#❪ a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step ❫ / ic.
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'Seriously?You're definitely using it wrong.' Not that she thinks Jack is worth helping after all the things he's put her and her friends through, but she can't help but feel a little bit sorry for him... If only because she remembers all the trouble the Tangled Web Comb put her through when she first used it way back in the day. 'Focussing isn't as easy as it seems, is it?' There's equal amounts of amusement and sympathy in her voice, though well hidden behind her teasing.
@multiandmany 🖤'd for a starter!
#multiandmany#❪ a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step ❫ / ic.#i thought both the lotus twister and tangled web comb seemed like fun options so (puts them into an rng) tangled web comb it is <3#hope this works for u
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A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Laozi
New Post has been published on https://china-underground.com/2019/08/21/a-journey-of-a-thousand-miles-starts-with-a-single-step-laozi/
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Laozi
Origin: The quotation is from Chapter 64 of the Tao Te Ching ascribed to Laozi.
Meaning: even the longest and most difficult ventures have a starting point.
Featured image: Zhang Lu, Laozi Riding an Ox 畫老子騎牛. Light ink and color on paper. National Palace Museum
千里之行始於足下。
Qiān lǐ zhī xíng shǐ yú zú xià.
literally: ‘A journey of a thousand Chinese miles (li) starts beneath one’s feet’
The Tao Te Ching, 道德 經, is a Chinese classic text traditionally credited to 6th-century BC sage Laozi.
The Tao Te Ching, together with the Zhuangzi, is a fundamental text for philosophical and religious Taoism.
The book also strongly influenced other schools of Chinese philosophy and religion, including legalism, Confucianism, and Buddhism.
Many Chinese artists, including poets, painters, calligraphers, and gardeners, have used the Tao Te Ching as a source of inspiration.
Its influence has spread widely outside of East Asia and is among the most translated works in world literature.
Chapter Sixty-four of Tao Te Ching
It is easy to preserve when things are stable.
It is easy to plan ahead when things have no yet occurred.
If one waits until the affair has begun,
Then the situation is as brittle as ice that easily cracks and is fragile that easily shatters.
Take actions before things occur.
Manage before things get out of order.
A huge tree grows from a tiny sprout;
A nine-story high terrace is built from heaps of earth.
A journey of thousand miles begins from the first step.
He who acts with desire shall fail.
He who tries to possess shall lose.
Therefore, the saint acts without effort and so he does not fail.
He is not eager to possess and so he does not lose.
Most people fail when they are near completion.
If one can be cautious from beginning to end, then he will not fail.
Thus a saint pursues what people do not pursue.
He does not value the hard-to-get objects.
He learns what people do not learn and avoids the faults in order to restore his true nature.
He follows the course of nature to benefit all things and dares not go astray from the right Way, Tao.
其安易持，其未兆易谋；其脆易泮，其微易散。为之于未有，治之于未乱。合抱之木，生于毫末；九层之台，起于垒土；千里之行，始于足下。为者败之，执者失之。是以圣人无为故无败，无执故无失。民之从事，常于几成而败之。慎终如始，则无败事。是以圣人欲不欲，不贵难得之货，学不学，复众人之所过，以辅万物之自然而不敢为。选自《老子·道德经·第六十四章》
Zhang Lu, Laozi Riding an Ox 畫老子騎牛. Light ink and color on paper. National Palace Museum
Image source: wikipedia
#Laozi, #TaoTeChing, #Taoism
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❥ 𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 𝐨𝟏.
* ♡ . ooc ⋅ it’s real nene appreciation hours .
* ♡ . ic ⋅ courage starts with one foot forward .
* ♡ . hc ⋅ keep a close watch on this heart of mine .
* ♡ . saved ⋅ keepsakes to treasure always .
* ♡ . promo ⋅ class roster .
* ♡ . prompt ⋅ don't allow the world to take your kindness .
* ♡ . dash comm ⋅ have you heard of the seven mysteries .
* ♡ . isms ⋅ a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step .
* ♡ . inbox ⋅ love is never a weakness .
* ♡ . mannerisms ⋅ a healer's heart and a lover's mind ��.
* ♡ . aes ⋅ she had a way of seeing beauty in the world .
* ♡ . sc ⋅ and her light stretches over salt sea equally and flowerdeep fields .
* ♡ . visage ⋅ you shine brighter than any starlight that has ever been or ever will be .
#* ♡ . ic ⋅ courage starts with one foot forward .#* ♡ . hc ⋅ keep a close watch on this heart of mine .#* ♡ . saved ⋅ keepsakes to treasure always .#* ♡ . promo ⋅ class roster .#* ♡ . prompt ⋅ don't allow the world to take your kindness .#* ♡ . dash comm ⋅ have you heard of the seven mysteries .#* ♡ . isms ⋅ a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step .#* ♡ . inbox ⋅ love is never a weakness .#* ♡ . ooc ⋅ it’s real nene appreciation hours .#* ♡ . mannerisms ⋅ a healer's heart and a lover's mind .#* ♡ . aes ⋅ she had a way of seeing beauty in the world .#* ♡ . sc ⋅ and her light stretches over salt sea equally and flowerdeep fields .#* ♡ . visage ⋅ you shine brighter than any starlight that has ever been or ever will be .
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tag drop o1.
* . ♡ ‹ IC . ── words dripping like milk and honey .
* . ♡ ‹ VISAGE . ── she is a flower bathed in starlight .
* . ♡ ‹ INBOX . ── the language of dreams .
* . ♡ ‹ AES . ── she had a way of seeing beauty in the world .
* . ♡ ‹ MANNERISMS . ── a healer's heart and a lover's mind .
* . ♡ ‹ SAVED . ── treasured memories .
* . ♡ ‹ ISMS . ── do not mistake my kindness for weakness .
* . ♡ ‹ HC . ── keep a close watch on this heart of mine .
* . ♡ ‹ PROMPT . ── a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step .
* . ♡ ‹ OOC . ── it’s stella loving hours .
#* . ♡ ‹ IC . ── words dripping like milk and honey .#* . ♡ ‹ VISAGE . ── she is a flower bathed in starlight .#* . ♡ ‹ INBOX . ── the language of dreams .#* . ♡ ‹ AES . ── she had a way of seeing beauty in the world .#* . ♡ ‹ MANNERISMS . ── a healer's heart and a lover's mind .#* . ♡ ‹ SAVED . ── treasured memories .#* . ♡ ‹ ISMS . ── do not mistake my kindness for weakness .#* . ♡ ‹ HC . ── keep a close watch on this heart of mine .#* . ♡ ‹ PROMPT . ── a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step .#* . ♡ ‹ OOC . ── it’s stella loving hours .
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tag dump p1!
