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cinaja · 3 years

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Before the Wall part 50

Masterlist

Tw: torture and wanting to die (is that a trigger?) in scene 7

----

On the second morning after Jurian’s capture, Drakon sits perched on the roof of the highest tower of the fort guarding the Callian Pass and watches the sunrise. Far below, the Black Land’s army is stirring, as if the first beams of the sun awaken them. From up here, they look small as ants and not at all dangerous.

With a sigh, Drakon turns back to the papers he brought along. It’s a proposal for the council he is supposed to be working on, but he can’t get himself to focus. In the two hours he spent working on it that night, all he managed to create is a mess of scribbled out sentences. He came up here hoping the fresh air might help, but his mind is still blank. With Jurian captured, likely being tortured, and Miryam still unconscious, political proposals are the furthest thing from his mind.

Down below, a door cracks open. Glad for the excuse to pause his work, Drakon puts down his papers and climbs down the roof, wings flared wide for balance. He peeks over the edge of the roof and finds Helion standing on the battlements below.

“Good morning,” he calls down to him.

“Morning,” Helion replies.

He grabs the edge of the roof and pulls himself upwards. Unsteadily, he rises to his feet.

“Do you need help?” Drakon asks, glancing down to the plunge waiting below.

Helion offers him a wide smile. “Thank you, but I can climb a roof on my own.”

Still, Drakon stays close as Helion climbs up the roof towards the top where Drakon was sitting. It is a very long way to the ground, and the unfortunate thing about people without wings is that they actually tend to hit the ground when they fall off things. Fortunately, Helion manages to get to the top of the roof without incident.

Drakon sits back down, pointing Helion to the seat next to him. Helion sits down quickly. (If Drakon didn’t know better, he’d say the Heir of Day looks a little shaken.) Carefully, he leans forward and peers down.

“Nice view,” he says. “Maybe I should have come up here sooner.”

“How come you’re doing it now?” Drakon asks.

“You spend lots of time up here,” Helion says. “I thought I’d see what’s so special about this place.”

Drakon doesn’t know what to say to that. He really does go to the roof a lot – did during his first stay here, too – but that’s mainly because it’s one of the only places in the entire castle where he can find some quiet and get away from the suffocating castle walls for a bit.

Helion continues speaking before he can think of something to say. “Besides, I’ve spent most of the night trying to reinforce the wards and needed a break. And this is the last opportunity we might get for some peace and quiet in a while.”

“You think Artax will attack soon?” Drakon asks.

Helion nods. “It would surprise me if he waited. They say a storm will hit here in a few days, which would tie him to his camp for a week at least, and his soldiers would be wet and miserable in their camp while we are safe in our castle.”

“And will those wards of yours last until the storm hits?” Drakon asks.

“No.” The reply is simple, without any of Helion’s usual flourish.

Drakon nods and looks back down at the enemy army. Behind them, the pass is still empty. “Now would be a really convenient time for those reinforcements we were promised to finally arrive,” he says.

Where are those soldiers, anyways? When he got sent to the Callian Pass, they were told they’d only need to hold it for a few days before reinforcements would arrive and ambush Artax’s army from behind. Now, it’s already been two weeks and as far as Drakon knows, the reinforcements haven’t even reached the mountains yet.

“Is it just me, or is the Alliance making more mistakes lately than a few years ago?” He asks.

Helion is silent for a moment. Finally, he says, “I’m not sure if they are mistakes.”

“Well, I hardly think they are messing up on purpose,” Drakon says drily.

Helion sighs. “Hypothetically speaking,” he says, “if I was married to the current leader of the Alliance, and noticed that suddenly, me, her and the people close to us keep ending up in dangerous situations and the Alliance doesn’t seem interested in helping, I would probably suspect a pattern. And I might ask my entirely hypothetical wife if she made any enemies amongst her supposed allies lately.”

“You think…” Drakon cuts himself off, then starts again. “You think the Alliance is purposefully doing this? As an attack against Miryam?”

“Well, either her, Jurian or you. But honestly, Miryam is the only one out of the three of you who might have ended up in trouble of that scale, and it does fit in with the current political climate.”

Drakon shakes his head. “No,” he says. “They are our allies, they wouldn’t… It would be honourless.”

“Well, with the war now close to being won and the leadership for the time afterwards still undecided, I imagine many people have bigger concerns than their honour.”

Drakon stares down into the pass below and doesn’t reply. This isn’t just about honour. There are simply certain universal rules in Continental politics that are to be followed under all circumstances, one of them being that you don’t betray your allies. Those rules don’t exist on Prythian, though, so maybe Helion simply isn’t aware of how deeply those rules are ingrained into Continental politics.

“Think about it,” Helion says. “The Continent always had one country – one person – at the top, Ravenia’s family being the last. But I assume I don’t need to tell you that, considering that your family was the first one to hold the position.”

Drakon averts his eyes. It has been many millennia since Erithia held the position the Black Land now holds, around time the Mother vanished, and Drakon always finds it awkward to be reminded of it. To make matters worse, such conversations often tend to move to the topic of how close his ancestors were to the Mother (a part of Fae mythology that seems to fascinate quite a few people), and that is uncomfortably close to the subject of Cretea.

“And you know that the next person to take the position will be someone from high up in the Alliance,” Helion continues. “Meaning Shey, Zeku or Miryam.”

Drakon nearly falls off the roof, only barely managing to flare his wings in time. “What?”

“Well, Miryam is the leader of the Alliance, so she is the likely choice. I imagine many Fae would prefer Shey, but I’d still bet on Miryam – and Zeku won’t have a chance as long as she is in the running.”

Drakon doesn’t reply. Mainly because replying would mean having to admit that he hadn’t considered this at all, and he isn’t eager to humiliate himself further. He knew that there would be some new head of the Continent after Ravenia, of course. He just hadn’t put much thought into who it would be yet – not when the war and the treaty they still need to agree on are so much more pressing. Either way, he certainly hadn’t considered that Miryam might be in the running for the position. He doesn’t doubt that she could, but he never got the impression that she had an interest in a permanent leading position on the Continent. At the very least, he assumes she would have told him if she had changed her mind.

She would have told him. She would have told him for sure.

“Your Highness!” A voice calls from down below, interrupting his thoughts.

“Coming!” Drakon calls back. He jumps to his feet, easily balancing on top of the roof. He turns to Helion. “Can you get down on your own?”

“Sure,” he replies, although his brow furrows as he glances down.

Drakon takes the quick way down. He jumps forward, wings flared wide, and glides downwards in a half circle. He lands on the balustrade of the tower’s highest ring walk, directly across from a young servant.

“What is it?” He asks, jumping down from the balustrade.

“Your Highness.” The man bows quickly. “I have been sent to inform you that Princess Miryam is awake.”

----

“I’m fine,” Miryam insists. She is sitting upright in bed. If she had her way, she would already be up, but the healers she talked to insisted she ought to rest some more, and since Miryam knows first-hand how annoying patients who disregard medical advice can be, she does as she’s been told. “All the internal bleeding is healed. I’m just a little sore.”

“And you aren’t in pain?” Drakon asks. He sits on the edge of her bed, wings tugged in to his body, and is fiddling around with the corner of her blanket.

Miryam is about to shake her head, but then, she remembers their rule about not lying to each other. “Just a little,” she says.

Drakon nods. “I’m…” He winces slightly, then looks up at her. “I wanted to do something,” he says. “But my army was stuck here, and the council wouldn’t act, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t figure out a way to get you out.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Miryam sits up straighter and reaches for his hand. “Drakon, I spent the entire day of Amarantha’s ultimatum desperately hoping that you would not be stupid enough to come save me.”

“I knew,” Drakon says. “And I knew you wouldn’t have wanted me to, and that it would have been wrong, but still…”

Miryam understands all too well. In his position, she would have made the same choices he did – and she would have felt just as guilty about it. “I would have considered it disrespectful for you to go against my wishes, even if it was to save my life,” she says, hoping it will ease some of his guilt. “I know that most people likely wouldn’t agree, but I consider it to be a far bigger show of love to honour someone’s wishes no matter what those might be than to save them no matter the cost.”

She isn’t entirely sure how to explain it to him, but in her mind, it is one of the most romantic things Drakon could have done. Having her partner show to her that he will respect her wishes – and that he won’t simply give up his morals the moment it’s convenient – is worth indefinitely more than anything else.

Drakon seems reassured. At least a bit. “I would have come along to recue you,” he says, “but I only heard about the plan after Sinna was already gone.”

Miryam frowns. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Her plan involved using Rhysand and his army as a diversion and allowing them to get captured,” Drakon says tightly. “She wanted to spare me that choice. But we already talked about it, and I don’t think she will do it again.”

Miryam’s frown deepens. For a General to lie to their country’s ruler is not good. Usually, it means that the power dynamics in the country are deeply off, and while Miryam doesn’t believe Sinna would actually threaten Drakon’s position, that’s what it will look like should news ever get out. She’ll have to figure out a way to keep that from becoming public. And she will have to coordinate with Drakon’s political advisors on how they want to frame Rhysand’s involvement in her rescue. It will probably be best for all involved to pretend he knew of Sinna’s plan. Only then does Miryam realizes the second part of what Drakon is saying.

“What happened to Rhys?” she asks.

“He got captured. His army with him.”

Miryam curses. She may not be very fond of the Illyrians, but that doesn’t mean she wants them to die, least of all for her. What was Rhys thinking, sacrificing his army like that? And why did Sinna ever play along with it?

A part of Miryam wants to confront her about it. But she did save her life, even if Miryam doesn’t approve of the methods. Besides, Drakon told her he talked to Sinna and the problem was dealt with, so if she still goes and talks to Sinna, that doesn’t really make her better at all.

Miryam sighs. “At least tell me Jurian is fine,” she says. The look on Drakon’s face makes her hopes plummet. “What happened?” She asks in a voice that sounds far too high in her own ears.

She listens in silence as Drakon explains. With each word he says, the knot in her stomach tightens further.

Going to Tehne without speaking to Jurian first was a mistake. She should have done something. Anything.

She can’t let him die.

Miryam swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Slowly, she stands up. In spite of moving purposefully slowly, her head immediately starts spinning and sharp pain shoots through her stomach. Drakon jumps to his feet and holds out an arm for her to hold on to, which she gratefully accepts.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I’m going to Telique. To get the council to send troops to free Jurian.”

Two days. That’s how long Amarantha had him in her power. Miryam forbids herself from thinking about what she likely did to him. First get Jurian out of this alive, then worry about what was done to him in the past days.

“They might not listen,” Drakon warns. “Andromache and I couldn’t figure out what it is, but something strange is going on there.”

Miryam nods. The council should have sent troops already. Surely Andromache and the other humans would have pushed for it, why didn’t the council oblige them? Things must be going badly indeed if the Fae refused to help them. Damnit, what is the council up to now? She was gone for just over a week. Things can’t have gone south this quickly.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, mostly to herself, then adds, “I will make them listen.” She doesn’t care if they don’t want to, doesn’t care about their stupid power games. She will make them save Jurian, and the Cauldron have mercy on anyone who dares stand in her way.

Drakon nods. “I can’t come with you. There might be another attack at any moment.”

“Sure.” Miryam is barely listening, her mind already on how to force the council to send troops. She looks down at herself and realizes that she is wearing a long nightgown. Hardly appropriate for a council meeting. “I need clothes,” she says. “Do you have a dress I can use anywhere?”

----

It has been a week since Rhys got captured. A week, and yet, no one seems to care. Andromache, Drakon and all these people on the council are concerned with a thousand different things – Jurian and Miryam and their eternal internal struggles – but none of them seem to care the slightest bit about what happens to Rhys.

Mor tried asking around. After over six years as emissary, she knows quite a few people on the Continent, and she tried to use these connections now. To no avail. Most of the emissaries and minor (or sometimes major) royals she knows offered their condolences when she told them about her cousin being captured, but none of them seemed inclined to help. On the contrary, the general consensus seems to be that it’s Rhys’s own fault for disobeying orders.

She tried to talk to Andromache and Drakon, but that didn’t work, either. She only managed to catch Drakon in between meetings once, and he barely managed to look at her when she mentioned Rhys. Maybe he feels guilty because Rhys got captured while trying to free Miryam. He likely couldn’t help, anyways, with his army still stuck at the Callian Pass. Mor had more hopes for Andromache, but unfortunately, those also got disappointed.

