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andraaste · 3 years

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I am not your enemy - Lance fanfiction part 9

So, here's the last chapter for now. I hope I can introduce you to the next one fairly quickly, but it's still being written. Hoping you liked those already released and see you soon for chapter 10 🐉

(Link for Chapter 10 here)

Chapter 9 : I've always been used to only showing my human form

My footsteps echoed in the silent of the Guards' Corridor. I had just left Lance's room and it was with a much lighter heart than when I entered that I walked away. The distant rumor of the happy conversations had finally died down, leaving me wondering how long I had been able to spend with the dragon.

Finally, I didn’t regret my impromptu visit. Even if our understanding remained fragile and our points of convergence continued to darken the picture, his presence had nevertheless proved, in many respects, more beneficial than harmful. So, to my surprise, I never believed that one day I would come to beg for his patience to relieve my ailments.

Unlike the last time, it was with a feeling of euphoria that I could feel the magic continue to flow through me. Not as vigorously as when I awakened my powers, but undoubtedly, its power had slowly returned to pulsating in my veins. When I wiggled my fingers, I could still feel bits of heat run through my muscles. And the strangest thing about it was that instead of wearing me out, this power rush seemed to invigorate me.

For the first time in weeks, I felt good.

Looking up, I noticed that a small figure was wandering right in front of me. In the half-light of the corridor, I narrowed my eyes to try to make out her more clearly. When she passed in front of one of the windows, the moonlight let me see the face of a little girl with long, light hair. Not seeming to notice my presence, she continued to wander until she reached the entrance to the Crystal Room, right next to me. When the girl finally reached my height, I was surprised to find myself overcome by a familiar feeling.

Did I know this child ?

The young girl finally entered the room without a glance in my direction. Intrigued and attracted by her aura, I decided to follow suit.

I entered in my turn cautiously and almost immediately, a feeling of serenity had seized my heart when my gaze rested on the immense Crystal enthroned religiously in the center of the large room. On the doorstep, I was dumbfounded for a moment.

Strangely enough, I had not been back here since waking up. Truth be told, I had even avoided that room in which I had spent far too much of my life.

However, I didn’t know for what reason.

Bathed in a soft light, the Crystal seemed so imposing to me that I could not look away for several seconds. Without realizing it, my steps slowly led me to it, my hand timidly extended in front of me. As my fingers approached the smooth surface of its barrier, I felt the warm energy of my powers unleashed down my arm to the palm of my palm. Kinds of tingling covered me almost entirely and it’s the shortness of breath that I felt one of my fingers cross the protection which surrounded the luminescent crystals.

- Andraste ?

I jumped even more at the hearing of the voice that echoed behind my back. As if caught in the act, I quickly withdrew my hand and turned to my interlocutor.

It was his long blonde hair that I noticed first.

- Leiftan, what are you doing here ?

How had I managed not to realize his presence ? Since the big battle, aengel and I were connected. Whenever he stood next to me, I got to feel his emotions as if they were mine, and probably the other way around.

- I'll turn the question back to you, he said to me, his face marked by a certain curiosity. I couldn't get to sleep. When I left my room, I saw you come out of one of them and lead you here.

He marked a silence full of innuendo before adding, in a much colder tone :

- From Lance's, it seems to me.

I tensed at hearing his last sentence. A dull anger seized for a short moment in my heart and it took me a few seconds to realize that it was not mine.

- Yes, I just needed to clear some things up with him.

- At this time of night ?

I had the impression of undergoing the interrogation of a jealous lover, except that it did not concern him.

- I have no further explanation for you, Leiftan.

The latter didn't answer anything and just probed my face.

I had seen him very little lately. The aengel seemed to do his utmost to flee any presence and to keep away from all responsibility. I had already tried to ask him to train me, especially about my powers because until now, he had been the only one who could help me, but he had each time declined my requests.

- Good. But I reiterate, what are you doing here in the middle of the night ?

His anger had subsided, I only felt a great calm accompanied by a touch of curiosity. But his question brought me back to reality.

Where had the little girl gone ?

I realized that I had not seen her since I entered the room.

- I saw a child come in here, I said, hesitating to continue. There was something strange about her.

- Can you explain to me ?

I was a little confused on how to phrase it. How do I tell him that his aura attracted me ?

- She reminded me of... the Oracle, I finally let go.

His eyes widened slightly at what I was advancing, but he quickly regained his composure.

- I think I know who you're talking about.

- Really ? I exclaimed, in my turn surprised.

- Yes, Huang Hua reported to me the presence of a child in the HQ that nobody knows anything about. She does not speak, but some people have speculated that there is a connection between her and the Oracle.

I couldn't believe my ears. This little one has something to do with the Oracle ?

- I have for my part never crossed, I can tell you nothing more.