#&&. to plant your feet - become unsown. ( ic. )#&&. from the satellite above northern lights. ( recall. )#&&. like a moth to the flame. ( oni. )#&&. life in the light and comfort in the shade. ( blackwatch. )#&&. when the flowers bloom we'll sing their melody. ( baihu. )#&&. like a phoenix from the ashes. ( angela ziegler. )#&&. where constellations overflow we wander. ( mccree. )#&&. a journey vast and endless in a starry sea. ( hanzo. )#&&. now count your sheep and go to sleep. ( amari. )#&&. a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. ( reverie. )
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As I was prepping myself for the climb ahead with some meditation, I overheard some local villagers talking about a man named Klimmek. It seems he usually helps provide food to the Greybeards, but had been unable to do so lately due to a knee injury. Thinking it would probably be bad for me if my new instructors were to starve, I found Klimmek and offered to take the supplies up for him. He was very grateful, and told me to just leave the bag in the chest outside the door of the monastery.
I stood before the first step, Klimmek’s supplies in hand, paralyzed. Could I really do this? I took a few deep breaths and remembered the words of my mentor when I was leaving Elsweyr for Skyrim, “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”. I could still feel the warmth of his fur as he embraced me, and the smell of the skooma on him. He was sober that day, but that smell doesn’t come out. I know that too well. With renewed resolve, I started the steep climb.
I noticed a small shrine at the top of the first set of stairs, and curious I decided to check it closer. Then I noticed writing on a small plaque set into the stone. These shrines seem to tell the tale of dragons and their relationship towards men. I decided to keep an eye out along the trail for any more. They seem like an interesting read at the very least.
As I came toward the second stone, I caught sight of a man. I asked what he was doing here, and he claimed he was a hunter. He liked to make the pilgrimage up the seven-thousand steps every now and then, as is the Nord tradition. I told him that I respected him for it. I was already beginning to get exhausted by the climb. We shared a laugh, and parted shortly after, headed in opposite directions.
The second emblem told of the beginnings of men on Mundus. The wording suggests that the dragons protected them at that time, because they were weak. What could that last part mean though? About having no voice. Hm.
The sky began to cloud and snow began to fall as I approached the third emblem. It told of men beginning to war with the dragons over land, and dragons being impossible for the men to beat without a voice, and so the dragons broke their hearts. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. The last part reminded me of my mother, and how she had given me up to the Two-Moons temple when I was young. Of course, how could a Senche-Tiger hope to raise a child? Had that been an example of not having a voice? I dried my eyes, and headed onward.
I encountered another Nord walking the steps at the next emblem, a woman this time. She seemed to be meditating in front of the emblem. I didn’t want to disturb her, but she spoke to me as I tried to walk by. She greeted me warmly, and introduced herself as Karita. I asked what she was doing up here. She said she preferred to leave it as being just another pilgrim, as she takes the trip up the mountain every few years. She asked me what I was up to, and I couldn’t help but lie that I was also on a pilgrimage. She gave me a wry smile. I could feel like she knew I was fibbing, but she didn’t pry and wished me luck on the trip, and went back to her meditation.
The fourth tablet told of Khenarthi seeing her people suffering and calling on the dragon Paarthunax, who pitied them, to give them a voice. This incited the first dragon war, as men could now hope to best their draconic masters. This time I was reminded of my time at the temple. The monks were as loving as their limited attachment would allow, they taught me most of what I know. They were like family to me. However, once I came of age, I realized I could never be one of them. I was too attached. They would die long before me, and that was a sorrow I could never bear. So I set off into the world alone. They did their best, but I was not prepared, and fell in with a bad crowd, where I learned to pickpocket and steal to fuel my new skooma habits. I became a shameful addict. Of course, that’s where I had met my master, an old sugar-tooth of Cathay-Raht furstock named Dro’Khrassa. Fate has strange ways of leading us. His sorry state made me give up the skooma out of pity, but also because he believed I could be better. The monks had refused to teach me their martial arts. Something about spoiling my innocence. A cold wind shook me from my reminiscence, and I hurried on before I fell back into it.
The snow stopped as I approached the next tablet. the clouds remained, and the wind was still biting, but not having it fling ice into my face made it less so.
I pulled my cloak tighter around me as I read the emblem. It told of how men triumphed over the dragons with their newfound voice, shouting Alduin out of the world, and of the many sacrifices it took to achieve this. I recalled the first lessons from my master. The way to recover from the skooma’s influence. A brew of moon sugar and luna moth wings to slowly ebb away from it. Almost as sickeningly sweet as the taste of skooma, but with much less damaging effects, as long as one doesn’t mind turning invisible with the inevitable hiccups it brings. He called it the Moon Dance tea, and claims he heard of it through the nomads of Elsweyr. Despite the constant skooma shakes, he was a great teacher. He may not have had his once-honed body any longer, but his mind remained sharp through all his years.
The next tablet was among a small stand of trees, providing much-needed shelter from the wind as I read.
This one told of men founding their first empire, and the dragons withdrawing from the world. It reminded me of why I had come to Skyrim. My master, amidst his skooma-fits had seen a vision. A great shadow threatening to swallow the world. He claimed that he had seen me in his vision too, fighting back the shadow alongside great heroes of the past. Heroes who had achieved great deeds. The Hero of Kvatch, the Nerevarine, and the one who had halted the Warp in the West. He said he had never had such a clear vision in his life. Of course, the both of us not having much money, and not being daring enough to steal enough money to travel, I had to go alone on the back of a stolen horse. I rode right through Cyrodiil, from Lleyawiin to Bruma. I was forced to kill the horse and use its body to keep me warm as I passed into Skyrim. I hope that old so and so was safe after my flight from Elsweyr. We were both known by the local law enforcement as accomplices, so I pray that they didn’t pin the horse theft on him.
The seventh tablet told of Jurgen Windcaller, who had been the one to defeat the dragons at Red Mountain, and how he meditated for seven years on how the strong voices of the dragons could fail to the fledgling voices of men. I suppose that’s why these are the seven thousand steps. One thousand for every year he meditated. I wonder if he ever found his answer?
The next emblem told of Jurgen choosing silence and returning to civilization. Seventeen men tried to shout him down, but none could. He then built his home upon the Throat of the World. I suppose this must be how High Hrothgar began. I’ve read in history books that the land of Skyrim was warmer then. I suppose these heights might have even been pleasant then. Reading of his isolation did remind me of my father though, I never knew him. My mother could never tell me anything about him, as the Senche cannot speak. I assume he must have been of a similar shape to her own. Then I had the rather unusual image of an Alfiq bedding a Senche enter my head, and I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Surely such a thing would be ridiculous.... But who can be afraid of looking ridiculous when they’re in love?
The monastery was in sight of the next shrine, which told of the Greybeards calling Tiber Septim, the first Dragonborn to High Hrothgar, as they had now with me. I felt anxiety enter my mind. What if I wasn’t what they had expected? What if I came all this way for nothing? I shook my head, I had to do this. If not for my master, then for myself.
The final emblem had but a short stanza upon it. “The voice is worship, follow the inner path, speak only in True Need.” Strange. It almost sounds like how the monks in Elsweyr had spoken to me about their claws. As well as being useful, they were dangerous. A great blessing, as well as a great responsibility. They had told me all of us Khajiit were creatures of duality. “Just as moon sugar brings us closer to the gods, it can debase us. As the moon chases the sun, as the deserts meet the jungles, we are always both the light and the dark, for our mother is Azurah. The spirit of the twilight between the dusk and dawn.” For a moment I regretted not heeding this advice when I was young, but then I had a revelation. They did not mean it as a negative. Just as my darkness had damned me to thievery in a skooma den, it had also led me to my master, who had given me purpose and given me a brighter light. With renewed resolve, I faced the monastery.