She can’t blame Andromache, not really. With Miryam gone, she is basically the one in charge of the Alliance and Mor knows that she hates the position. Besides, there are some political tensions going on, forcing her to spend most of her time stuck in meetings she can’t tell Mor about, and she likely has more important things to consider than her partner’s cousin.

Still, the fact remains that Mor can’t just let Rhysand die. She needs someone to save him, and since all of her new friends refuse to help, there is only one person left to turn to.

So the tenth day after Rhys’s capture finds Mor walking through the entrance hall of the Hewn City. A few of the nobles she passes scowl at her, some of them whisper, but Mor ignores the stares. This place still makes her skin crawl, but sometime in the past years, it stopped making her feel like a caged animal, stopped scaring her so much she wants to disappear. These people can’t do anything to her, none of them can. They scoff and whisper because that’s the worst they can do to her. And the best punishment Mor can think of is to not give them the time of the day.

She stops in front of her uncle’s office and knocks. After a moment, he calls for her to enter. Mor slips into the office and courtesies. (Only after a moment does she realize that the courtesy she did was a Continental one. When did the Continental customs start coming so natural to her?)

“Uncle,” she says.

He rises from where he was sitting behind his desk and holds out his arms to embrace her. “Morrigan,” he says. “It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

“Well, thank you,” Mor says, embracing him briefly. He seems to be in a pleasant mood today, which only suits her goals.

“What can I do for you?” He asks.

“I’m here about Rhysand.”

Her uncle sighs as he sits back down on his chair. “Morrigan,” he says. “I thought I already made it clear that I will not expend forces to get my idiot of a son out of a mess of his own making.”

“I know,” Mor says, “and I understand.”

She absolutely does not, but it seems smarter to pretend to agree with him for the moment. Miryam is always pleasant to people she doesn’t actually like all that much, and it often gets her what she wants, so maybe Mor should try the strategy.

“But most of the Continental leaders do not,” she adds. “They see it as a sign of weakness.”

Her uncle straightens. “Weakness?” He asks. His voice turns into a low rumble and his power flares, sending a shiver down Mor’s spine.

“He is your heir,” Mor says, “so it is expected that you want him alive. That you still do not free him even though part of your army is stationed close to Amarantha’s current position and not needed anywhere else is interpreted as you being unable to free him. Most people think that you are either scared of Amarantha, or don’t have the necessary forces to attack her. Either way, it does not make you look good.”

The High Lord watches her in silence for a moment, dark eyes narrowed slightly. He likely suspects that she is trying to play him – he is too smart not to – but fortunately for Mor, she is largely telling the truth. She is exaggerating the extend of the rumours, yes, but they do exist. This is important, because it means he won’t be able to catch her in a lie should he decide to confirm her information with his spies.

Fortunately for her, her uncle’s main focus seems to be on something else entirely, though. “Scared?” He asks. “Me, scared of that mediocre Hybern general?” He snorts.

Mor shrugs. “It’s just the newest rumour. I don’t know how much stock people will put in it.”

Actually, most leaders on the Continent don’t really care. Mor isn’t even sure if they know Rhysand’s name. It would be different if the Night Court was a Continental territory, but with them being from Prythian, most of the Continental leaders barely bother to pay attention to what they do on a good day, much less in such tense times. But fortunately, her uncle is too arrogant to ever fully realize how little most people on the Continent actually care about Prythian.

“Scared,” he scoffs, apparently still too caught up on it to notice what she is saying. “I’ll show these arrogant peacocks how scared I am.” He rises and brushes past Mor towards the door. “Tell the council I want a meeting,” he says. “Tell them I’ll take a legion of my soldiers and solve this problem with Amarantha. Permanently.”

----

Getting out of the Callian Pass turns out to be more of a challenge than Miryam expected. While Drakon sets off to find her something to wear, Miryam ends up stuck trying to convince her healers that she isn’t about to kneel over dead. After a few minutes of argument, she finally manages to convince them to let her go, although she has to promise not to do anything physically or magically straining.

Then, it turns out court dresses are in short supply in a castle under siege, which Miryam should probably have figured out on her own. Drakon offers to have someone winnow to Erithia and get her some appropriate clothes, but that would mean another delay and Miryam isn’t willing to wait a moment longer.

Instead of a proper court dress, she opts for a light leather armour with Erithia’s seal stitched to the front. She ties her hair back in a tight braid and straps two daggers to her side. The outfit is far more warrior-like than her usual clothes, but it isn’t exactly unfitting considering that they are at war. At the very least, it will set the mood for whichever meeting she is about to have.

Drakon ends up having to help her get dressed, since she has trouble bending over. They are just finished when Drakon gets called away to the battlements. He kisses Miryam and wishes her good luck before hurrying off, lingering briefly in the doorway as if hesitant to leave. Miryam thinks he might say something, but then, he gives her a brief smile and hurries off.

Miryam turns in the other direction, walking towards the courtyard where she has been told guards will be waiting for her. Soldiers and servants stare at her as she walks past, and Miryam makes herself offer smiles and nods to them. (When she gets back, she will have to take time to talk to them. She is Princess now, she has to act like it.)

“Miryam!”

She doesn’t stop walking, but she slows down enough to allow Sinna to catch up with her. Dressed in her usual armour and standing a head taller than Miryam, the general looks imposing as usual.

“I didn’t thank you yet,” Miryam says. “For rescuing me.”

Sinna waves her off. “You found a way to get Drakon out of that engagement,” she says. “Besides, Nephelle and Drakon like you. They would have been upset if you died.”

Miryam shakes her head, smiling slightly. Of course Sinna would risk her life by breaking into an impenetrable fort to keep Drakon and Nephelle from being upset. Miryam has never met anyone as singularly dedicated to a small group of people as the general. It is a worldview that’s completely different to Miryam’s own, and she can’t claim she always agrees with it, but for the most part, she respects it, and certainly respects Sinna. (Her choice to keep information from Drakon is something Miryam respects far less, although she can’t claim she doesn’t understand the reasoning behind it.)

“Still,” she says, “thank you.”

Sinna shrugs. “Anyways, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

They pass a small group of soldiers who all bow. To her, Miryam realizes after a moment of confusion. Being royal will take some getting used to.

“Two things,” Sinna continues. “One: I want you to take guards. Until we find time to put together a guard detail for you, you will be accompanied by some of Drakon’s personal guards.”

“I don’t need guards,” Miryam says. It’s not that she dislikes Drakon’s guards – the ones she talked to were all very pleasant, and she knows Drakon considers them to be friends – but she doesn’t enjoy the thought of being followed around at all times. She doesn’t want to be constantly watched.

“Yes, you do,” Sinna shoots back. “Or did you enjoy being taken hostage so much that you want it to happen again? Be assured that next time, I won’t save your ass.”

Miryam frowns. Loathe as she is to admit it, but Sinna has a point. All royals have guards, and if she is being honest, she should have gotten some long before she married Drakon. Besides, she doesn’t want to push back against her too much. Sinna has been a member of the Erithian royal court for centuries, Miryam only married into it a week ago. And if she isn’t mistaken, Sinna still isn’t entirely convinced that she isn’t some kind of threat to her charges.

“Four guards,” she says. “And only for diplomatic missions and the like.”

“Eight,” Sinna counters.

Now, this leaves Miryam in a difficult spot. She really wants Sinna and her to get along, and the last thing she’s interested in is starting a fight, but she also realizes that this is their first disagreement with Miryam as Princess, and how she reacts is important. The last thing she wants is to establish herself as a push-over.

“Four,” she repeats firmly.

Sinna gives her a hard stare. Miryam stares right back, even though she actually does not have the time to argue around. But she guesses this needs to be established, and she might as well do it now.

After a moment, Sinna nods sharply and walks on. “Fine,” she says. “Four guards, then.”

Miryam walks on past her. Her ribs are beginning to hurt again, but she ignores it. She figures she doesn’t need to consult a healer given that she is a healer.

“And the second thing?” She asks.

“I realize that you’ve had a busy couple of days,” Sinna says. “So I understand if you haven’t gotten the opportunity to think some things through. But when you find the time, you might want to think about how you want to adjust your list of priorities to the fact that you are now Princess of Erithia.”

Miryam only barely manages to keep from flinching. Sinna’s tone wasn’t scolding, but Miryam can’t help the feeling that she’d deserve to be scolded. A battle might break out at any moment, Drakon mentioned as much, and she is leaving the castle instead of staying behind to help. To make matters worse, she didn’t even consider that she might be expected to stay, because… well, probably because she hadn’t quite realized that these are her people now.

“This needn’t come out as your first priority,” Sinna says. “I am well aware that you are leader of the Alliance, and that your main concern will always be the humans in the Black Land. But it would be easier for everyone involved if you made clear where Erithia falls in all that, and what role you want to play as its Princess.”

Miryam nods silently. She should have considered that days ago already. Before she married Drakon, if she’s being honest. But in the entire chaos of her marriage, the matter with Jurian and the Alliance apparently contemplating her death, not to mention her kidnapping, it slipped her mind. Besides, it’s not like this is an easy problem to solve. How is she going to fit the responsibility of being Princess in with being leader of the Alliance – which demands a certain amount of neutrality – and her vow to free her people?

She knows for sure that she shouldn’t leave this army that is now hers behind just before a battle. She also knows that she cannot bear to let Jurian die.

She only realizes that she stopped walking when Sinna stops next to her. “Well, I’m done,” she says and gives her a small smile. “Now go save Jurian and leave the battle to the rest of us.”

----

Andromedache sits at her desk and sorts through the paperwork she missed out on in the chaos of the last few days when the door suddenly blows open and Mor storms in. Her face is flushed with colour and her hair in disarray like she ran all the way.

“I did it!” She calls.

“Did what?” She asks, putting down her feather.

“I convinced my uncle to send troops to free Rhysand!” Mor says. She is all but bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement.

“You…” Andromache needs a moment to catch on. “He will lead an attack on Amarantha?” She asks.

“Yes!” Mor really is jumping up and down now. “He is going to dispatch his army. He will free Rhys.” She scrunches up her nose. “Well, and Jurian too, I guess. It will all be fine!”

Andromache simply stares at her for a moment. Then, she lets out a whoop and throws her arms around Mor. “You’re brilliant,” she whispers. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Mor pulls back and beams at her. “It wasn’t that difficult, actually,” she says. “He’s arrogant. As soon as I brought in his reputation, he did what I wanted.”

For the second time within a few minutes, the door to Andromache’s office blows open. Andromache lets go of Mor and spins around. “What –“ she begins, but pauses when she recognizes the woman standing in the doorway. “Miryam.”

Without waiting for her to say anything, she steps forward and throws her arms around Miryam. A moment later, Mor is there and joins the hug by wrapping her arms around both of them.

“Are you hurt?” She asks.

“No.” Miryam lets go of both of them and steps back. “And I’m really glad to see you both.”

Andromache takes a step back and surveys Miryam. She is wearing a light leather armour, her dark curls tied back in a simple braid. The look is untypical enough for her that Andromache simply watches her for a moment. She doesn’t think she has ever seen Miryam in armour. With her, it’s always either a simply tunic or a full court gown, the latter only for official functions.

Mor seems to be thinking roughly the same thing, because she grins at Miryam. “About to go to battle?”

“What?” Miryam looks down at herself, as if only now remembering her clothes. “Oh, no, that’s just…” She trails off, then turns to Andromache. “We need to find a way to get the council to order an attack on Amarantha and rescue Jurian. Can you arrange the meeting? Then I’ll talk to Zeku, see what’s the problem –“

“We already got troops,” Mor says.

Miryam blinks once, the only sign of her surprise. “You did?”

Andromache nods and wraps an arm around Mor. “She convinced her uncle to send his armies to recue Rhysand,” she says.

“The High Lord of the Night Court is going to attack Amarantha?” She asks. Her tone is nowhere near as pleased as Andromache thought it would be. “In a solo mission to free Rhysand? One not ordered by the council?”

“No, I…” Mor frowns. “The council was refusing to act, everyone was refusing to act. That’s why I went to Niall, because I knew he was the only one who might be persuaded to do anything. And you weren’t there.”

Andromache puts a hand on Miryam’s arm. She thinks she knows what her problem is. “He will save Jurian as well,” she says. “He wouldn’t dare to do anything to him.”