- Do you know how long she's been at HQ ?

He knew very well where I was going with this.

- It seems to me that she was noticed for the first time shortly before our return, he announced to me, his face serious.

Leiftan and I pondered his words. Our awakening was clearly not trivial, something strange was manifesting itself on Eldarya and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.

- I'll leave you, it's getting late and I think you might be better off doing the same.

He walked towards the hallway door and added quietly :

- Good night, Andraste.

Giving me one last look filled with infinite sadness, he finally left the room.

- Good night, Leiftan, I answered weakly.

Two days passed following these two unexpected interviews and the guard finally charged me with a few simple missions which occupied my days. My visit to the dragon chamber had really been fruitful, because since our discovery on the possible communion of our powers, I had the impression that mine had never really left me. I had thus discovered that I was again able to send a faint light from my hands, even in the absence of Lance, which gave me incredible surges of energy. I was finally starting not to tire myself at the slightest effort, even if I continued to perceive anomalies in my physical state, which did not prevent my mood from being markedly improved.

Having joined the Obsidian Guard, I had therefore started to perform the few requests that I was able to do as long as there was no specific mission to perform. I walked through the forge when I heard a voice that I recognized immediately.

My heart was racing against my will.

- We're going to need enough materials to consolidate these weapons. It will also be necessary to train new recruits and see their level in combat. I don't have time to train everyone, but I trust you to give me your feedback.

Without being noticed, I walked over to a shelf and put down what I had just bought at the market. Trying to concentrate on my task, I couldn't help but strain my ears.

- No worries boss, you know you can count on me. I already have some reports for you.

- Very good. Thanks Falco, it's a great job.

The young man by the name of Falco put a solemn fist on his heart and bowed slightly before stepping out of the forge. I was speechless. It was the first time that I had seen Lance as the leader of the guard and I had to admit that he seemed made for it. His naturally bossy tone commanded respect, and I was troubled to see the trust and admiration his subordinates seemed to have in him.

Pretending not to have noticed it, I bustled about my task and listed the effects I had just bought before putting them away in each compartment. After that, I gathered the things I needed to be able to complete my missions for the day and get out of here. But to my chagrin, one of the items on the list was at the top of one of the shelves. Huffing in annoyance, I reached out as far as I could but only managed to touch the end of the object. I was about to give up the idea when an arm appeared in my sight and effortlessly grabbed the mesh I needed. Standing behind me, I didn't have to see him to know who he was, though.

The tanned hand of the leader of the Obsidian patiently handed the object to me.

Turning my head, I fell on a bluish gaze plunged into mine. I grabbed the object not avoiding the trouble, I was going to succeed in catching it.

- Thank you, but it was not worth it, I was going to manage to catch it.

A carnivorous smile stretched his features.

- Yet I thought I understood the reverse.

- It must be because of your chivalrous soul, you can't help but rescue a young girl in distress.

Lance gave a deep laugh that echoed close to my ear. He then pretended to look for a parchment in front of me and very quickly, I found myself stuck in the space of his arms. The rest of his words echoed even closer.

- It's true, but I think it's only in your presence, that.

He wasn't looking at me as he said those words, focused on a point straight in front of him. I remained frozen in place, I was far too aware of his proximity all around me to dare a movement.

- And so, you felt compelled to help me? It's funny, I knew you rather inclined to serve me more than anything else.

I felt the dragon smile behind my back.

- You're not wrong. But didn't you already tell you that I had changed ?

- Yes. And far too many times for my taste, if you want to know.

His laughter echoed between us once again and I couldn't help but smile too. He eventually found the parchment he was looking for and finally withdrew his arms, allowing me to finally resume my normal breathing.

- You are free tonight ? he asked me as if nothing had happened.

In response, I gave him a dumbfounded look that amused him once again. He was definitely in a good mood today.

- It seems to me that you asked me for help with a certain thing and that I suggest you do that tonight.

With a lump in my stomach, I found myself knocking on Lance's bedroom door again at a late hour, preferring to avoid the busy times in the hallway so as not to be surprised. This time, the dragon opened me much faster and moreover, he had taken care to keep some of his armor while still being more comfortable. Without a word, he let me in as if the gesture had already become a habit, and closed behind my back just as eloquently. He moved away from the clapper and briskly walked around me to remove his gloves and place them on his desk.

He seemed to ignore me completely. I waited several seconds but he definitely showed no sign of starting a conversation.

- So like that, you invite a girl to your room and you play the distant guy? I gave him bluntly.

Taken aback, the dragon looked at me with a strange eye, looking amused but also ...

An amused smile was born on his lips.

- You would have more interest in remaining a nice girl and not looking too much for me on this ground, you know. I will not hold back indefinitely, he said, planting his gaze on mine, in which I thought I read some undisguised envy.