I dropped Klimmek’s package into the chest as he had asked. Clearly, the Greybeards are well provided for, but I was still glad to have a hand in this gift. I walked up the final steps to the door, and headed inside, eager to meet with my new teachers.
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Title: Faults of the Mind
Synopsis: Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.
The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.
Warnings for: blood, violence, and death (NOT any of main characters), injury, some cursing, references to past character injuries, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.
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AO3 version is here.
Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!
Previous chapters are here.
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Chapter III: The Puppet
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As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.
It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.
Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.
The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.
And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…
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For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.
It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.
Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.
It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.
They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.
“How much farther?”
To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.
Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?
“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.
Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”
Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”
“…Seriously?”
“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”
Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”
“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”
“You sound like Adira.”
“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”
Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.
Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.
Typical.
Varian scowls harder.
He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.
The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.
Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.
In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.
“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”
Varian directs his bleary frown to her back. Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.
Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”
Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”
“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.
“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”
…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”
He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”
He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.
“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”
Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”
“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”
“…Isn’t that illegal?”
Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”
Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…
He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…
He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”
“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”
Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”
“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”
Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”
Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”
“What other circumstances?”
“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”
His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.
Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”
“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.
He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.
Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”
Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.
“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”
Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”
“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”
Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.
Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”
There is a beat of silence.
“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.
Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.
…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.
That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.
Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…
His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.
One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.
All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.
Don’t go.
He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.
Don’t go there.
His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.
“Are you alright?”
He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.
Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.
As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”
“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’
“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”
In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?
Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”
Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”
“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”
She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.
Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”
It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—
It’s just too dark, now.
It’s just too much.
“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.
“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”
Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”
“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”
.
Eugene leaves the castle that night.
His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.
That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.
The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.
By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.
He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.
The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning.
She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.
Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.
“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”
Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…
She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”
Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”
She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”
Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”
Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.
Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?
Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.
They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.
He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.
He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.
He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.
“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”
“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”
“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.” He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”
The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”
“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”
“When it was funny.”
“Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”
That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”
The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”
“Still sucks, though.”
She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”
This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.
Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.
“I’m leaving.”
He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”
“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”
“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”
“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.
Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.
Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”
“She shouldn’t.”
“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”
Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.
Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”
She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”
She glares at him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”
Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.
“…Will it help?”
He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”
“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”
He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.
Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.
“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”
At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.
Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”
“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”
She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”
Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.
He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.
It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.
Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?
He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.
He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.
He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.
His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.
He’s got work to do.
It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.
He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.
He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.
Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”
The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.
Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.
“...Surprise?”
Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.
Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.
“Hey!”
“It’s Fitz!”
“Welcome back!”
“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”
Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”
“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”
“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”
“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”
“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lanternlight and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.
“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”
“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”
Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”
“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”
Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been awhile since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.
Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”
“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.
Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.
“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”
This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.
Gods, he’s missed him.
Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.
.
“What do you need?”
The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.
“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”
“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.
Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”
Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is stillbeating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”
Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”
“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”
“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…
“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”
“Crystal?”
Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”
“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”
“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”
He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—”
Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”
“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”
Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”
Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”
Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.
It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.
Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.
“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.
“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”
“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”
The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”
Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”
“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I’ve a few like that. Take your pick.”
Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”
“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”
Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”
“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”
“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”
“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”
He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”
Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”
“I—”
He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.
Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.
“…Come here.”
He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”
Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”
He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”
He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.
He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.
“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”
Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.
She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.
It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—
His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.
The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—
He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.
Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.
Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.
And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”
“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”
“Yes.”
She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”
“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”
“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”
He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”
“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”
Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple months before you’ll have to remake it.”
Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”
Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”
Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”
Something like pride smarts in his chest.
“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.
There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”
“Alchemists,” Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”
“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”
Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”
He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”
“Tsk. Green? Violet?”
Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.
“…Yellow?”
Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—
Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”
Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.
“…Pink would work.”
“Pink it is.”
The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”
They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.
He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.
And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.
.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”
“I know. I just—”
“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—
Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.
It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—
Cassandra is right back where she started.
She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.
It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.
“I just… I want to be sure.”
Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”
It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.
“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”
According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.
Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”
Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”
“Like a deal with the Moon?”
“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.”
“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”
I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.
“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”
“Will it help?”
“It’s something.”
“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.
King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.
In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—
But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.
Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—
And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.
When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?
But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.
When did I become so weak as to be used against you?
But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”
Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”
“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”
“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.
Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”
“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”
The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”
“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”
“Very sure.”
The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”
“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”
Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”
“Only if you do.”
Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.
For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.
I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…
If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?
Cassandra has never been readier. But still—
For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.
She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.
She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.
Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.
The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.
The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.
She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.
It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…
Well.
She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.
Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.
Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.
They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?
But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.
She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?
She wants to help, but this—
It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.
Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.
She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.
The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.
Nothing’s ever going to happen.
Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.
And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!
Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just the little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…
Even after everything, she’s still weak.
Cassandra stops mid-step.
She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.
That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?
“…Cassandra? Is that you?”
She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.
She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”
The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”
“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”
His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”
Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”
The guard is glaring.
Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.
She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.
Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.
And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.
“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”
Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.
“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”
.
For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.
He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.
Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.
The harbor is under attack.
A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.
The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?
Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.
A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”
“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”
The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.
The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.
He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.
Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.
“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”
“Yasmin—!”
“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”
“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”
“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”
A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.
Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…
Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—
And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.
Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.
The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.
He looks right in their direction.
Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.
Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”
“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—
He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.
His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?
He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.
Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.
And behind him. Behind him—
The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.
Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.
All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.
The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.
Hello, child.
The pirate swings.
Did you miss me?
His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.
And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.
They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.
In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.
His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.
“—get up!”
A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.
“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”
At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.
“Varian!”
Yasmin.
His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.
“Hurry!”
This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.
Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.
Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.
He looks behind him anyway.
People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.
There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.
His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.
Something worse.
Hello, child.
Varian looks away.
.
.
.
In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.
Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.
It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.
She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.
“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furious across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”
She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”
She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.
Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.
“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”
A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.
“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”
Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.
Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”
Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.
“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”
#tts#tangled the series#varian#rapunzel#rta#rapunzel's tangled adventure#tangled#cassandra#eugene fitzherbert#tangled varian#tangled rapunzel#iza fanfic#fic: labyrinths of the heart#fic series: the long road back to home#fic: faults of the mind
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[ Midsommar 2019 Info Post ]
ASK MEMES
Give my muse something from the stands....
Caramel Apple: An apple with a metal skewer through its core, wrapped in a blanket of hot caramel and toasted peanuts.
Cotton Candy: Made with sugar, fire magic, and a practiced hand, sugar is spun around a paper cone until it creates a light, airy cloud.
Strawberry Cake: A dense, rich sponge cake topped with whipped cream and strawberries.
Ice cream: A cold, delicious treat worth screaming for.
Peanut Brittle: Peanuts roasted and stirred into a caramelized sugar, poured into sheets and then broken into uneven shards.
Saltwater Taffy: A sweet and sticky taffy, flavored with mint or one of many fruit syrups. The arduous process of handmaking them results in a softer, chewier candy.