Miryam backs away a step. “No,” she says, shaking her head so wildly that her braid flies from one side to the other. “The High Lord of the Night Court never once cared about human lives, and he has been looking for a way to get back at me for years – if he leads this battle, do you truly think he will be concerned with getting Jurian out of this alive?” She looks from Andromedache to Mor. “Amarantha will kill him before she lets him go. And High Lord Niall will let her, and since this isn’t ordered by the council, no one will be there to stop him.”

With wide eyes, Andromache turns to Mor. She looks as horrified as she feels. Miryam doesn’t give either of them the chance to say anything. She spins around and makes for the door.

“Where are you going?” Andromedache asks, stopping her just as she reached the door.

Miryam turns, hand already on the door handle. “To make sure the High Lord does as he’s supposed to and saves Jurian.”

----

“Now?” Drakon asks. “They are attacking now?”

“Do you expect an answer to that question?” Sinna asks drily.

Drakon shakes his head. He can see the approaching army easily enough himself. Slowly, Artax’s army is creeping towards them. The entire army. This isn’t just some small attack to test their defences, not a mere skirmish, this is the entire battle.

“Just another few hours,” Drakon mutters. “We would only have needed another few hours, damnit.”

He knew it was a risk not to say anything to Miryam. Knew that the smarter thing to do would have been to explain that Artax is standing in front of his gates with an army and that she is needed here to help fend him off. It might even have been enough to make her stay. But Drakon couldn’t ask this of her, couldn’t ask her to let Jurian die. Couldn’t choose to let Jurian die. He needed to at least give Miryam a chance to save him. Why couldn’t Artax wait at least one more hour before attacking?

Steps sound, and Helion joins them on the battlements. “Unpleasant sight, right?” He asks with a lightness that doesn’t manage to conceal the tightness on his face. “Where’s Miryam? I heard she was awake.”

“She’s in Telique,” Drakon says. “Trying to make sure the council saves Jurian.”

Slowly, Helion turns around to him. “And I assume you have sent someone to get her?” He asks.

Drakon shakes his head. Miryam only left half an hour ago. If only they can give her another hour or so, she might figure out a way to save Jurian. The wards would just need to hold long enough.

“Drakon,” Helion says, “I cannot stress enough how much I don’t stand a chance against Artax. We need Miryam here right now, or Jurian’s fate will be your smallest problem.”

----

The pain never ends. Day and night, hours and minutes, all of it blurs together to one never ending nightmare. Jurian screamed and screamed, but his voice has long since turned hoarse, then died entirely. His throat is sore and feels bloody, but the pain is nothing compared to the agony wrecking the rest of his body.

They strapped him to a table somewhere in Amarantha’s camp. Jurian tries to console himself that this way, he can at least look up at the sky through his one remaining eye. The sky, he decides, will be the last thing he sees before dying.

If only death would come to claim him soon. For all these years, Jurian walked side by side with death – he long since stopped fearing it. But now that he needs it, it seems death has decided to abandon him and refuse him the release from torture.

Amarantha’s face appears in his line of vision, blocking out his view of the sky. Jurian tries to turn his hand to look away from her, but she grips his head and forces him to look up at her.

“You hear that?” Amarantha asks.

At first, Jurian doesn’t know what she is talking about. He merely blinks up at her as his fuzzy mind tries to sort through what she is saying. After a moment, he finally registers that the screaming in the distance has a different quality now, and is accompanied by crashes and thumps. A battle, he thinks numbly.

“Looks like your friends are here to rescue you,” Amarantha says. “Too bad they will find nothing but your corpse.”

So it ends now, Jurian thinks. She will finally kill me. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he might have smiled. All that matters is that the pain will stop and he will finally be allowed some peace. If dying does that, it can’t be so bad, can it?

“I’m facing a bit of a dilemma, you see,” Amarantha says. “After all, my sister informs me that you can’t be killed, and tempting fate by trying to kill you seems stupid. So I had to get a little creative.” Her mouth twists into a cruel smile. “I think you’ll like what I came up with.”

Even through the pain, those words – that smile – catch his attention. He knows that tone, knows the look on Amarantha’s face. It’s how she always acts before she does something that will make her usual torture pale in comparison. And she just told him she wouldn’t kill him. The one escape he still has left, and she wants to deny him even that.

“You might want to brace yourself,” Amarantha says, and then, she begins speaking.

Jurian doesn’t understand the words she speaks, doesn’t know the language. (Had he been less in pain, he would have recognized it from hearing Miryam speak it on occasion.) The first word sends a jolt through Jurian’s body. Pain spreads from his chest, burning through him. He tries to focus on the sky, but Amarantha leans down over him, blocking his view. It’s like he is being torn apart. No, not torn apart – it’s like he is being torn out of his body.

He can’t feel his body anymore, can’t feel his arms and legs. The pain doesn’t come from his body, it’s like his very essence is on fire and he is burning up. Time loses all meaning, all that exists is the pain flaring through him. Then, the world around him turns mercifully dark and he sinks into nothingness.

----

Miryam arrives too late. She knows the moment one of her guards winnows them all onto a hill above Amarantha’s camp and she sees that the battle is almost over. As far as she can tell from up here, the Night Court armies already broke through Amarantha’s defences and have swarmed most of the camp. If there is any notable resistance left, Miryam can’t make it out.

“Shit,” she mutters.

She notices she is clenching her fingers so hard that her nails are digging into her palms and forces her body to relax. A quick glance over the battlefield reveals that Niall set up his position by a rock formation a safe distance away from the battlefield. It seems he decided to stay out of the battle and merely survey from a safe distance.

“Should I take you over to the High Lord?” Kalirin, the captain of her temporary guard, asks.

“No.”

Miryam looks back to the battlefield below. If she goes to Niall first, she will be stuck in useless political games. It will take time she doesn’t have right now, not when the battle is already close to over, and Jurian…

(Deep down, Miryam knows that she is already too late, knows that Amarantha will likely have killed Jurian the moment she realized her soldiers were losing the battle, and that Niall would have had no protective measures in place to stop it. She knows, but she can’t bear to face it, desperately clings to the hope that through some miracle, Jurian will still be alive.)

“Take me straight to the battlefield, please,” Miryam says.

Kalirin gives her a curt nod, then puts a light hand on her arm and winnows them away. They reappear in the centre of the camp, a safe distance away from the last fights. The Illyiran soldiers nearby spin around to them, weapons drawn, but they lower them once they recognize Miryam. One by one, they sketch a symbol into the air.

Hesitantly, Kalirin lifts a hand and repeats the symbol back at them. It takes Miryam a moment to realize that he likely thinks it’s some kind of greeting and is attempting to be polite. If the situation was less serious, she might have smiles.

She leans in to him and whispers, “It’s a sign to ward off evil. They don’t like witches.”

“Oh.” Kalirin quickly lowers his hands. He frowns at the Illyrians, then glares.

Miryam’s attention is already on their surroundings. The Illyrians can scorn her all they like, all she cares about right now is finding Jurian. But where should she start looking? The camp is so big, and she has no idea where he might be.

After a moment of hesitation, she starts walking in the direction where the last of the fights are currently dying down. Amarantha would have been with Jurian when the camp was attacked, and she would have ordered her soldiers to rally around her, so by that logic, Miryam will find Jurian where the fighting was the thickest.

She starts walking, ignoring the Illyrian soldiers who jump aside in their haste to stay away from her. As she walks, she looks around, searching for hints for where Jurian might be, but the battle that just ended reduced the camp to a wasteland. Between the corpses, burnt-out wagons and camps, there is no way for her to tell where Amarantha might have been.

So she has to resort to old-fashioned searching. She peers into all tents that are still somewhat intact, occasionally pauses to inspect the corpses. But in the end, the first familiar face she finds doesn’t belong to Jurian. It takes Miryam a moment to recognize the Illyrian who is tied up between two trees, wooden stakes driven through his wings.

“Rhys,” she says, dropping to her knees in front of him.

His face is bloody and he is lying limply on the ground. The after-effects of a beating, as far as Miryam can tell, although he doesn’t seem to be too seriously injured. The worst are the ash spikes in his wings, but from Miryam’s (admittedly limited) knowledge about wings, the injuries should be healable.

“Miryam.” He lifts his head ever so slightly. “You…” He coughs and stops speaking.

Inside of Miryam, the part of her that feels guilty for Rhys’s capture and wants to help him fights a ferocious but brief battle with the part that is annoyed at the delay and wants nothing more than to keep looking for Jurian. The part that cares about Jurian wins.

“Do you know where Jurian is?” She asks. She realizes that this is rather cold, but it’s not like Rhys appears to be in immediate danger. He doesn’t need her, unlike Jurian, who might be dying for all she knows.

Rhys lifts a shaky hand and points behind Miryam.

She jumps to her feet. “Thank you.”

She almost runs off without another word – it’s what everything in her wants her to – but she can’t just leave Rhys here like this. After all, he did get captured because of her. She turns to her guards, suddenly glad that they are here.

“I want two of you to stay with him,” she says. “Get him to a healer as quickly as possible, and make sure he is taken care of.”

Her guards look inclined to object, likely because this order goes against whatever Sinna ordered them to do, but Miryam doesn’t give them the chance. Without waiting for a confirmation, she spins around and sets off.

Now, she does run, appearances be damned. Around her, Illyrian soldiers move out of the way, making signs to ward off evil as she runs past. Miryam ignores them all and wildly looks around the chaos for Jurian. But between the burning tents, upturned wagons and corpses, she can’t find him in spite of Rhysand’s vague directions.

Miryam stops. She looks around, then turns to the nearest soldier whose two siphons hint at him being some kind of commander. He flinches back from her and lifts his hands as if to ward her off.

“Where’s General Jurian?”

The man takes a step back. “Witch,” he hisses.

“Yes, that’s what I am,” Miryam says. “And I am not having the best day right now, so in your place, I would think long and hard about whether you want to make me repeat my question.”

The Illyrian merely scowls at her, but the soldier standing to his right inclines his head to her. “I think they brought his corpse to the tent over there.”

He points and says something else, but Miryam doesn’t hear him over the static in her ears. Her chest suddenly feels impossibly tight and the world seems to sway under her.

Somehow, her feet begin moving. Stiffly, Miryam walks towards the tent he pointed her towards. There is a guard standing at the entrance, but he takes one look at her before jumping aside to make space for her.

“Wait outside, please,” Miryam says to her guards.

She pushes open the tent’s entrance and steps inside. It is dark in the tent, the only light coming from the slit of the entrance, and it takes Miryam’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Slowly, the figure lying on the body comes into focus. Miryam steps forward, nearly stumbling over her feet.

The body lying on the ground before her is mutilated far beyond recognition. The face is a bloody mess, as is what is visible of the body. From what Miryam can tell, an eye is missing, as are several fingers.

This isn’t Jurian, she thinks numbly. It looks nothing like him. This is just… it’s just a broken, lifeless thing. Miryam cannot imagine Jurian any other way than alive. He has to be alive, this has to be a mistake. And yet, Miryam cannot deny what is right in front of her.

He is dead. Jurian is dead.

Miryam’s knees give out from under her and she drops to the ground next to his corpse.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed

#i know I said this chapter would be up more quickly and then it was Not #sorry about that #i ended up being a bit more busy than I had anticipated and didn't get around to finishing is sooner #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

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sheyshen · 4 years

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Fictober Day 10

Prompt: “All I ever wanted.” Fandom: WoW (world of warcraft) Rating: T Pairing: Human Mage/Varian Wrynn (sorta...)

"It's funny." Shey sighed. "All my life I've been alone. My parents handed me over to the Kirin Tor and wrote me off as dead, my sister doesn't even know I'm alive. My master…" she leaned back on the stone, resting her head on it and watching the sunset.

"You know what happened to him at Theramore." She hummed in thought. "Meeting you, fighting by your side all those years ago, it was the first time I felt like I was wanted for more than just my firepower.”

"There was that too obviously, I'm not stupid enough to think you would let a worthless mage accompany you for something so important as saving Anduin. But it felt like more than that, that you liked having me around, not for my magic, but for myself. With you I felt like I belonged somewhere." she closed her eyes for a moment. "That's all I ever wanted when I was growing up, a home, a family. That's what you and Anduin are for me." She let out a heavy breath.

