and they adapted to that environment. Don't turn on the men who fought that war while the politicians and lawyers sat in their comfortable offices. Change the training if u like but don't blame the fighters #auspol — Jeffrey Davidson (@Tarnrider) November 12, 2020

The report found that ‘no evidence that there was knowledge of, or reckless indifference to, the commission of war crimes, on the part of commanders at troop/platoon, squadron/company or Task Group Headquarters level, let alone at higher levels such as Commander Joint Task Force 633, Joint Operations Command, or Australian Defence Headquarters.’ In an article on The Conversation, veteran journalist Michelle Grattan questioned how it was possible for those up the chain of command to not know.

If senior officers did not pick up gossip and whispers, surely they should have been enough aware of the broad special forces culture to know that extensive checks should be in place to guard against the ever-present threat of misconduct.

Former soldier Dr. Julian Fidge believes that the culture of military leadership has led to a lack of accountability at higher levels:

This is what happens when your leadership is poorly selected & poorly trained by officers who were also poorly selected & poorly trained. Our military leaders lack depth & quality, so much so that not one of them will resign. They do not accept blamehttps://t.co/AdYfT4npTX — Dr Julian Fidge (@JulianFidge) November 19, 2020

A potential consequence of the recent report concerns former SAS member Ben Roberts-Smith, a recipient of Australia’s highest military honour the Victoria Cross. The Court has directed him to hand over documents from the Brereton inquiry. The documents may reveal whether he is implicated as a suspect. His old SAS squadron is to be disbanded as a result of the recent report. Roberts-Smith is currently suing newspapers for defamation.

Whistleblowers and the media

Between 2014 and 2015, Australian Army lawyer David McBride leaked information on war crimes in Afghanistan to the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC). A criminal prosecution against McBride is still proceeding. There are many people calling for the charges to be dropped:

“It was whistleblowers like McBride… who made the Brereton report possible by refusing to be intimidated into silence…They do not deserve jail cells.” @xenophondavis #Afghanistan #WarCrimes | If moral courage matters, this whistleblower needs defending https://t.co/xzuU8ksN0P — Australian Centre for International Justice (@theACIJ) November 17, 2020

However, Federal prosecutors are not proceeding with charges against ABC journalist Dan Oakes as it was not in the public interest. Oakes helped expose secret defence force documents leaked to the ABC in 2017 (also known as the Afghan Files), he was also one of the journalists at the centre of an Australian Federal Police raid on the ABC in June 2019. The chief of the ADF, Angus Campbell, has been accused of hypocrisy:

While Angus Campbell says people should “speak up” if they witness war crimes, he hasn't addressed the treatment of whistleblowers such as David McBride, nor journalists like Dan Oakes who tried to reveal the truth about what Australian troops did in Afghanistan — Maddison Connaughton (@madconnaughton) November 19, 2020

Colin Hocking blames the Federal police and Prime Minister Scott Minister for the pursuit of the media:

Today @AusFedPolice & @ScottMorrisonMP should hang their heads in shame for raids on @abcnews – & the AFP wanting to fingerprint Dan Oakes & Sam Clark, ABC journalists who produced stories on activities of Australian special forces soldiers in Afghanistan. https://t.co/1VUPheQiYG — Colin Hocking (@hocking_c) November 19, 2020

On the broader front, the ramifications of these disturbing events will be playing out for years to come, especially criminal charges.

Written by Kevin Rennie