Chewing Gum: Locally known as Tears of Seiros, this crystalline candy tastes terribly bitter when first chewed. Over time, however, its famously refreshing taste of pine needles and cedar is brought out.
Corn: Sweet Dagdan corn roasted to perfection over a grill. Eaten straight off the cob.
Apple cider: A sweet apple drink served ice cold. Despite being a tad alcoholic, it’s popular with older children.
Surprise me! [make up your own!]
Prank my muse!
Pie to the face: A delicious classic.
Jump scare: BOO!
Fake rat/snake/spider: Looks almost like the real thing if you don’t look too closely.
Candied onion: An onion–I mean, an apple with a metal skewer through its core, wrapped in a blanket of caramel and toasted peanuts.
An actual frog: Close your eyes and hold out your hands for a slimy surprise!
Firecracker spell: A harmless cantrip spell that makes a loud popping sound, simplified to the point that even non-mages can pull it off successfully. Banned from school grounds.
Surprise me! [make up your own!]
This stand is the grandest in the aisle, and the most popular. An elderly woman presses pieces of paper into dough, which her husband quickly bakes with fire magic and drizzles with a fruit syrup. What results is a ball of pastry, crispy and light, with a paper fortune inside. The pastry is big enough to share!
Send “Fortune” to my muse and I’ll generate a random number 1 through 10...
“After the rain... comes the rainbow!”
“Your desires may lie in an unexpected place.”
“Remember that patience is the holiest virtue.”
“A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships are built.”
“There are gifts all around you, if you only look.”
“Gratitude is an oft-forgotten gift.”
“A thousand mile journey begins with a single step.”
“There are four kinds of love. For you, one of them is on the horizon.”
“There is no act more difficult than truly forgiving someone.”
The paper is blank. Maybe the lady forgot to write something down? Or did she... [make up your own!]
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Patching Things Up - Peter Parker
Summary: You hate Peter Parker. You really do. So how well do you cope when you get trapped in a shop together overnight?
Word count: 3k (it grew I’m sorry!!)
Warnings: Lil bit of angst, fluff
Request: ‘could you do one with peter where he and you are stuck in a store together overnight? and alSo you guys haTE each other. thank youuuu’
A/N: I’m slipping in a liiiiiiittle bit of canon divergence here. Just imagine that Peter doesn’t have to go out and try to defeat Falcon whilst they’re in D.C. and instead chills with the rest of the team...
Your trip to D.C. wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Admittedly, you hadn’t expected much from the academic decathlon trip, but you’d had a general idea of what to expect: a few group bonding activities, early bedtimes and hours and hours of studying. Maybe there’d be a few laughs here and there, but nothing too intense.
You’d expected a busy trip. You’d expected to have some fun with your friends. But what you hadn’t expected was to find yourself locked in a grocery store overnight with your ex-best-friend Peter Parker.
The moment Liz had conned you into finding some ice cream for the team was the moment your fate seemed to have sealed. You’d been perfectly willing to go traipsing the streets surrounding your motel alone, but she’d demanded you pair up with someone, and seeing as where Liz is, Peter Parker is always one step behind her, you’d been partnered with him to go ice cream hunting.
Peter Parker. Peter Parker.
God, you were fuming.
But you went, because you’re a team player, and you found a grocery store just down from the motel. You spent the entire journey ignoring Peter and trying to pretend he wasn’t trailing sadly behind you with an image of sorrowful guilt branded to his face, and pushed your way into the dimly-lit shop. It was late, so a part of you was surprised it was even open, but the door gave way so you marched on in there, ignoring Peter’s quiet sounds of reluctance.
After a few minutes of searching, you found the ice cream, but just as you went to grab it from the freezer, a loud beeping sound cut through the air. The lights cut out, a mechanical click filled the shop, and an eerie silence followed.
So that was it: this was how you ended up here: clutching a gallon of ice cream in the dark, your eyes wide, listening out as Peter calls, “The door’s locked. They must have an automatic security system.” Then he pauses and adds, voice quiet, “I think we’ll be trapped here until morning.”
You blink, your fingers slowly numbing around the container. “You’re wrong,” you state automatically. Using the dim lights from the freezers and the street lamps outside, you walk down the aisle to the front of the shop and decide to investigate for yourself. “I’m sure- I’m sure you just didn’t pull it hard enough.”
You try the door and it’s stuck, and you know he was right: it’s locked.
“Told you so,” Peter mumbles. You immediately turn to glare at him, your heart beating in your chest as your nerves begin to mix with anger, your mind running at a thousand miles an hour. You can’t think of a situation worse than being stuck overnight in a shop with him.
“Do you have your phone?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
Peter pats down his body, his loose brown hair flying around a little. “Nope,” he finally replies. He glances up at you, and you see the beginnings of nerves dancing in his gaze. “Do you?”
You grunt. “No,” you reply, voice flat. “I left it by the pool.”
“Brilliant,” he mutters. His eyes pull away from yours, and you observe as he nervously looks away to a point on the floor. “Y’know, Y/N, I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you for a while about- about everything that happened, so maybe this is a good opportunity to talk-”
“No.” You turn on your heel, feeling your cheeks burn as you begin to stalk away down the cereal aisle. You know it’s childishly immature to walk away, but if you’re being honest, you don’t give a fuck about Peter’s feelings. You don’t owe him a thing. “Leave me alone, Peter!” You call back.
Even from across the shop, you’re able to hear his exasperated sigh. “You can’t avoid me forever!”
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You try your best to stay away from Peter, but it’s hard.
After you’ve been trapped in the shop for a little after thirty minutes, you decide to go exploring. To your disdain, you discover the staffroom is locked, but at least there’s access to a bathroom. The main body of the shop is dark, excluding the various fridge/freezer lights and the constant flashing of various security lights. You spend a while puzzling over the lack of alarms going off, but come to the conclusion that they must only be tripped if someone attempts to pry open a door.
It’s probably about 1am when you stumble into Peter, quite literally, in the middle of the pasta aisle.
“Watch where you’re going!” You exclaim, your voice a low hiss as you stagger a few feet forward. Whatever Peter was holding in his hands goes tumbling to the ground as he groans, and you rub at your knee as you see his shadowy figure double over. When he fails to respond and continues to moan loudly, you feel the alarm begin to grow. “Hey, are you okay?”
You catch a flash of brown as he looks up to you, eyes lit with a childlike innocence that takes your breath away. “Yep,” he stammers. Slowly, he begins to unbend himself. “Just hit me in a place no man wants to get hit.”
Before you can correct his use of man, you find yourself stifling an embarrassed giggle. “I’m sorry,” you say, your lips twisting around the words.
“‘S okay,” he mutters. “I probably deserved it.”
You find yourself kicking at the floor. “Yeah,” you agree, “You did.”
A silence falls over you both, and you suddenly become aware of how close you’re actually standing. “Listen, Y/N, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I- I’d really like to clear some things up with you, and seeing as we’ll be here for the next six hours, can we just talk?” His words are quick and weak, and you can practically feel the anxiousness rolling from his tongue.