"The war is… going. Anduin is doing well but it's hard. Hard on him, on Shaw, Genn, everyone. Sylvanas has disappeared, the Horde’s been trying to get back on their feet but it's been slow. I fear N'zoth distracted us for too long and something bad is going to happen soon."

She thunked her head lightly on the stone, "I just, wish you were here. Selfish of me, but when I was by your side it felt like I could take on the world. Arthas? Deathwing? Garrosh? Piece of cake because I knew things would turn out alright, that I had backup." She huffed, "now there're too many unknowns. Anduin is strong, I know that, but it's not the same. I look at him and still see that little boy I met when I first started adventuring. His armor doesn't suit him, it's too big, too heavy. A sword doesn't suit him. And I just wish there was something I could do to protect him from this, to alleviate at least some of the troubles he’s had to carry."

She paused watching a pair of guards march by. They nodded at her and left her alone.

“It’s getting colder already, Hallow’s End is next week and Anduin’s already preparing for the celebration. Turalyon keeps mentioning something he really wants to do this year for the masquerade, but I think he’s just trying to distract Alleria.” She chuckled. “Did I ever mention that Turalyon and Alleria are back? About a year after you….” She trailed off.

“Shaw’s planning a vacation of sorts. He gets a boyfriend and suddenly he’s ready to actually take a break for the first time since I’ve met him.” She grinned, “You know as well as I, he’s going to be working the whole time, but maybe Flynn’ll get him to relax a little.” She shifted, “You’d like Flynn, he’s a good guy, real happy go lucky. I worked with him a lot in Kul Tiras, one of the nicest guys I’ve met. Hard to believe he was a pirate.” She laughed a little at the last.

Watching the sun dip down below the battlements she continued, “We went to Kul Tiras because of Jaina… We’re not exactly on speaking terms still, but she’s been trying. Trying to mend fences, fix mistakes, reconnect with her mother and brothers. I can respect that at least. She hasn’t returned to the Kirin Tor from what I’ve noticed. I still go to Dalaran now and then, check on things, see if anyone’s heard anything from Khadgar. Still nothing, and I haven’t been able to find him in Karazhan either. Another reason I’m worried.”

“Lor’themar and I have been swapping information, no major details of course, but just enough to assure each other that neither of us plans on breaking the delicate peace that Saurfang died for. Did you know he writes? There was some scribbled poetry on one of the recent letters, I don’t think he meant for that to leave his desk, but it sounds like he’s found someone.” She smiled. “I’m hoping Anduin finds someone too, he’s been so focused on trying to be a good king and dealing with crisis after crisis that he rarely takes a moment for himself. He’s too young to be like that.”

“Wrathion stops by now and then, as does Taelia. She’s Bolvar’s daughter. She’s tough and is such a good person, you’d’ve liked her.”

“Shey?”

She glanced over as Anduin strode up to her, “Your majesty.”

“Visiting my father again?” He looked over the empty grave, a sadness in his eyes settling in quickly.

“Was giving him some updates.” She sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “Today is...”

“I know.” He looked like he wanted to say more, needed to say more.

“You should get back to the keep, it’s cold.” She cut him off.

He huffed a laugh and shook his head, “Says the woman who barely wears armor.”

“And yet my face isn’t the one that’s all red.” She teased cupping his face with her hands, earning another laugh. She glanced back at the grave, the leaves from the plants that made up much of the garden around it scattering in a breeze. Turning her attention back to Anduin she urged him to walk back the way he came, “Come on, let’s get you back before Genn sends the guards out looking for you again.”

#my writing #fictober20 #wow #world of warcraft #warcraft #varian wrynn #oc: shey wrynn #anduin wrynn

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turtlelover59 · 5 years

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Shey held up a drawing of Hank and dad Connor, smiling like a dork as she presented the scribble.

“Daddy! Me and Daddy 2 made you something!”

@softboysentbycyberlife @hankshmanderson

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renna-fyth · 2 years

Photo

Dear Journal, I am happy to report that…well…that I’m happy! My mission to Coerthas was a success and I now have the Soft in hand. But what’s more, I had a surprising, and incredibly good time with Shey. Our search for the Soft began at the Dragonhead aetheryte. Shey arrived in a dazzling, yet modest red ensemble that made me feel like my snow outfit was chosen and mandated by an over-protective parent. The two of us secured a rental for the absolute biggest chocobo that I have ever seen. Seriously, this thing looked like it had skipped every helping of gysahl it’s entire life and went straight to whatever Kyni’s diet is. With a dual saddle equipped, the pair of us climbed aboard and headed south for the village. The details I was given from the Alchemist Guild were slim to say the least. I was told that a professor of alchemy had a homestead in the village, and that he had worked 30+ years to find a cure for petrification. The prospect of such a cure was just too good to pass up, so I had always planned on making my way there someday. This village, as is with most reclusive settlements, did not have many occupants that seemed eager for conversation. If fact, I wonder if I had not spotted the sign on the Professor’s dwelling that I wouldn’t still be out in the snow today. Once inside I was surprised to see very little in the way of mixtures and tools and vials. If fact, there was so little storage of anything that it made me question if we had even found the right place. Thankfully a quirky man by the fire confirmed our destination to us and told us the Professor we were looking for was in his room. In life I’ve always been told that first impressions are very important. They’re a moment that you only get to have once, and they can be memorable forever for the best of things or the worst. The Professor…didn’t exactly give the best first impression. I will admit that I admire the zest for life the Professor still seemed to hold. But his…admiration of Shey and I…that I think I could have done without. The Professor was more than eager to help us with our quest. He scribbled down a basic list of three items onto parchment and handed them over. Seeing our immediate concern over the items listed, the Professor then snapped the parchment back, scribbled a few notes on the back, and handed it back: Front Ixali Pungent Punch 1x Claw of Vodoriga 1x Unblemished Ice Crystal Back -Ixali don’t like to share. Look away from the stronghold. And for goodness sake’s get the red barrel! Not the brown!! -Where the witches fall and winged beasts cannot take to the sky. -A cave of crystal lies to the southeast. Look to forward unto dawn. With our quest in hand, Shey and I departed for the first item, and the Ixali. I did my best not to show her my unease with the task and was almost thankful my shivering had started up again the moment we left the Professor’s home so my nerves would not betray me. I think Shey was feeling the same. Her arms, which were wrapped around my waist during our trek felt tighter on the way to the stronghold, though she never complained. The beastman’s settlement was beyond intimidating. In my haste I nearly rode us right up to the front gate, but mercifully paused when I remembered what the Professor had wrote. So, we spent the next hour searching away from the main camp. It was during this time that Shey discovered several caves, including one with a large, gaping maw. The weather inside the cave did not improve. An ever-present wind whipped and coiled around us, and the temperature permeated through layers of clothes, and made me wish we could just search from saddle. Towards the back of the tunnel the unmistakable sound of “large dangerous thing” loomed nearby. My pulse quickened as my eyes strained and struggled to compensate for the dark. And just as they did, we were greeted by the massive form of a winged beast mere yalms from us. Every ilm of me screamed to run and get out of there until I noticed something; the creature was pacing, not chasing - It seemed to be protecting something. Daring to go forward we edged in and saw various supplies piled up behind the creature. One of which being a red barrel! Shey and I devised a plan to distract the beast so we could roll the barrel to safety. As I have no talent for magicks, Shey stepped forward and raised up her staff. Light, pure and beautiful erupted from the end of Shey’s staff. My gaze winced, only for a moment, before the gravity, worry, and danger melted away as I found myself fixed upon Shey. Her skin shined as beautiful as a new-fallen snow. And her eyes were so focused, and I could just tell she was giving this her all to help me succeed. It was truly heart warming. Suddenly Shey’s voice snapped me from my trance, and together we got moving with the barrel up the hill. Outside I quickly untied a sled from the chocobo that the Professor sent with us to use. No sooner than I did, the creature roared out, and the chocobo bolted for home. With no time to think I pushed the barrel onto the sled, hopped on the front and pulled Shey onto me. We were off! Off in a flash nearly as fast as that bird. The falling snow burned as it panged against exposed skin and eyes. A rush of trees, trails, and hills zoomed as the two of clung to one another, hoping the ride would soon be over. Then without warning, the ground let out from beneath us, and we found ourselves blasting down an underground pass and crashed dangerously into a soft mound of drift snow. To my astonishment we were both ok. In fact I was so ok I very nearly shouted for joy and dug to retrieve the sled so we could do it again. Shey was snow covered and cold, and my thoughts quickly turned to a fire. But before we could, the sounds of flapping echoed in the chamber around us and we both knew we were not alone. Four or five creatures with long arms, wings that seemed just under-sized for their body, and clawed feet skirted about the cave floor. Shey stood at the ready with her staff in hand. There was something so calming, almost serene seeing her in this way. I don’t know why but I just knew that with her I would survive this. Without hesitation I sent my chakrams towards the nearest creature's head. The blows landed fast and hard against the beast's feet and I could tell something broke off to the floor. The creature howled and fled to the depths as we approached and happened upon what we were there for. It was a claw! The beast's claw. Where witches fall and winged beasts cannot take to the sky. This thing had to be from a Vodoriga! It may have come by chance, but I'll always take good fortune versus the latter when it comes to such things! With barrel and claw secured Shey and I climbed out from the chasm and returned to Dragonhead. There we were able to barter the rental guy into retrieving and delivering our barrel to the Professor, and re-renting us the same oversized chocobo as before. I nearly wanted to stop us for the day as the sun began to dip below the horizon, but I also didn't want it to end. Shey held tight to me once more as we took the path south and read over the final ingredient and clue. A cave of crystal. We had a direction and a time of day. The only thing now was to find the right passage. The weather was abysmal...and Shey and I struggled to keep going as we examined the cliff face for crystals, passes, or landmarks. We eventually rounded to a large tower with burning oil lamps and two grouches for guards. Both men were about as piggish as can be, and even refused us as we asked to step in for a moment to warm by the fire. As the two men bickered one of them made mention of a cavern out back we could use for the night. The crystal cave? Before I could turn to Shey to discuss our next move the chocobo bolted inside the tower and began all sorts of hellish warks as chaos ensued. The gate relocked, and there Shey and I stood stranded once more, and we decided it best to make for the cave out back. What a wonderous sight to behold, Journal. The cave, the ENTIRE CAVE was coated and forged of ice crystals. This was it! Shey and I ran over to the various juts and pillars, but each crystal seemed to be lacking something. None of them seemed to be unblemished. Remembering the last clue of dawn, I began to roll out the bedroll and blanket provided to us by the Professor. Inside there was tinder, and a flint and steel for us to start a small fire. Somehow it feels like the Professor knew exactly what we'd need each step of the way...Shey started the fire for us as I poured a large packaging of bubble chocolates into the kettle and set it on. I was grateful for the sound of the bubbling chocolate as Shey came near and climbed into the bedroll and blanket with me. Had it been any quieter I'm sure my heart would have failed me as she would no doubt have been able to hear my pulse bound. This nervous sort of excitement that had been building within me the whole day seemed to be boiling over. I'm attracted to this girl, Journal! I know it. Each accidental touch or purposeful lean sent my mind racing as to what to do or say. Was she feeling the same? I attempted to re-center myself enough to pour the boiling chocolate into a pair of canteens I had packed full of sugars and cream. The hot chocolate was soooooo good, Journal. Better than any I had had before as the warmth reached my toes, and the company I enjoyed it with warmed my heart. Shey and I began to play a silly campfire game of "I Never", or "Never Have I Ever" as she knew the game to be. As always, most of the questions started out innocent enough. But by the end, the questions felt more like we were probing for information. And possibly flirting? The game went on for so long we hardly noticed the dim sunlight seeping into the cave entrance, and frantically put on our boots to get back to work. The crystals themselves were now perfect Journal, as the the campfire had melted away any lingering frosty build up and muck. Many were now completely unblemished, and we were able to safely secure and stow one for transport. The last item! A surprising amount of sorrow filled me as I began to pack up the camp. I really REALLY needed this trip, and now with Shey...I just didn't want it to end. Outside the guards greeted us with surprise and wonder. They had managed to wrangle our chocobo, and offerred us it's reigns for our trip home. One last time I got to have Shey close as we rode for the Professor's house to complete our mission. Inside, the warmth of the fire was so good, and the hospitality of the man by it unchanged. The Professor was delighted as Shey and I enterred the room, along with the red barrel, claw, and crystal. The elderly man lept as if 20 years had been lifted away, and quickly began to work with the supplies. A large cannister of punch, the ice crystal floating within, and the claw? The Professor sipped the liquid up through the porous tube without a second's hesitation to wash it first. The journey, which was dangerous, terrifying, and nearly got us killed was for A DRINK!?! Before I could unleash my anger at the Professor he reminiced for his love Rachel, who he had sought to create the Soft for in the first place. The years returned to him as a heavy guilt seemed to settle back in place. The Soft was in the nightstand, and Shey retrieved it along with a small vial that we could hopefully use to reverse engineer it. The secret of the Soft was now lost to time, and the Professor provided us with very specific instructions on how to use the potion given. We thanked him for his work and kindness in helping us in our quest. With the potion in hand we finally headed for home. Back at the company house Shey and I provided Nora a recount of our trip. She held the Soft only for a moment before entrusting back with us, and advising us to get with Cindri on our find. The adventure was over, and my heart left me as Shey and Nora departed. Now, just the same as before, I am alone and left wondering with that same and awful question: "What's Next?" So here I sit, sorting out my feet, mind, and heart. My feet tell me I need to keep moving forward. I'm done being the bitter person that I've become. Tomorrow I'll speak with Kyni and get that straightened out and move on just as he did. My mind tells me I could be put to better use. Sure potions are helpful, but we have great healers like Shey and Cindri in the house. I need to stop running, and be brave like I was before in Golmore. And my heart...Shey. Our journey brought us close to one another and I'm anxious to see where that might lead. The tension between us, whether one-sided or equal, was unspoken. I have no clue how she feels, and that's what makes this so hard. I wonder if this is something we'll pursue, or if it'll never be given utterance in the first place. However it is, i'll never forget our trip together, nor the time Shey Valendria made me feel like the absolute most special person in the world. ~Nite