Did I understand what he meant ?

My god, I was very hot all of a sudden.

- Lance ...

Seeing that he had managed to confuse me, the dragon seemed to revel in having cornered me. Because if I answered, the slope could become too slippery and we both knew it.

He laughed under his breath before finally changing the subject.

- Do you have any news about your powers ? he asked me.

Relieved, I smiled slightly before rolling up my sleeve and letting the beams of light travel up my arm. I thought I saw an imperceptible admiration appear on his face.

- Their feeling hasn't left me since the other night. It's still very weak, I can barely use it, but they're there, I finished with a hint of pride.

Lance tilted his head, suddenly looking thoughtful.

- It's a very good start. We will already start by focusing on this element before tackling a more complicated one.

- More complicated ?

- Well in my memories, you had a huge pair of wings on your back, he said with a thin smile.

My wings ... it is true that with Leiftan, he was the one who had seen my powers the most at work, in the end. Even though it was clearly not in the best of conditions. Thoughtful, I passed an absent hand between my shoulder blades but unsurprisingly, no trace of wings marked my back.

- It's true, I would love to find them, I said softly.

A memory suddenly came back to me.

- Tell me, the other night when I left your room, something rather strange happened.

- What ? he asked me, suddenly really intrigued.

- Going out into the hallway, I passed a child walking alone. She didn't seem to have noticed my presence. She went to the Crystal Room and when I followed her, she sort of ... disappeared.

Lance seemed to think for a moment.

- It is probably Ophéliai where it comes from, even if some hypothesize...

- That she would have a connection with the Oracle, I continued in his place.

Like every time something intrigued him, he raised one of his eyebrows.

- Indeed. But why are you telling me about it ?

I pursed my lips. I hadn't told anyone what had happened before Leiftan arrived in the room.

- When I entered, I felt a kind of connection between the Crystal and me. My powers absolutely seemed to want to manifest, and I don't know how that protective barrier works, but when my finger went through it...

- Wait, he stopped me, you crossed the barrier ?

I hesitated for a moment. Was it a good idea to confide in him ?

- Yes, at least, I had started to cross it. But the closer I got, the more I felt that my aengel strength was taking over. It was ... powerful.

Lance was silent for a long time, seeming to analyze my words. I clearly didn't like his silence.

- I think it's not for nothing if you saw her that night precisely, he began. You had just reactivated your powers, and if Ophelia really has a connection to the Oracle, it wouldn't be surprising if she sought to get in touch with you. The barrier is an enchanted protective field, normally no one is supposed to be able to cross it, but I guess that last point is not for you.

He paused again before concluding :

- I don't know if it's a good thing or not, but the Oracle seems to try to push you to use them, or at least to find them.

The words of the leader of the Obsidian echoed what I had feared. The Oracle seemed to want to get in touch with me, but for what reason exactly ?

I wondered if Leiftan's presence that evening was really harmless...

- Hopefully I can find them entirely, then. I don't feel that all of these events are heralding anything good.

- Me neither, if you want to know everything, he said in a serious tone. In any event, this proves that the process will have to be speeded up. I also thought about what happened between our respective magics, and I would like to try something else.

Playfully, Lance slowly approached the center of the room. When he reached my height, I was amazed to see ice blue scales appear along his skin. Escaping from the collar of his top, they went up to the bottom of his face, much like when he had marked me with his streaks two days before. His arms and hands also covered, more sparsely, and soon I could see a dragon tail wagging calmly behind his back.

I was totally fascinated by his appearance. I had seen him in his draconian form before, but never that way. Seeing him half transformed in this way reminded me of Tia, his mother, whom I had seen by his side in the memories of his ancestors in Memoria.

As if drawn in spite of myself, I raised a hand and let it slide along the scales that covered the base of his jaw. Rigid and cold, I felt them vibrate slightly under my fingers as his gaze never left me. Lance looked surprised at first, straining under my fingers, but finally let me.

- Do you feel better like that ? I asked him, watching the play of lights reflecting off the blue of his now hardened skin. Tia seemed more comfortable in this form, did you too ?

The dragon did not move a millimeter, but hearing his mother's first name, I saw him swallow his saliva with difficulty.

- I've always been used to showing only my human form, so it's very easy for me to stay that way. But yes, the most comfortable appearance is this, he told me in a deep and low voice, almost ashamed.

I gently pulled my hand away and watched his scales move slightly, as if a shiver ran through him just where my fingers left him.

- They are beautiful, I said, looking up to his.

I saw him swallow again and thought for a moment that he was going to make a move in my direction, but he finally restrained himself and just said :

- I avoid showing myself like that, in general. Normal people don't really feel confident when they learn they are in the presence of a dragon, he argued, his jaws clenched. Moreover for most, this form can seem repulsive.