Maybe it’s your sleep-deprived brain, or maybe it’s the thrill of being stuck overnight that causes you to agree. But you think truly it’s the vulnerable way his voice quivers through the air towards you that makes your resolve crumble. Suddenly, you aren’t greeted with a wash of anger at the thought of talking to Peter. Suddenly, it seems agreeable.
“Okay,” you whisper. “We can do that.”
His surprise is evident in the way he squeaks softly. “Oh- oh right, okay.” He pauses to take a moment to breathe. “This way? I found some cushions behind one of the cashier’s desks.” He leads you towards a set of large fridges, and your eyes widen as you see a spread of blankets and pillows arranged over the tiled floor. It still isn’t ideal to be trapped in a shop, but you know this makes it slightly more bearable.
Peter sits with his back against a fridge and awkwardly pats the spot beside him. The unearthly blue light being emitted from the large machines gives his face a ghostly look, and you can’t hope but shiver as you slide down to sit beside him, your bodies a few inches from each other. You rest a cheek on your knees as you tilt your head to face him, finally able to look at the face of your ex-best-friend properly for the first time in four months.
“I know I messed up,” he starts, voice a little unsteady. He isn’t looking at you - instead he’s drumming his fingers over the watch wrapped around his wrist. “I didn’t- I didn’t tell you what was going on, and then you found out, and you must’ve been betrayed, but I never wanted to hurt you.”
You feel your breathing stiffen. “I didn’t feel betrayed, Peter.” You shake your head at the incredulity of the situation. “You think I started hating you because you hid the fact that you were Spider-Man from me?”
He looks over to nervously meet your eyes as he nods. “Well- Why else would you suddenly..?”
You groan. “Let’s walk through this year for a sec,” you start. You can feel the anger return to your blood as you glare at the anxious boy in front of you. “Freshman year started off well. You, me, Ned, even MJ - we’re all friends, we’re all hanging out. You’re my best friend. You’ve been my best friend for six years.” You have to close your eyes, feeling a wave of frustrated tears prick your eyeballs. “And then suddenly, you and Ned go really… Really weird. Super weird. You avoid me, and blow me off, and cancel on me every single time-”
“-That’s because of Spider-Man - I couldn’t just abandon those people, Y/N, you know-”
“I know that, Peter,” you remark. “I know that.” You pry your eyes open and blink back a few tears before meeting his gaze, flushing when you see the concern there. “It didn’t hurt me any less. If you’d told me, I would’ve understood. But you didn’t tell me, so I spent months walking around with absent friends, wondering what I’d done to fuck it all up.” Your heart pulses weakly as your memories take you back to that miserable part of your life. Peter and Ned were all you’d known - being without them for weeks on end had been indescribably lonely.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, Y/N. And I can’t apologise enough for ignoring you. I just- We didn’t want you to find out, because that’d put you in danger. Ned thought I shouldn’t tell you, he-”
“Don’t put this onto Ned,” you whisper. “Ned has nothing to do with this. Ned was my friend, but you were my best friend.”
Peter stills. You know your words are taking a while to sink in.
“If I hadn’t walked in on you in the changing rooms wearing that stupid costume, you never would’ve told me,” you mutter bitterly. “You were just going to drop me and pretend I never meant anything to me. So excuse me if I wanted to get a step ahead of you and decided to remove myself from that situation.”
You sit back, finally done with your rant. Your mind already feels a little lighter, and your body isn’t throbbing with the usual undertones of anger. Just the act of telling Peter what you’ve been mulling over for months has helped you.
“I didn’t tell you what was going on because I didn’t want to ruin the only bit of peace I had left in my life,” Peter starts, voice full of a quiet trepidation. “You were- Y/N, you were like an anchor to me. Every part of my life was shifting and changing, and you were the only one who didn’t seem to know. You were the only one left out of the situation - the only one who hadn’t been- been poisoned by the dark things going on.” He pauses to pick at his watch. “It was selfish and cruel, but if I’d told you what was going on, you would’ve changed how you were around me. And- and I really liked what we had going on.” He meets your eyes, gaze firm. His pink tongue slides out to moisten his lower lip before he adds, “I really liked you.”
You swallow. Peter had been your best friend, but… Your feelings had always been a little more than just platonic. Just a little. Nothing other than a few lingering stares and brushes of fingers had ever transpired, but maybe the thought of what could’ve been was the most haunting of all.
“You went MIA, then you dropped me, then you came back and fell in love with Liz.” Your voice isn’t heated anymore: more defeated. “You can’t even imagine to know what that was like.”
Peter shakes his head. “I’m not in love with Liz,” he mutters. “I tried- I tried to fill the void, but it didn’t work, Y/N.” He looks hesitantly to you. “I miss you. I want you. I need you. I don’t- I don’t care in what form, I just need you back.” His eyes well with tears as he plays with his fingers to try and calm their shakings. “I’m so sorry for everything. If I could take it back, I would, I just- I needed you to be on the outside, and I didn’t want to hurt you, and I just… I really messed up.” He breaks off to gasp for a breath. “I’m sorry.”
You know you’re at a crossroads.
On the one hand, you’re still hurt. You’re still bitter and resentful and reeling from the months without Peter, and the mere thought of all the times he’d blown you off without a second thought burns holes in your heart.
But… He’s here, and he’s tearful, and in your gut you know he regrets it all. You know Peter, and you know he hasn’t got a mean bone in his body. You know he won’t make the same mistakes again, and as you look at him, you see the outline of your broken, snivelling best friend, and you feel your heart begin to beat again.
“It’s okay,” you breathe. “I forgive you.”
His eyes widen. “Thank you,” he says, voice full of emotion. He reaches over to grab your hand, his shaking fingers weaving around yours as he squeezes you. “Thank- Thank you so much.” It’s with quivering hands that he brings your hand to his mouth, and he seems to be acting on adrenaline as he kisses the back of it because as soon as he’s done it, he freezes and coyly meets your eyes. “Sorry, that was probably really weird, there’s just- there’s so many things I want to say.” He clamps his mouth shut and releases a slow breath through his nose. “Thank you.”
Still a little unaccustomed to the sudden physical contact, you tentatively brush your thumb over the back of his hand. “I’m sorry I was unreasonable,” you say, taking your turn. “I’ve said some pretty mean things to you recently, and I should’ve stopped to listen to you instead of continuing to lash out.”
Peter rapidly shakes his head. “No, I deserved it. It’s okay.”
You smile sadly at him. “Tell me about being Spider-Man.”
The next few hours blur by in a series of snapshots: Peter telling you all about his adventures swinging around Queens, you filling him in on the past four months of your life, and the two of you slowly warming up. With each minute, the rift between you seems to heal, the broken shards of your friendship slowly picking up and stitching back together. As time slips by, you shift closer to him, and as the time inches to 4am, you’re pressed to his side, a tub of ice cream balancing on your knee, and a large blanket wrapped around both him and you.
You stifle a quiet yawn just as Peter’s coming to the end of the story about his trip to Germany.
“Tired?” He asks, squeezing the arm he has draped over your shoulders. You jostle closer to him as you hum quietly. “You can get some sleep if y’want,” he murmurs, “I’ve probably talked you half to death by now.” His voice slips down to the shy dulcet tones you recognise, and it makes you frown.