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lightbreatheslife-blog · 6 years

Text

Multiplicity

Originally published by Twiniversity.com. Follow the link or read below: https://www.twiniversity.com/2019/05/idea-of-twins/

We sit in firm, angular chairs in the grey-carpeted waiting room of Duke Fertility as smooth jazz wafts from speakers in the ceiling. My husband checks work email on his phone while I scribble updated contact information on a medical clipboard. My stomach is bloated and the top button on my jeans is jabbing into belly rolls I would generally rather pretend do not exist. My body is lethargic, heavy, the way it feels the morning after I’ve taken sleeping pills and the grogginess has yet to wear off. My mind, however, is alert, anxious, awaiting the next set of data to determine if our first pregnancy, at six weeks in, is still a go.

“Kathleen Straight,” the nurse calls, poking her head around a heavy wooden door to beckon us back to the land where dreams just might come true. I feel a bit like Dorothy being let in to see the Wizard--if Dorothy were bloated and nauseous and about to lose her lunch. We hop up and scuffle through the doorway, down a bright hallway shellacked with pictures of newborn babies with thank you notes taped beside. “Our little miracle! Thanks Duke Fertility!” I read quickly as the nurse ushers us into a darkened exam room. Two chest-height machines topped with computer screens flank a tissue-covered table, beside the table another chair.

“Here’s a robe—it opens in the front,” the nurse says. “Go ahead and take off everything but the robe and I’ll be back.”

Quite sure of our places, my husband settles into the chair while I change into the starched sheet with arm holes and lie on the exam table, crinkling the paper below as I adjust to get comfortable. The nurse reenters, confirms my date of birth while staring into the computer monitor, clicking the little mouse every few seconds with her index finger.

“Your numbers look great,” she says, “We are going to take a look and see if we can’t find a nice heartbeat.”

She squeezes what looks like a ballpark condiment bottle of clear goo onto a long grey wand with a chord that trails back to the machine beside her. Noticing my breathing is shallow, my heartbeat quick, I force a deep breath in and out and make a feeble attempt to relax my lower body as she inserts the machine wand up into my uterus.

Indiscriminate motions flash on a black and white screen as the nurse adjusts the wand, searching for life. The machine speakers emanate indistinguishable shushes and slurs, much like the sound of the old home videos my dad used to take (almost without fail) directly into the wind. This moment, with the screen like a black ocean and the white noise of a microphone searching for sound, this moment lasts forever. My breathing freezes somewhere halfway into an inhalation.

Shushshssh….shlurrrrr….shushshsh…schlurrrr.

“Wup, there’s a nice heartbeat!” the nurse finally says as she zeros in on a tiny black dot I never could have found in a million years amid an ocean of dark grey on the screen. “Let’s see if there’s another…”

And before we can exhale, before we can celebrate the first, the sound of a second heartbeat fills the room.

“Oh, there it is--twins! Let me just see if there are any more…”

In a split second upsurge, every conceivable emotion rockets its way from the bottom of my gut, through my heart and up into my head. Joy, fear, shock, trepidation, insecurity, wonder: all of them at once explode like a giant Fourth of July firework trapped in the space between my ears. My eyes fill with involuntary tears.

“What?! Twins!?” Justin exclaims, smiling, as the weight of tears in his eyes, too, gives way and trails down his cheeks.

We look at each other to ground ourselves, check in on a reality too surreal to grasp without each other’s witness. In this moment, we are mirrors reflecting back at one another the same kaleidoscope of emotions: we smile, eyes wide and watery, each shaking our heads to somehow let the news settle where it needs to in our brains before it can be classified as reality (much how that little disk plinks its way to its final category in the game of Plinko on The Price is Right).

“Twins?!” I finally say, ever late to the party when it comes to formulating words in the midst of intense emotions. “Twins?!…Twins.” My brain has found a tiny space. The news begins to settle in.

“Looks like your uterus dropped two eggs: see here, and here,” the nurse says as she somehow identifies two small dark spots amidst the sea of near blackness.

“Almost certainly fraternal. They’re di-di--each have their own sack and placenta--which is good, statistically lower risk…”

Nothing she is saying makes any sense to me except that there are two little lives with beating hearts growing deep inside my body.

My mind races to a conversation I had just two days earlier while walking with a friend. “What if you have twins?” she asked.

“Ha! Well, I know there’s a chance…I guess we’ll just have to figure it out, won’t we?!” I replied, laughing all the while as if there really was no chance, as if we’d never really have to (get to?) figure it out. “We did go to a prayer service a few months ago at our church and out of nowhere this lady says, ‘Lord, I feel like you’re asking me to pray for twins for this couple.’ So there’s that! Ha!” I say, again dismissing it all as the over-spiritualized fancy of a well-meaning cat lady who volunteers to pray at church and goes home to keep company with 15 felines and a basket full of crocheted cat sweaters.

We had a similar experience years back, after all, when that crazy Korean missionary had us over for dinner and prayed for Justin and me, newly dating and unsure of each other at the time, to get married. Obviously she was certifiably nuts. Except, I suppose, for the fact that in the end we did get married.

Now, sprawled on the crinkling paper of the exam table with a (seemingly magic) wand waving around my uterus, it appears that cat lady may have been on to something (or she just prays for every human to have a litter like her kitties). I rub my hand over my bloated belly and wonder how my 5’3, 115lb frame is going to grow and carry two little babies around for the next 8 months without constantly tipping over front-wise.

The nurse explains that our pregnancy is considered high risk and we will now need to pursue obstetric care through one of the established hospitals around Durham—UNC or Duke—as opposed to the zen birthing center I had my eye on (the one that lets you birth in pools of Alpine spring water blessed by the Dalai Lama while getting a henna tattoo and seaweed facial). I push aside a split second of disappointment to take in our new reality: a high risk pregnancy will mean bi-monthly doctor visits, frequent ultrasounds, and enough data about premature birth risks to make any expecting mom all but confine herself to a padded room for the duration of the pregnancy.

“Congratulations,” the nurse says, handing me a folder of photocopied pamphlets titled “What to expect when expecting multiples.”

Thoroughly checked and deemed “all systems go” by a medical team for which hearing two heartbeats is a happy but routine data point, we are dismissed until the next follow-up appointment. I squeeze myself gingerly back into my jeans--leaving the top button undone--and walk with a new sense of caution out into the parking lot. The blinding sun bounces off hot black asphalt as Justin and I attempt to wrap our heads around our burgeoning reality.

It takes several weeks before the news begins to settle into all the parts of my brain, seeping slowly into the far corners, as my body rounds into curves. My chest, my hips, my butt, my belly—all the parts of my athletic, linear figure (that just sounds so much better than flat and angular, doesn’t it?) begin to plump and push outward. It seems my body is determined to share the happy news of my pregnancy before my words can get to it. But this pregnancy is young and high risk and Justin and I agree that we’ll wait to share after the first trimester is safely behind us.

This agreement lasts about one day before I am confronted with the reality that I have no self control. I’m convinced I will actually explode like one of those gender-reveal balloons unless I can share our insane news with someone.

“So...how about I just tell my mom?” I say.

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“aaaand, Lashelle. …aaaaand Kristen and Shey? But that’s it,” I say.

“Okay. I’ll tell Micah,” Justin relents (secretly busting at the seams himself).

I think of a clever way to share with my mom—a texted picture of two buns in an oven. Well, a bun and a bagel to be precise: the grocery was low on buns. She doesn’t get it, thinks I’ve taken up baking.

I call to clarify. “We’re pregnant! With twins!”

My mom, now a 69-year-old widow and mother of four middle-aged adults, has waited years for grandkids. To her credit, she never nags or pulls the passive aggressive, “It must be so nice for all your friends’ moms to have grandkids already.” She hopes secretly, wordlessly, ready to pounce on all the baby clothes Target has to offer as soon as she’s given the word. With the news of not one but two grandkids on the way, my mom is at once thrilled and beyond mystified (and likely already in the car headed to Target).

“Where are you going to put them?” she says.

“Well…huh, I guess we’ll make the back office a nursery…”

“No, in your body! Where are you going to fit them?!”

That question is trickier than the back-office renovation. I’m not sure what to say. I have no idea where I’m going to “put them,” but I’ll do my damndest to stretch out a comfy little cubby somewhere between my neck and their eventual exit door.

There are so many questions--posed by others and myself--that I am suddenly fielding. How are you going to manage two babies at once? How will you breastfeed two? Is the fertility medicine behind the multiple pregnancy? Or is it simply (or not so simply) an act of God? Will I be put on bedrest? Can my body nurture and carry two babies to term? Sweet Jesus, will they make it? Will they both make it? Will I be a good mom? Will I ever sleep again? Where have these voluptuous breasts been all my life?

I do not have a single answer. I am in territory I have never in a million years imagined my life navigating. What I do know is multiple doctors told me I would have a difficult time getting pregnant. Multiple doctors offered multiple diagnoses—from polycystic ovarian syndrome to hypothalamic amenorrhea—as the reason I have not yet been pregnant and might not ever be. And now, seven years into our marriage, seven years of not knowing whether we would ever have the joy of welcoming a child into our family, I am pregnant—with not one, but two babies. I do not know how the story will play out, but I recognize the grace, the excessive giving of a Cosmic Mom who offers two funfetti smash cakes when I ask for a crust of bread.

“Lord, I feel like you’re asking me to pray for twins,” that cat lady prayed while Justin and I both resisted the urge to interrupt.

“Whoa, whoa. You’re off script, lady,” I wanted to say at the time. “That’s not what we asked you to pray for.”

It wasn’t. And I’m scared. But I’ve lived long enough to understand that life is so rarely filled with precisely what we ask for. And every so often, that’s a good thing. Sometimes, it’s the best thing.

Katie Straight is a writer, poet and stay-at-home mom of three: twin five-year-old boys and one two-year-old little girl. Previously, her professional work focused on international development and international education policy (Harvard, MEd ‘12). She lives in Charlottesville, VA, with her husband and kids.

Photo credit: Lashelle Chappell Photography

#twins #multiples #infertility #prayer #birth announcement #ultrasound #motherhood #pregnancy #surprise #parenting #moms #babies #lashellechappellphotography

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sheyshocked · 1 year

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It Runs in the Family

Summary: Spy finds out that he has an overbite, just like his son. Unfortunately, what looks like a charming quirk on his three-year-old he sees as a fatal flaw in himself.