“I love listening to you talk,” you reply. “It’s all so exciting. I’m just really tired, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Sleep, Y/N.”
You pull your head from the crook of his neck to look up at him, your mouth slightly parted. A sudden realisation hits you: you really want to kiss him. God, you need to kiss him.
As you look at the curves of his features, you can’t help but grin. The sun’s beginning to rise, so a scattering of golden rays are splashed across the wide expanse of his forehead. His brown locks look a rich gold, and when he tilts his head, the sunlight bounces off his eyes and gives them a sparkling glow. Moving down, his lips look soft and relaxed, and your heart throbs at the prospect of leaning in and sealing the deal.
Before it broke, your friendship with Peter had been good. But it hadn’t all been there. There was always something missing - a prophecy unfulfilled. It was so close to being perfect, but it wasn’t.
You think you’ve finally found the missing piece.
Acting a little on impulse, you reach up to cup his cheeks with your hands. You feel the blanket cascade from your shoulders as you lean up towards him, and after pausing for a moment with your mouths mere millimetres apart, you finally press your lips to his.
Kissing Peter is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s slow at first - a little tentative as you try to explore his mouth. But quickly you find a rhythm, and as you press your lips against his warm ones, you can’t help but grin against his mouth. It feels right. Your heart burns in your chest as it feels a little like that missing piece finally slots into place, and as you pull away to gasp for a breath of air, your head’s spinning from the gravity of it all.
“I don’t want to be your friend again,” you whisper, your forehead resting against his. You blink your eyes open slowly, your terror of rejection slipping away when he grins warmly at you and squeezes your sides.
“I don’t want to be your friend either,” Peter murmurs. He smiles slyly before inching in to peck your mouth softly, his lips gliding over yours.
Your fingers play with his curls until a second elongated yawn breaks free of your mouth. So after pausing to steal a final giddy kiss from his lips, you reach back to tug up your blanket and snuggle up against his side, resting your weary head against his shoulder. He wraps you in his arms and pulls you close, and as you begin to feel your consciousness tugged away to dreamland, you’re aware of his lips brushing your forehead.
(And in the morning when the shop owner arrives to find two sleeping teenagers on his shop’s floor, it takes a lot of explaining. Liz is the only one not surprised - apparently she’d been convinced the reason you hadn’t reappeared had been because you’d snuck off to make out.)
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any feedback? I would love to hear any thoughts you have on this!
masterlist
taglist ↠ see this post to be added :D
@writteninthestarsandthesky @marauders--mischief @dylan-o-yumm @xxxxdelenaxxxx @iknowisoundcrazy @flyingburrito123 @fuckwhateverfuck @liamismxsunshinx @tom-holland-and-textposts @lukeskisses
#peter parker#peter parker imagine#peter parker x reader#peter parker x y/n#tom holland#my writing#y/n#y/n use#self insert#self-insert#:')))#some fluff for your friday night
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Pawana Atma Antaryami (Pure Holy Spirit of God), Hindi song
This short film for Pawana Atma Antaryami is a meditation on the ways that we hide ourselves from each other and the One who knows our inner self. The film is directed by Miranda Stone, who also sings and plays tabla on the song recording.
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Pawana Atma Antaryami:
A devotional bhajan performed by Yeshu Satsang Toronto,
https://www.facebook.com/YeshuSatsangToronto/
originally found in the NBCLC Hindi booklet.
For a free download of this song, and other bhajans from the Kshama Sagar Bhakti Mala songbook, visit:
www.YeshuSatsangToronto.Bandcamp.com
www.YeshuSatsangToronto.com
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Paawana Aatma Antarayaami
Pure, holy Spirit of God, the “One who knows my inner self”
Barsaado apani kripa…
Pour down your grace/favour/compassion/forgiveness
Barsaado apani shakti…
Pour down your power/strength
Barsaado nija varadaan…
Pour down your gifts of blessing
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Commentary by Miranda Stone, film director:
The landscape hides under the cover of snow; the fish sulk quietly under the ice of the lake. There is a feeling of purity unique to the other seasons. Even a junkyard has a chance to look beautiful and pristine under this frozen garment. Trash mercifully disappears under its graceful shroud.
You walk alone, attempting to find a way across a frozen land, without falling through the crust. Even in your closest relationships, you struggle to be accepted and known for who you truly are; to reveal what’s underneath the protective bandages around your heart. You hide your face, yet still hope with your eyes… to be seen, and loved.
It is a miracle, but you are walking over (frozen) water, in a step of faith, to reach the island. Your childlike efforts to connect to God, who is beyond understanding, drives you to build a mandir (temple) of snow. It’s an effort, but it’s what you have to work with. You hope to catch a vision of what Divine Love looks like. You remember the story of the forgiving father who welcomes the prodigal back home. It is a holy celebration of the soul who surrenders their pride, and hungers for restoration. It's a celebration of the Divine Mother/Father who opens the arms of grace with unconditional love. It is the lover and the beloved, united as one.
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There are a few props in this short film that hint at the cross cultural experiences of life and faith that have nurtured us along the way. Instead of living in small villages, with closed and singular cultures, many can now learn new languages, eat new foods, celebrate new rituals, and learn from each other, sometimes without even leaving their respective “villages.”
It is a delight to be able to share some of these little clues as to our own personal stories, and you will see them scattered throughout this film.
A wooden plaque in the background of an early scene reads “Der HERR ist mein Herte, mir wird nichts mangeln,” a nod to my German roots and a love of the Psalms of David. Chris’ Adirondack pack basket speaks about his family history there. Every few years as a child, Chris would leave his mountain village in Nepal to reconnect to his family in the mountains of America. The walking stick he is using was made by an artist named Robert who was a fixture at Dorland Mountain Arts Colony. On the walking stick which he made, he carved the words “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” This quote is attributed to the Chinese philosopher Laozi, the reputed author of the Tao Te Ching.
The snow shoes that we are using are the traditional Huron/Algonquin type. In the outdoor footage, I’m wearing a replica of a wool coat traditionally worn in the Kashmir valley called a Phiran. I’m grateful to my friend Scott for lending me his coat many years ago so that I could make a pattern. Along with the coat, I’m using a Bandhani Odhni (woman’s dupatta/veil) from Rajasthan which Chris and I found on our honeymoon there. It’s traditionally worn over the head and across the chest. Colours and designs are important to status and region; red is the colour of marriage and green the colour of fertility. In Rajasthan, the red and yellow odhni called Piliya (referring to the colour yellow) is only given to a woman who has given birth to her first child.
I’m deeply grateful to Naomi Wray who sent us a copy many years ago of the Frank Wesley painting “Forgiving Father” which we featured in the mandir scenes. The clay deeps (oil lamps) we lit are the traditional ones used across India, with mustard oil and cotton wicks. The integration of the east (clay lamps) with the west (beeswax candles) being added into the altar are a symbol of our everyday life that has been wedded to India through childhood and marriage. The light we get from both is hard to define; it is our life. We hope it will be a blessing. -- Miranda Stone
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Miranda Stone, photo by Luke Parker
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'I made these, would you like one?' Kimiko holds up a jar of origami stars in a small jar she made. 'I figured it'd be great for the occasion. They say they bring luck. I also have some star themed bracelets I made, if you would rather have one of those-'
#❪ a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step ❫ / ic.#eath's starlight ball#open to guests!#kimiko loves origami and origami stars so i think this would b cute#but also friendship bracelet lover and maker kimiko is so important 2 me
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She is waiting...