Fandom: Team Fortress 2

Ship: Spy/Scout’s Mom

Warnings: None

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, Body Image, Implied Sexual Content, Cockblocking, Fluff and Angst, Teeth, Soft Spy (Team Fortress 2), Maskless Spy (Team Fortress 2), Spy Tries to be a Parent (Team Fortress 2), Father-Son Relationship, Parenthood, Spy is Scout's Parent (Team Fortress 2), Spy loves Scout's Mother, Insecurity

Wordcount: 1,234

You can also read it on ao3!

Alain had what he perceived as many positive qualities. He was an excellent spy, who always got the job done and never faltered. He was swift and cunning. And also, according to Ellen, the perfect ladykiller (though nowadays he reserved his charms only for her). He had a lot going on for him. But being good at playing with toddlers was never one of those things.

Not for lack of trying. He always did his best, but still came off as too stiff and awkward around them. Him! Can you imagine? And the worst thing was that it didn’t change once he became a father. It bothered him sometimes. What good was he if he couldn’t even play with his own son? But any time he started doubting himself, Ellen swooped in and reassured him that it will get better once Jeremy gets older.

Until then, he enjoyed watching him play on his own more than anything in his life.

Sometimes, he was joined by Ellen, and they would both watch what was the little rascal up to. He would soon be three years old and was so lively. Always flashing his teeth as he smashed his toys against one another or ran in circles for hours.

It was when he showed them one of his big smiles that Ellen started laughing so much that she teared up.

“What’s going on, chérie?” Alain asked, confused. Sure, their son’s grins made him smile too, but never like this.

“Nothing,” she wiped away the tear from her eye. “It’s just that… look at him! He has the same teeth as you. Isn’t that cute?”

Huh? What was she talking about? Alain shot a glance back at the boy, focusing more on his newly developed pearly whites. Surely, they weren’t the same. After all, Jeremy had a large overbite, and yes, Alain might have a small one too, but there was no way it could be this bad, now, could it?

“He does not,” he scoffed then, frowning.

That night, when everyone was fast asleep, he sneaked into their shared bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. His frown only grew as he scrutinized himself. Truly. He never noticed it before, but now that Ellen brought it up, he could see that he had prominent front teeth.

How awful! was the first thought that crossed his mind. How did he never notice this?

He was so preoccupied with the image in the mirror that he almost missed the tiny creak of the door. He stiffened but forced himself to relax and not immediately reach for the knife. He was safe, his family was safe. It was just Ellen.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace. Usually, he wouldn’t let anyone get near his back. But not her.

As absurd as it sounded, he felt safe with her. At ease. At home.

“What’s wrong, honey? Why are you standing in front of that mirror?” Then she seemed to recall their conversation and asked, looking him in the eye: “Is that because of what I said about your teeth?”

Long ago, he promised he wouldn’t lie to her. So in a rare moment of sincerity, he slumped his shoulders and admitted, his accent becoming more prominent: “…it’s hideous.”

“Now, now, hold your horses. So you are telling me that Jer-bear’s teeth look bad?”

“What?! Non, of course not!” In fact, he would kill anyone for even suggesting such a thing.

“So what’s the difference? Why are you saying such a mean thing about yourself?”

He didn’t know. But it bothered him. Jeremy was still young, he would grow out of it. And even if he did not? It would become a charming little quirk. His son could pull it off. But what about him? He was a spy, for Christ’s sake! He couldn’t afford quirks. There couldn’t be even a tiny crack in his perfect façade.

“It’s not the same,” he shook his head.

“You’re acting silly,” she frowned. “So what? Are you gonna pull them all out and replace them with false ones?”

She was joking, but the way he just shrugged in response put a disturbed look on her face. “You’d be surprised how common it is in my line of work.”

They stayed silent for a while, looking at each other’s reflection in the mirror. Then, she wrapped her arms around his waist once more and rested her head between his shoulder blades. That at least put a smile on his face.

“You know I’ll support you no matter what, right? But for what it’s worth, I like you just the way you are. Flaws and all. And I love that Jeremy takes after you. At least I have something to remember you by when you are away.”

Ouch. His heart was beating so hard against his ribcage that it hurt. What did he do to deserve this woman? He finally turned around to face her and lifted her chin, so she was looking him in the eyes.

“Merci, mon amour. I know it’s not always… easy being with me, but…”

She gently shushed him with a finger on his lips. “Ah ah. No more of that, dummy. We’re all lucky to have you. Try to remember that.”

“I will.” He leaned down to kiss her like he meant it. Their lips brushed together in a slow, sensual dance they both knew well by now. It didn’t take long for hands to start wandering, hushed gasps exchanged between them like a secret. Having eight children in such a tiny apartment meant they rarely had the time or space for intimacy anymore. They had to make do in hotel rooms and such. That’s what made this all the sweeter. “The kids are asleep, non?”

“They are. I checked up on them before I went here,” she whispered against his lips. That was all it took for him to lift her in his arms and quickly put her down on the cabinet near the sink, while still kissing the living daylight out of her.

He never wanted to let go. So, of course, it was then they heard a boyish screech coming from the kid’s bedroom.

“Ma? MA! Jeremy has escaped his crib again!”

In unison, the two lovers let out a frustrated sigh. Really? Right now?

“Couldn’t pick up a better timing,” Ellen sighed. She turned towards Alain with a small, apologetic smile. He already knew the drill. This wasn’t the first time they were interrupted, and for as long as all the eight boys lived under the same roof, it wouldn’t be the last. Not that he didn’t love them all like his own, but sometimes, he just couldn’t help wondering how wonderful it will be once they all grow up and move out for college. “Sorry, love. I have to go there. But perhaps we could continue some other time? How about another date night? What do you say?”

“Of course,” he gave her one last peck on the cheek before she scurried off to find their unruly son. Just as he was about to leave after her, he caught his look in the mirror. Cheeks flushed radiant red, hair made a mess and lips chapped from all the nipping. As far from perfection as one could ever get.

And yet, he didn’t hate what he saw.

#team fortress 2 #spy/scout's mom #tf2 #tf2 fanfiction #shey scribbles #tf2 spy #tf2 scout's mom #tf2 scout #hurt/comfort #two fics in two days #i think i'm gonna pass out #dadspy #spydad

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terriclare576-blog · 7 years

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Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons On How To Draw)

Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) - Art, Graphics & Video (2) - Nairaland

Nairaland Forum / Science/Technology / Art, Graphics & Video / Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) (117177 Views) Oscar Ukonu: The Nigerian Who Can Draw Everything With Pen / How To Draw A Minion... / How To Draw A Detailed Smiley Face Using Adobe Illustrator (1) (2) (3) (4) (0) (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) ... (21) (Reply) (Go Down)Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 3:22pm On Nov 08, 2013 femzi007: dis is my pencil drawing of burna boy.used 2B pencil without grid.he retweeted it on twitter

Great job! There may be a few tweaks needed here and there, but this is good. Welldone. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 3:27pm On Nov 08, 2013 For everyone, saturday 16th November, at Muri Okunola park, from 12pm next week. There's also formal lessons at Cafe Maison, Lekki or you could contact me on [email protected].

Now, let's get back to the drawing! For the benefit of those learning, could we NOT post any images of drawings which are NOT part of the challenges posted here? If you wanna show off your drawings, please create a separate thread. Thanks, guys. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by adexsimply(m): 3:39pm On Nov 08, 2013 *sighs* Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by jumzzy448: 3:57pm On Nov 08, 2013 I'm highly impressed that this is actually coming from a female. Op, keep up the good work. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by femzi007(m): 4:11pm On Nov 08, 2013 didnt learn drawing in a day,nd am stl learnin sef ..and OP am sorry i deviated ppu's attention wit my pix.. Ure doing a gr8 job,nd i jx luv art..more grease 2 ur elbow..do continue Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Goldenheart(m): 4:43pm On Nov 08, 2013 One thing about drawing is, there will always be something to criticize on.... Where in lagos is the art class taking place?!

Im right there 1 Like Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 4:48pm On Nov 08, 2013 For everyone, saturday 16th November, at Muri Okunola park, from 12pm next week. There's also formal lessons at Cafe Maison, Lekki or you could contact me on [email protected].

Can we all work on our control hands a bit? It's like driving a car. Get a sheet of paper and cover it with scribbles, vertical lines and horizontal lines, they way you probably used to draw as a child. All these exercises are meant to relax you so you don't start telling yourself "I can't draw, this is too hard". it's s not. You just need some practise. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by prof800(m): 5:04pm On Nov 08, 2013 Goldenheart: One thing about drawing is, there will always be something to criticize on....

EXACTLY! I like this statement. 1 Like Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Feraz(m): 6:56pm On Nov 08, 2013 Davijunson: @poster, tnks for bringin this thread up....i love art a lot esp drawin...buh since i entered sch, i avnt had d tym to draw again n it had a negative effect on ma drawings....i really need someone to giv me some lessons on drawin as i av neva attended any art class before...(i'm a science student studyin elect engine)....pls inbox me on ma mail...i'd be happy to hear frm yu.... Edited - Likewise me...didn't draw throughout secondary school except biology drawings and all those ish...while in the University, during drawing class, I decided rather than allow the paper waste, why not I try drawing randomly...this is one of 'em...

Redmosquito, I see you... Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Ardedaryor(m): 7:04pm On Nov 08, 2013 Intrestingly u'myoozing Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by prof800(m): 7:07pm On Nov 08, 2013 @feraz... You this my naruto/anime guy...ehn ..? why did you remove that sketch na..? :-/ Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Feraz(m): 7:11pm On Nov 08, 2013 prof800: @feraz... You this my naruto/anime guy...ehn ..? why did you remove that sketch na..? :-/ lol...you see am? Na mistake oh before I see say she sound warning...but I'm quite impressed with her....though one of it is my profile picture...

Pls, who knows how much a good sketchbook goes for and where it can be gotten? Onegai: For everyone, saturday 16th November, at Muri Okunola park, from 12pm next week. There's also formal lessons at Cafe Maison, Lekki or you could contact me on [email protected].

Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by ugsams(m): 7:32pm On Nov 08, 2013 Thanks op this will add value to my knowledge Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by newacca: 7:43pm On Nov 08, 2013 I love the Art world. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by sleekp1: 7:57pm On Nov 08, 2013 Great work, thanks @op. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Nobody: 8:23pm On Nov 08, 2013 I really need to hone my drawing skills.Nice thread op.Would try to draw along with u tomorrow. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Nobody: 8:26pm On Nov 08, 2013 femzi007: dis is my pencil drawing of burna boy.used 2B pencil without grid.he retweeted it on twitter u be badoo o!nice work! Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by lirusehn: 9:05pm On Nov 08, 2013 NICE FOLKZ b like *i must commend her* knwin fully it calls for no commendation and here is mine Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 9:29pm On Nov 08, 2013 Feraz: Edited - Likewise me...didn't draw throughout secondary school except biology drawings and all those ish...while in the University, during drawing class, I decided rather than allow the paper waste, why not I try drawing randomly...this is one of 'em...

Who knows how much a sketchbook goes for and where I can get it? Thanks...

Redmosquito, I see you...

Hey, you could go to Artworld and buy a sketchpad for like N1,000. Or some shops in VI sell for N500. But you get limited sheets in that sketchpad (like 30). What I can do, is for those coming for the Drawing class, is buy you sheets of paper, A1 size, at N7/sheet. Most art students divide those sheets into half or more sizes and make their own sketchpads with hardbacks or a plywood or masonite board backing, for support. Not only can you add more sheets to that sketchpad, it's reusable and will cost you much less than a pre-made one and can take over 200 sheets. So it lasts longer. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Nobody: 9:30pm On Nov 08, 2013 am not too late onegai, you doing a great job...following wish I was in lag 1 Like Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by tolam4skywd(m): 9:38pm On Nov 08, 2013 Great job @ op... Also wish I stay in lag but all d same I can still learn smtn 4rm diz thread... Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by tolam4skywd(m): 10:00pm On Nov 08, 2013 Oga boss @ op.. Shey month try?? Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 10:12pm On Nov 08, 2013 tolam4skywd: Oga boss @ op.. Shey month try??

there's no image attached, dear. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 10:29pm On Nov 08, 2013 How's it going so far? Do you believe that the world is full of shapes? Not yet? Okay.