There is an old proverb that goes something like this: there's a mountain a mile wide and a mile high and once a year a bird sharpens its beak on the mountain. When the mountain has been worn away to nothing, a single day of eternity will have passed. Using this as a measurement of time, calculating the length of time that it would take for a bird to wear away a mountain with only a single day's work every year, she calculated that she had been waiting for a hundred thousand "eternal years".
In all that time she hadn't moved, not in stance anyway. Frozen in the same standing position as the first day, hurtling through space between planets, she had waited.
The first planet had seemed hopeful. She watched as the first slimy creatures crawled from the sea, witnessed their first fire, the beginnings of civilization. But then they made their first weapon, their first fight, their first war and eventually, their own destruction, burning the surrounding life with them. She spent a few thousand years there, far more than she should have, hopeful that something had survived, something small that would learn from the mistakes of their predecessors. But nothing was left, even the microscopic flecks in the waters had been poisoned or starved.
So she left, setting off into the void, searching for another world, her faith and hope damaged by the failures of the planet she had just left. The journey to the next world took a while, she had plenty of opportunities to witness the power of the universe. She saw the birth of a star, the collision of two planets, the death of an entire solar system, swallowed whole by a red giant in the centre.
Several million years later she arrived, crashing into the world in a plume of blue fire. She was later than she had planned to be, she had wasted time on the other planet, this time she wouldn't, this time hope had no place in her mission. She had landed in the outer edges of a small city, civilization already had a head start on her. She stood and watched, witnessing them. At first, she was feared, then she was worshipped, draped in colourful materials and surrounded by piles of meat and plants, presumably food for them.
But almost as soon as she had landed, they were gone. In just a couple thousand years the city was in ruins and she had long been forgotten, now tangled in plants and half buried in dirt. Once she had been found by a passerby who seemed to regard her for a minute, then walked off, never to return. Although the city was gone and she was forgotten, she stayed, for as long as there was life, there was still hope.
That was until the ground shook, dislodging her and snapping the plants that had entangled her for so long. The ground itself began to split, great chasms opening up to spill out hot lava, burning the everything around her. She decided to leave. As she rose into the air, higher and higher she saw that the continents of the planet were tearing themselves apart, the planet crumbling into itself.
She felt some comfort in the fact that they hadn't exploded themselves through war, rather through their own curiosity. If they had survived they may have eventually become the ones she was looking for. She moved on, to the next world.
She repeated this process, over and over. Travelling to distant worlds, watching entropy and creation twirling their cosmic dance, destroying stars to form planets, destroying planets to form asteroids, over and over again, a million times in a million different ways. She saw a billion civilisations rise from the dirt, only to be their own eventual destroyers. Occasionally a few shouted out into the void, searching for other worlds, something to prove they weren't alone. Very rarely they actually found each other but every time, they either destroyed each other or themselves.
She witnessed miracles, tragedy, victory, defeat, murder, birth, progress, degression and billions of special events. She was attacked, protected, worshipped, feared, forgotten, discovered, ignored, vandalized and sometimes expected. She stood upon ice, rock, dirt, land, sea and sometimes gas. Always unmoving, still, emotionless. She had a job to do.
When she arrived she expected nothing different. By now she had given up searching, she was only carrying out these tasks as there was nothing else to do. Planet #23567823452 was slightly grey and brown, mostly covered with a blue liquid. She landed on the top of a vast mountain, the ice crunching beneath her feet. Afar she could see a small town. This race was already fairly developed, using machinery for their labour and surviving with minimal effort. But this was nothing special to her, she had seen hundreds of planets far more advanced than this.
She stood for a week before she spotted one of them come for her. This surprised her a little, usually, when she isolated herself from the world's inhabitants she would wait several decades before she was discovered. As she stared intently she saw that a group of them were climbing the mountain towards her, she presumed that this was another civilisation that was going to worship her, why else would they climb a mountain? There was nothing else up there but ice.
As they drew closer to her she realised that their shape was similar to her own. But then again this wasn't the first time that this had happened, she had met beings similar to herself many a time. The beings were now a few paces away from her, they appeared to be wearing thick material, no doubt to keep themselves warm in these sub-zero conditions. Did they already have these materials built or did they make them especially to meet her?
The one closest to her remove the material from its head and looked at her. She almost instantly recognised him. Finally creaking out of her normal stance she took a step forward, raising an arm and touching the being's face. She had finally found them after all these years.
"What did you see?" The man in front of her asked, "Since we sent you back?"
She had a billion possible outcomes to reply to that, cycling through all of them in under a second, finally deciding on,
"Everything."
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elsa draco
Hi there! Here are some Elsa/Draco Malfoy stories that we found on Ao3! Enjoy!
Dancing Flames
Author: KrysKrossZee
Rated: Teen & Up
Pairing: Elsa/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 941
Summary: Elsa is visited by Draco in her quarters where he starts to pry into secrets and why Elsa and Anna are estranged yet living in the same palace.
A Royal Wedding
Author: KrysKrossZee
Rated: Teen & Up
Pairing: Elsa/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 3,078
Summary: The night before Draco's wedding to Elsa, he's having some doubts, even though he knows that he has no choice but to go through with the marriage.
To Melt a Frozen Heart
Author: Traumzauber
Rated: General Audiences
Pairing: Elsa/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 4,679
Summary: After many years of seclusion, Arendelle has finally reopened its gates to the outside world. Muggles and magical people flock to see the remote kingdom and its unusual queen.
Outlawed by the magical society of England, Draco and Narcissa Malfoy seek a fresh start in Arendelle.
At the big fest, which is supposed to bring the people closer together again, Queen Elsa is not the only one who is overwhelmed by the social attention.
Let Him In
Author: Articcat621
Rated: Teen & Up
Pairing: Elsa/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 107
Summary: Draco wants Elsa to realise that she's not the only one with ice around her heart.
Upholding Traditions
Author: KrysKrossZee
Rated: Teen & Up
Pairing: Elsa/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 2,590
Summary: Having been disgraced in the wizarding world, Lucius Malfoy is desperate to regain his offer - even if that means forcing his some into marriage with someone he's never met.
Libérée, Délivrée
Author: Queen_B
Rated: Teen & Up
Pairing: Elsa/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 200,523 (WiP)
Summary: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Or in Elsa's case, with a letter.
#Wizarding Crossover Connection#Elsa x Draco Malfoy#Elsa#Draco Malfoy#Disney Crossover#Harry Potter Crossover
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Arkcraft - Idle Adventure
Arkcraft - Idle Adventure
Game Arkcraft - Idle Adventure là dòng game Casual
Giới thiệu Arkcraft - Idle Adventure
The ancient powers of evil were revived.The terrifying demonic Lord has summoned a 🌊 flood that has engulfed the whole world. Rough waves destroy pirate captain Jack's ship, and his crew are Life and death is not yet known. The brave Captain Jack vowed to avenge himself. How does he rebuild his magnificent ship, rescue its crew, conquer demons, and ultimately save the world?
🔧• Rebuild the Ark
As a great captain, you must first have your own warship.
The flood swallowed your old love warship, and your crew members are also missing.
You need to build your brand new boat little by little until it becomes a magnificent ark!
You can collect stuff in the vast ocean, or produce stuff on your own ship, and then expand your ship!
Remember, Rome was not built in a day.
The same is true of your ark.
🤝🏻 • Expand the team
A wise captain, of course you can't just command yourself.
Your crew are all missing due to the flood.
You need to recruit new sailors to grow your team, and at the same time try to search and rescue your previously missing crew members as much as possible.
Note that each crew member you recruit has their own unique abilities. Train your crew members and let them become your powerful help against demons.
Hint: Unity is strength.
🎁• Collect equipment
As a heroic captain, of course, he is good at more than one weapon.
You and your crew will need weapons and armor to fight the demons, so you'll need to collect a variety of equipment to arm your crew.
Different weapons have different effects, so assign each weapon to the person who is best suited to it.
In addition, upgrading your weapons will increase the strength of your team, which will help you overcome stronger opponents.
There is an old saying that if a worker wants to do his job well, he must first sharpen his tools.
🌎•Explore the world
As an informed captain, of course you have to travel the world.
Demons are everywhere in this world. You need to walk all over the world and destroy all the enemies. On this way, you will sail across the ice ocean, through the rainforest, explore the volcano, go to the underground world, etc. Different regions have different stories, and different enemies are waiting! What are you waiting for? Set sail now!
Advice: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
🏹• Challenge others
As an ambitious captain, it was natural not to be content with conquering stupid demons.
In addition to fighting demons and traveling around the world, you can also fight against other players.
Assign your champion to compete against other players!
Beating other players can improve your ranking, and you will be rewarded at the end of each season!
Don't forget: I will be back.
If you have any comments and suggestions about our game, welcome to feedback!
Our email address: [email protected]
Download APK
Tải APK ([app_filesize]) #gamehayapk #gameandroid #gameapk #gameupdate
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The Art of Consistency
If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in my meager 28 years of existence is that starting something can be difficult, but the difference between success and failure depends on one factor: consistency. Having consistency means you have the will to follow through with the actions you start. We get a lot of practice with starting things, whether it’s the TV, our homework, or dinner. It becomes easier and easier to start things. Consistency is a test of our character and concentration.
The opportunity costs of consistency and concentration are usually minimal when the results of an action result in some immediate temporary gratification. Once you finish your homework you can watch TV. Once you turn on the TV you can really watch TV. Once you cook dinner you can eat and watch TV. Our brains usually comply when we want them to do things for immediate gratification. It’s delayed gratification that we have issues with.
In our society we don’t become masters of delayed gratification immediately. In fact it takes a while, and often times the things that society prepares us for that require an instense amount of concentration and consistency don’t give us the gratification we were waiting on.
Take school for an example. In the states you go to school starting at four or five and are told that to be successful in life you need to continue this strict regimen of going to school for six hours a day and then having two hours of homework at night (not to mention special projects, extracurricular activities, etc.) for the next thirteen years if you even want a shot at success. Then you’re told that you need to do an additional 2-5 years of special school so that you can get a job. But you’ll never get into special school without those first thirteen years. So you finally finish your first thirteen year sentence and you have this ceremony that, if you’re like me, you feel good about but not great.
When I graduated high school I didn’t stop to think about how much I’d given up to attain this little piece of paper that becomes a name that I write on an application or resume, that pretty much goes unnoticed by most of society. I doubt many perspective employers ask you about where you went to high school, but if they do...congratulations. For me, my graduation, which was held at this big Arena in New Orleans, felt like another day. I knew I was suppose to be happy because I was finally done. I remember spending most of that day trying to get my hair twisted only to have it mangaled by this sweet Nigerian woman and sprayed to obvilion with hairspray. Looking back at it, that hairdresser made my hair way better than what I was currently rocking but at the time I hated it. Long story short, my graduation was just a day and not a day I enjoyed very much because I had already suppressed the horrors of my thirteen years in academic prison. I had long forgotten the nights in fourth and fifth grade when I’d fall asleep at the kitchen table doing homework or how my back would hurt carrying 4-5 giant textbooks with me to school everyday. How I hated having the merit of my life judged by a letter grade. In that time the arts and sports were my escape from tests and studying, although I was advidly studying the arts and sports and regularly testing myself.
I graduated like most people that day, with the promise of the next four years giving me the gratification that those first thirteen didn’t seem to give me.
The irony is that after those four years and another additional year of special school, I realized the horrible truth of the lie my generation bought at age five. Depending on your field of study there arent many jobs waiting for you when you finish almost two decades of school. Even for most basic jobs employers want employees who have experience. And if the only thing you’ve experienced in 21 years of life is school you’re as good as useless to most people looking for people to work a job.
So why is job experience so important. Simple. It demonstrates consistency and concentration over an extended period of time for the completion of a goal that doesn’t immeadiately impact your survival or level of gratification. Meaning you’re able to work this job for somebody else and get the job done and then be content until you’re finally paid for those services. But school is experience right??? Yes, but the majority of that time was involuntary servitude. In most places in the states you legally have to go to school until you’re sixteen. Everything you did past high school is a choice and if you choose to study you are positioning yourself to get better jobs but not necessarily building experience to actually complete jobs.
So Charles why are you telling me this? Well I almost didn’t write this blog this week. 2019 is tying to bring that 2018 energy with it but hasn’t realized were not doing that anymore. So I realized that it was more important that I continue my blog than to start it. That continuing to post sets a pattern in the Universe’s source code. It’s telling the Universe, hey pay attention to this thing because I want it to be easier for me to do this thing and I want to do this thing more and more. As we all struggle to leave 2018’s baggage behind and become the embodiment of our fully manifested life goals for 2019, I’d like to offer this word of encouragement: Keep Going! Consistency is the key, whether you’re trying to start a new diet, restructure your finances, get a new job, or finish a big project.
Although I wasn’t the biggest fan of school I had an amazing amount of time as a kid to do extra cirricualr activities and I explored all types of art from visual art to theatre, writing, dance, film, and eventually music. I’ve been consistently working on the arts for maybe twenty five years and now I’m a full time artist. Whether it’s teaching art, performing art, writing about art, everything I do is centered around the things I was passively pursuing as a kid. This year I’m committed to growing into a new and beautifully renewed individual so I’ll keep posting the process here in hopes that it will continue to inspire me and anyone reading this not to give up when everything around us says we should.
Do the difficult things while they are easy and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step- Lau Tzu
The paradox of education is precisely this - that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated- James Baldwin
An unexamined life is not worth living- Plato
When I'm not longer rapping, I want to open up an ice cream parlor and call myself Scoop Dogg- Snoop Dogg
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