Scientists (people who have more time and better facilities on their hands than the average Naija person, sadly) have discovered that every child has a good sense of Drawing and Perspective, but around the primary school learning age, over half of them begin to lose their ability to draw well. They realised that loss in Drawing ability coincided (big word for jammed) with when children began to learn the words of things around them. They theorised that as children grew up and used the more analytical part of their brain, the visioning part of the brain slowed down.

In plain english, the more you think, the less you see. Simple. Look at driving a car and talking on the phone, your brain CAN'T do two simultaneous, opposite things at the same time. Most drivers react well to sudden difference on the road: their foot hits the brakepad without them looking. Because driving is mostly instinct. Same with drawing, same with playing musical instruments. Those are movements based on instinct. You've done it so much, your brain can do it without you looking. Shey una remember that trick we all play on NL, "if you this read correctly, you read it wrong". That's instinct, your mind has filled in the gap for you, so you don't have to read the sentence.

That's why you cannot draw a hand properly unless you've been drawing for a while or I tell you to draw shapes. Because the minute you look at your hand to draw, your brain fills your mind with an image of what it THINKS the hand looks like, you draw that, and then go "ah ah, but this is not how my hand was, I can't draw".

I'm going to prove this to you, with our next drawing challenge. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 10:36pm On Nov 08, 2013 CHALLENGE 2: Ladies and gentlemen, please draw the following image the way it is posted, upside down. DO NOT ROTATE IT TO THE RIGHT ORIENTATION, just use your eye, measure a rectangle box and use that as the borders of your drawing, look at the picture, notice the chair is touching a particular point at the border of the picture, on your paper, locate that point, draw the chair. Continue to do so for all parts of the image.

If the scientists are right, (and they are), you will draw that picture I posted better than if it was upright in the nomal position. I presented this challenge to my mum, who has never drawn in her life, and she did well. You should have seen her laugh. So please, no erasings (I left my own mistakes for you all to see), take your time, take 30 minutes and carefully do it the way I described, and for your own sakes, don't rotate the picture to what you expect a picture to be, draw it upside down. Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by tolam4skywd(m): 10:38pm On Nov 08, 2013 Onegai:

there's no image attached, dear. it says d file z larger dan 200kb, so it didnt upload Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by yorex2011: 10:44pm On Nov 08, 2013 wow...nice thread... 2 Likes 1 Share Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 10:47pm On Nov 08, 2013 You will draw any picture upside well, because your analytical part of your brain DOES NOT understand what it seeing, and therefore cannot tell you "that is a woman in buba sitting down". Because it isn't telling you what to see, the visional or sensory side of your brain takes over and you see shapes and you draw shapes. Shapes are not scary to draw, everybody drew shapes as a child and your brain remembers how easy and relaxed that time was, sees clearly and you draw. Now, if I had said "let's draw a woman", a lot of us would have sweated in fear.

If you don't do the drawing upside down, that's your own method. However, this upside-down method has far repercussions. You wanna learn how to paint well (and not what I see here, that people call paintings), do it upside-down and eventually, you'll understand the concept behind the exercises that seemingly don't make sense. 2 Likes 1 ShareRe: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by Onegai(f): 10:48pm On Nov 08, 2013 yorex2011: wow...nice thread....havent drawn anything in a long while.....anyways i no pencil around..lemme draw myself when i was younger..

PLEASE DON'T POST PICTURES OF IMAGES NOT RELATED TO WHAT WE ARE DRAWING, SO AS NOT TO DERAIL THE THREAD. The last poster, please edit your post accordingly. 1 Like Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by yame014: 11:02pm On Nov 08, 2013 . Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by tolam4skywd(m): 11:13pm On Nov 08, 2013 Dnt knw y my pics z nt uploadin... Aaarrrggghhh!!! Re: Let's Draw! A Hand (Lessons on how to draw) by yorex2011: 11:15pm On Nov 08, 2013 drawing upside down i havent tried before head too small... 3 Likes (0) (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) ... (21) (Reply) Download Picmix On Nokia (Go Up) Sections: politics (1) business autos (1) jobs (1) career education (1) romance computers phones travel sports fashion health religion celebs tv-movies music-radio literature webmasters programming techmarket Links: (0) (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) Nairaland - Copyright © 2005 - 2017 Oluwaseun Osewa. All rights reserved. See How To Advertise.

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sheyshocked · 1 year

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Even Healers Need Healing

Summary: Medic collapses after a battle and Heavy carries him home despite his protests that he can walk.

Fandom: Team Fortress 2

Ship: Heavy/Medic

Warnings: None

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Medic Needs A Hug (Team Fortress 2), Carrying, Medic has trouble accepting help (Team Fortress 2)

Wordcount: 1,189

You can also read it on ao3!

The battle was won. Finally! Medic wiped away the sweat and blood that ran down his brow with a manic grin on his face, Übersaw heavy in his hand. He took much more beating than usual today. That’s what you get for getting separated from Misha early on, he thought. Not that he blamed anyone, it was worth it for the rush he felt when he sank his saw into the enemy’s flesh. So what if he took some damage himself?

He headed in the direction where he thought their base was. The whole arena was swimming before his eyes. But it was fine. He could take it. Just a few more steps…

It was then that he faltered and fell to his knees. His white coat, now covered with blood and grime, spread around him like broken bird wings. What a pathetic sight. He forced himself to try and get up as soon as he realized what just happened but to no avail. His injuries were wearing out on him. If only he had brought his Kritzkrieg! He could just take a whiff and everything would be fine. But like this…

C’mon, c’mon, up you go, verdammte!

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. Could hardly even think. Yet, he still struggled to get back on his unsteady feet, paying no mind to how bad it hurt, how nauseated it made him feel.

He always carried the entire team on his shoulders. Surely he could push himself to carry on just a little longer. What use was he otherwise?

He couldn’t let others see him like this. Weak and frail, a mere burden.

So of course he had to hear a familiar voice calling out to him in the distance. Just his luck. “DOKTOR!”

“Misha,” he rasped out. Usually, he would be elated to hear him. But not now. Goddamn, why did he have to be so… wonderful and infuriating at the same time?

Misha abandoned his precious gun (Medic’s heart throbbed – he knew just how much Sasha meant to the gentle giant) and ran straight toward him. He immediately started to check for wounds. Medic let out a watery chuckle. This was usually his responsibility, and he didn’t know what to do or think about someone treating him this way. Maybe he should be upset. He didn’t need anyone to coddle him like a child. But a tiny part of him (which he thought he had surgically removed a long time ago) had to admit it felt good, to have someone worry about him for a change.

“Doktor, what is wrong? Can you get up?”

“Ja, ja… just give me a second, would you?” Ludwig muttered, color rising to his cheeks, before making one last valiant attempt to rise again, only to fall back into the mud with gritted teeth. Everything around him was spinning wildly. He pressed a hand on his stomach, and it came back bloody.

Scheisse.

Heavy’s expression got even more tender. It was driving Medic crazy. Why was he looking at him like that? He wasn’t weak! He could go on, a sure thing he could. He always did. “Is all right. Heavy will help. Here. Hold on to me.”

With all the gentleness he could muster, being such a strong guy and all, he put Ludwig’s shaky arms around his neck as he prepared to hoist the man in his arms.

Once Medic’s brain caught up with what was going on, he started protesting. He never allowed Misha to pick him up like this, not even when there was no one around to see them. He would never allow anyone to challenge his masculinity like this. Not even his own lover. He wouldn’t be treated like some damsel in distress. “Wait, no. I’m more than capable of fending for myself, don’t worry about it, mein Lieber.”

Liar. But what was he supposed to tell him? The truth? Bah!

Heavy hesitated upon hearing this but didn’t let go. “Heavy never said Doktor cannot take care of himself. You are just injured and need a little help, is all. I can carry you back to the base. Is no problem.”

Of course it was a problem! The others would see! They would never let him live it down. He bristled, hissing: “I don’t need your help! Do you understand?”

He regretted it as soon as those words left his mouth. Oh no, no, no. Misha flinched away from him, a pained look on his face before he straightened his shoulders and set his jaw straight. The sight broke Medic’s heart. What has he done?

“Da. Good luck, then.” He turned around to leave. Ludwig panicked. He reached out to him, his vision getting even more blurry, but he just had to stop him. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

“Misha… wait! I apologize, I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s just that,” he sighed. Admitting this hurt more than getting his teeth pulled out, and it wasn’t the good kind of pain. “I’m embarrassed about being carried around. Others are already making fun of me for not being a man enough.”

For a split second, he worried that Misha might actually leave him. And he wouldn’t hold it against him. It was his fault that he behaved like a complete Arschloch. But then, to his relief, Heavy turned around, eyebrows shot up.

“Not being man enough? You? Who says that? They have to be blind. And stupid.”

Medic chuckled. It was true he didn’t resemble a woman, not even by a long shot. He had wide shoulders and chest hairy enough for both of them, not to mention his height. But when standing next to Misha, one couldn’t help but draw comparisons. It was only natural.

“Compared to you, everyone is girly, Bärchen. It’s just the way it is.”

Heavy muttered something under his breath, maybe some Russian swear word he didn’t know yet, then knelt next to him. “Forget about them. If they want to laugh, let them laugh. Heavy will find them later and bash their heads open. If Doktor won’t do it first, of course.”

They exchanged a short smile like a promise. Oh how much did Ludwig love this obnoxious man, it was beyond comprehension. Heavy outstretched his arms towards him again, and this time, he didn’t fight it.

Not that it wasn’t a bit awkward at first. Finding the best way to wrap his arms around Misha’s bull neck was tricky. But then he picked him up without even breaking a sweat, and everything fell into place. Ludwig let his head loll onto his shoulder with a small, unsure smile on his face. It was… odd, but not bad odd. He was so used to carrying others (both literally and figuratively), he never considered someone being able to do it to him in return. Little terrifying. But also warm. Comfortable. Safe.

But that was nothing new. He always felt safe with Misha. His finest specimen. Silly Kuschelbär.

He felt him smile against the nape of his neck as he slowly drifted out of consciousness.

#team fortress 2 #heavymedic #tf2 #tf2 fanfiction #red oktoberfest #shey scribbles #hurt/comfort #tf2 heavy #tf2 medic

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sheyshocked · 1 year

Text

Always Too Much, Never Just Enough

Summary: Spy contemplates Scout’s behavior and how he affected it by leaving him behind as a kid.

Fandom: Team Fortress 2

Ship: None (familial Spy & Scout)

Warnings: None

Tags: Angst, Daddy Issues, Scout Doesn't Know Spy Is Scout's Parent (Team Fortress 2), Short, Sad Scout (Team Fortress 2), Scout Needs a Hug (Team Fortress 2)

Wordcount: 287

You can also read it on ao3!

The kid was too loud for his own good. Not to mention annoying as all hell. Constantly demanding attention of any kind. Even the bad one. “Look at me, look at me, did you see that? That was all me!” he would shout at the top of his lungs, then be surprised when others scolded him or gave him a cold shoulder. Spy was the only one to see how his face fell when that happened but never said a thing to a living soul. Scout usually quickly collected himself, acting like his old bratty self.

He was always too much, never just enough. It was the only way he knew how to be.

Spy couldn’t blame him. After all, it was partly his fault he turned out this way. Always craving attention of the man he didn’t even remember meeting (but their paths did cross, even if for just a short while). Tragic, really. No matter how many people came to appreciate him for what he was, he would never feel truly seen.

But Spy did see him. He saw him every time. And even though he didn’t enjoy being the target of his childish pranks, he watched him go about life with pride in his heart. Hope.

Because despite his loud attitude, general brattiness and neediness, it was still his son. The only one he ever had and betrayed when he was too young to know any better. But he did now. He could never hope to undo the damage he had already done, that much he knew, but perhaps he could at least make sure the boy had a future ahead of him. One that was bright and unlike anything he had ever had.

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #spydad #shey scribbles #dadspy #tf2 fanfiction #tf2 scout #tf2 spy #angst

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sheyshocked · 2 years

Text

À la Claire Fontaine

Summary: Before a battle, Scout is trying to work off excess energy, which keeps annoying Spy to no end. When he has enough and throws a knife at him, Scout settles down for a while, only to start humming a familiar song. It brings back some memories Spy thought he would forget.

Fandom: Team Fortress 2

Ship: Spy/Scout’s mother (familial Spy & Scout)

Warnings: Panic Attacks

Tags: Light Angst, Scout Doesn't Know Spy Is Scout's Parent (Team Fortress 2), Spy Tries to be a Parent (Team Fortress 2), Father-Son Relationship, Scout Has ADHD (Team Fortress 2), Soft Spy (Team Fortress 2), Flashbacks, Spy loves Scout's Mother, Smoking, POV Spy (Team Fortress 2), Spy Being an Asshole (Team Fortress 2)

Wordcount: 2,607

A/N: Inspired by this adorable picture by @wachtelspinat and by French lullaby À la claire fontaine (obviously).

You can also read it on ao3!

Ten minutes until the next match starts. Well, nine minutes and thirty-five seconds now, to be precise. Just enough for his last cigarette of the day, Spy concluded and pulled out a lighter. That… fire-loving abomination sitting on the other side of the locker room visibly perked up at the faint flickering light – he cut it off before it could move. It was on their side, but as far as he was concerned, better be safe than sorry.

The entire team RED was spending its final moments before the bloodbath the only way they knew. Heavy fussed over Sasha, his much-beloved weapon, Demoman had just opened his second – or was it third? – bottle of Scrumpy and was drunkenly offering it to anyone in the immediate vicinity, and Spy? All he wanted was to have a smoke in peace before the fighting started.

Just another ordinary day in the gutter.

Scout sat on the bench right opposite him and, as usual, had a really hard time trying to stay still. His excitement before matches always had this nervous edge, no matter how many times his guts got scattered across the sands of New Mexico. He couldn’t stop fidgeting, his leg bouncing up and down nearly constantly. At first, it was a mere nuisance. Easy to block out with other white noise. Another thirty seconds in, and it made him grit his teeth.

Much like the Scout himself, Spy assumed.

Bah, he’s worse than an eight-year-old child with a bad case of rabies. Can’t slow down to save his life, he rolled his eyes. So much so for having some peace before work. But then again, with this unruly bunch of misfits and criminals, what could have he expected?

Then, as if the noise of a foot slapping against the ground every few seconds wasn’t bad enough, it became accompanied by an even more nerve-wrenching sound.

Scout, completely oblivious to the fact that he was driving one of his coworkers mad with his antics, fished a package of chewing gum out of one of his pockets. Took two at once and started chomping. Loudly. And when Spy said loudly, he meant obnoxiously loudly. That kind of loud that made him regret that he couldn’t send the other mercenary straight back to respawn without having to explain himself to the Administrator later on.

If she were there at the moment, she would have understood, he noted with a huff of annoyance.

But even his patience had its limits. And frankly, he has had enough.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, letting Scout know that he was walking on thin ice. But the buck-teethed youth had absolutely no sense for subtlety, so it flew right over his head. He tilted his head to the side, blew a bubblegum bubble with another loud click of his tongue… and Spy just snapped.

The butterfly knife was in his hand in an instant and before anyone could have even noticed, he threw it. It pierced the wall right next to Scout’s head, popping the pink bubble out. The entire locker room went silent as all heads turned in their direction.

Scout blinked owlishly as he tried to figure out what had just happened. Then his face went ruddy with anger. “Woah, woah, what the heck, dude?! You could have killed me!”

“Oh, please, if I was really aiming for your head, I wouldn’t have missed,” he replied in a snarky tone as he got up to retrieve his knife. It was stuck at least an inch and a half in the wall. Hm. Good to know he wasn’t losing his touch. “Now, would you kindly shut up so I could have some rest?”

Scout huffed out an annoyed breath, but since he didn’t want to start a fight so shortly before having to enter the field, he sat straight and for the first time in his life did as he was told. Smart boy.

Ah, finally. A moment of respite, Spy closed his eyes with a smirk on his face.

He thought this would be the end of it, which only proved he didn’t know Scout nearly well enough. Because as soon as he relaxed, the humming started. And Spy just froze, the lit cigarette fell from his fingers and scattered ash all over the floor.

He… knew that tune. It might be butchered by Scout’s voice, sure, and like in all the other aspects of his life, the boy was rushing too much, but Spy would still recognize this song even with his ears cut off.

À la claire fontaine.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. His heart was hammering against his ribs, which grew too constricted for their own good. It felt like he was dying. No, now that he thought about it, dying didn’t feel nearly as bad. At least not after the first dozen times. This, this was a pure nightmare.

Well, what should he do? Dieu, he needed another cigarette, maybe two, to wrestle his nerves under control again. But his fingers shook so bad, that someone might take notice. And he couldn’t let others see him like this.

Not now. Not ever.

“Scout? Where did you learn that song?” His voice shook slightly, and he regretted saying anything as soon as those words left his mouth. What was he even thinking, to blow his cover like this? Thank god Scout wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, so to speak. Just like his earlier attempt to catch his attention, this too completely missed the point.

“Huh? What song? Ah, you mean that? I dunno, man. Think I heard it when I was little, but…” the boy bit his lips and his eyes grew unfocused as he tried to recall some very old and distant memory. To no avail, of course. So in the end, he just shrugged. “…dunno. What’s it to ya anyway?”

It wasn’t often that he had no excuse at the ready. But anything he thought of sounded incredibly fake even to his own ears. What was he supposed to say? Nothing, I’m just curious. Or: I was wondering who taught you to sing so badly? Scout might not be very bright, but he was no idiot either. He wouldn’t buy it. So there he was, for the first time in his whole career at the loss for words, unable to answer a simple question.

Thank goodness he was saved by a rough disembodied female voice: “Mission begins in ten seconds.”

Pfew, that was close. Scout, with his attention span of a goldfish, immediately forgot what they were talking about and grabbed his trusty baseball bat, shouting at the others: “All right, let’s go, let’s go!”

Everyone ran for the exit. Everyone except Spy, who stayed behind. Nothing suspicious about it, it usually took him a little longer to pick his disguise. Once he was sure he was alone, he pulled out his cigarette case and brushed its contents aside, revealing a small photo hidden inside.

The most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon was smiling at him from the picture. He fondly skimmed his knuckles over her face and raven hair. She was sitting in an armchair, holding a chubby boy no older than a year and a half to her chest. The little rascal was a bit blurry. They couldn’t get him to stay still long enough for them to take the picture. But even like this, it was visible that he had his mother’s nose and vibrant blue eyes.

There used to be a third figure in the photo. The only thing that reminded Spy of it was a part of a man’s arm draped loosely over the woman’s shoulders. The rest he cut out a long time ago. Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder how different their lives would be if the man in the picture stayed.

But no. He couldn’t afford to think about it like that. With him gone, the family was safe. It was the right thing to do.

One day he might believe it.

He was interrupted by the noise of something being blown up into pieces nearby. It was followed by gunshots and someone – from the sound of it, their Demoman – screaming. Well, time to go.

With one last pained look, he put the photo back where it belonged. With one press of a button, smoke shrouded him, and with a blink of an eye, there stood a completely different man. He tugged at the lapels of his disguise, making sure that everything was in order, and ran for the exit.

What use was crying over spilled milk?

South Boston, 1946

He was helping Travis, her second youngest, with his French homework when Ellen peeked into the room, seemingly more tired than ever. Taking care of eight rowdy sons does that to a person, he noted with sympathy – he couldn’t help but admire her for raising them all on her own before he came along. But for some reason, Jeremy was even more handful than the other seven could ever strive to be.

Well, he was his father’s son through and through.

“Alain, dear? Could you please go and tuck Jeremy in? He won’t go to sleep before you sing him a lullaby.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he got up, making sure Travis’ homework was signed and ready to be put in his backpack. Hopefully, he won’t lose in yet another fight with the neighbor’s ruffians. “Of course, I’ll be right there. Go get some rest, chérie. You deserve it.”

Before he went, he kissed her on the cheek. Travis didn’t forget to comment on it with a loud: “Bleh.” He always liked to play a tough guy (as tough as one can be while wearing short trousers), but deep down, he was glad his mom found someone to love her after their father passed away.

With that, he made his way to the small nursery. He heard Jeremy long before he even entered the room. The boy was wailing loud enough to wake his brothers in the next room – maybe even their neighbors upstairs – as he slammed any toy he got his little hands on against the headboard of his bed. Alain sighed. One day, the boy’s gonna grow up to be a real menace.

Like father, like son, he supposed.

The moment Jeremy saw him by the door, the crying stopped. Instead, he started bouncing up and down on the mattress, supporting himself against the lattice of his cot as he squealed: “Dada!”

“Yes, yes, daddy’s here,” Alain cooed as he scooped him in his arms and sat in a nearby rocking chair.

To think how terrified he used to be to hold him when they finally brought him home. The boy was just so tiny! He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’s gonna crush him if he was not careful enough. Ellen used to laugh and tell him that the baby was not made of sugar. Easy for her to say. When he came along, she already had seven children of her own, seven lively boys, and a picture of a dead husband she used to love very much hanging above the kitchen sink.

He always thought he would make an awful parent. But when Jeremy was born, the love for him and his mother made him want to try and be better.

“You should go easier on your maman. She hasn’t had a good night's sleep since the day you were born, mon lapin. Neither of us had,” he said, but there was a gentle smile on his lips. He knew that Jeremy was still too young to fully understand a word he said, so he followed it with a kiss being pressed on top of his head, making him giggle and babble.

“Let’s see. How about I sing you the À la claire fontaine? It was always your favorite.” Jeremy excitedly waved his little hands, which made Alain smile in return. “All right. Here it goes…”

He cleared his throat before he started singing in a soft voice. When he got to the chorus: “Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai.” he felt his voice waver.

Jeremy barely made it to the third stanza before he fell asleep with his head lolled on his shoulder and drooling onto his shirt. When he became a father, he was told that he would get used to having his expensive clothes ruined by various bodily fluids. Shame that one never came true, but at least he fretted less about it.

There you go, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it, he chuckled, keeping his voice down as he put the boy back in his cot. Only then did he notice that Ellen was leaning against the doorframe, watching them with a huge grin on her face. He gently put a finger in front of his lips, shushing her:

“Shh. He just fell asleep.”

She nodded and quietly settled by his side, watching their son sleep. “Look at him,” she whispered. “Sleepin’ like an angel. Without you, he wouldn’t have fallen asleep until sunrise. Always has an infinite supply of energy, this one.”

She sighed, her expression suddenly turning wistful. “Wish you could be here every night to put him to sleep. He misses you when you are gone. So do the boys. And I.”

“I know. Wish there was another way. But I have to work so that you have everything you need, ma chérie.”

She clung to him like she never wanted to let go, which only made the situation that much harder. It wasn’t like he wanted to leave her or Jeremy. He just had to. Especially now, since he had so many hungry mouths to feed. “All we need is you, Alain. Only you. Everything else is unimportant.”

“I swear I’ll try to be around more.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it.” With one hand caressing her cheek, he turned her to face him, before their lips met in a kiss as soft as a promise. “Je t'aime tellement, ma petit chou-fleur.”

She had tears in her eyes when she replied: “I love you too, Alain. Please don’t become a memory.”

For a time, he did his best to keep that promise. But in the end, all it took was one job gone wrong. One stupid mistake, and it all came crumbling down.

One day, he found a letter in their mailbox containing photos of his entire family. Travis on his way to school with French homework tucked in his bag, his older brothers during a baseball play. Even little Jeremy in a stroller with Ellen on a walk. A warning. Someone was out for blood.

Alain hunted down that bastard, of course, and made him pay for even thinking about hurting his loved ones. But how could he come home knowing that he was a risk to his family? So he did the only reasonable thing he could to protect them. He cut himself out of the picture. Well, not entirely, no. He kept sending Ellen money and gifts for Jeremy and the boys, sometimes even visiting under the guise of night and cloaking device, to hold Ellen in his arms for just a little while longer and to watch his petit lapin grow, feeling immense sorrow while doing so (maybe he was an awful parent after all). When Jeremy was plagued with night terrors, he still sometimes sang him À la claire fontaine.

Little did he know those were the only nights when Jeremy slept soundly.

***

Translations

Dieu – god Chérie – sweetheart Maman – mom (affectionate) Mon lapin – my rabbit Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai. – It's so long I've been loving you, that I'll never forget you. Je t'aime tellement, ma petit chou-fleur. – I love you so much, my little cauliflower.

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #dadspy #spy/scout's mom #shey scribbles #tf2 fanfiction #tf2 spy #tf2 scout #tf2 scout's mom #angst #tw panic attack #mostly mine while writing this #but also spy's #spydad

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