I was shocked to hear those words. Faeries must be used to seeing creatures of all kinds, so why should the appearance turn them off ?

- I find it anything but repulsive, I felt compelled to tell him. And yet, I have lived much longer on Earth than here.

His features relaxed under my words.

- Dragons are believed to be a long extinct race, and their stories are largely unknown to the people of the lands of Eel. It is therefore not surprising to see them react in a virulent way to something that they thought was gone.

- Maybe, but it's still silly, I said, quite annoyed. Dragons are certainly very large, but certainly not repulsive.

Lance looked at me for a long time before laughing. His gaze suddenly softened.

- I hope I can count on your bravery to kick their buttocks for me, in this case.

I returned his smile sincerely, rocked by this revelation that saddened me for injustice. Because in a way I could understand what he was feeling. How would people react if they saw me walking around with aengel wings on my back ? They would probably be scared too, even if my form was softer than his.

I realized that humans and faeries looked more alike than I thought, the same fear of the unknown marking them indelibly.

- Well, what did you want to try, suddenly ?

His gaze suddenly became serious again, but the weak smile never left him.

- Do you know if you trust me, or still not ?

I hadn't really expected this question. But if I was here now, it had to be a bit like that, right ?

- Let's say I trust you a little more than before, I tell him cautiously.

He nodded in approval.

- I've been doing quite a bit of research on the powers of aengels and dragons since the other night, and there is something I would like to try. But for that, you have to trust me a minimum.

- All right, tell me what to do.

(Chapter 10)

#eldarya fanfic #eldarya new era #eldarya #eldarya lance #eldarya writing #fanfiction #ashkore #lance #i am not your enemy

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moony-artnstuff · 3 years

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Commission @smol-wincheeseter

Note: @smol-wincheeseter Hi hun! Here is your commission. Sorry that I didn’t post it yesterday, my computer crashed☹ I tried to add as many elements as possible, hope you like it, and I hope you’re doing alright!

WARNING: Depression, suicidal thought, self-harm (although prevented) Please read carefully and stay safe!

“Lassie? Is everything alright?”

You were shaken out of your thoughts by the sound of a voice. As you blinked your eyes and became aware of your surroundings again, you noticed Bofur had placed his hand over yours, which were resting in your lap. You turned your head to look at the dwarf and were met with his concerned gaze.

“Bofur?” you asked confused.

“You suddenly stopped carving,” he explained, motioning to the half-finished wooden figure beside you, “and then when I looked up you were scratching your hands and clenching your teeth. Are ya doing okay?” For a moment you just blinked, still processing the words. Then you put up the smile you always wore, and answered,

“Yeah, I’m fine, I was just… distracted for a moment. Thinking about my own world, you know?” and you hoped he would believe you. Bofur simply gave you a sympathetic smile.

“If you ever feel the need to talk about it, or anything at all, I’m always here.” and he gave your hand a friendly squeeze before standing up.

“Now, if my nose isn’t betraying me, I’d say Bombur has finished cooking us dinner, let’s go see what he’s made us.” and he offered you his arm. As you took it you hoped the smile was still present on your face, as only the thought of food made you want to throw up. When the two of you arrived you sat down next to Fili and Kili, quickly joining them in their conversation. Laughter soon filled the air, as you started to crack jokes, making Fili clutch his stomach while his brother almost fell off the log you were sitting on. And then Bombur handed you your plate with food.

“Here you go, y/n!” he said cheerfully, a kind smile on his face, “We got lucky today. I’ve found some really good spices to make it taste extra good, I hope you enjoy it!” and his gaze almost seemed hopeful as he handed you your dinner. You assured him his cooking skills were most excellent, while trying to force down the nauseous feeling in your stomach. Even though it wasn’t a lot of food - the companies rations were scarce, and it was a matter of luck whether or not hunting would offer any food - but you could already feel the calories adding to your body, and it made you sick. Most of the evening you just played around with your food, listening to the talking around you, and every now and then putting a small bite into your mouth when a member of the company was looking your way, when all of the sudden you heard a strange sound next to you. As you turned your head you saw Bilbo trying to sneakily put some of his food on your plate. He abruptly stopped his movements when he noticed you looking at him, and he went beat-red.

“I- I um…”

“Bilbo? What are you doing?” You asked, wondering why that sweet little hobbit, who already had to deal with less meals than he was used to, was putting his food on your still almost full plate.

“Um.. I just- I didn’t mean…” he stammered, before taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry, I just thought that- you haven’t been eating a lot lately, and- and I’m worried about your health so I… I thought you could do with a little more food.” Bilbo had placed his plate back in his lap with his gaze fixed on his feet, hoping you were not mad at him.

“That’s very sweet of you, Bilbo” you swallowed, willing down the upcoming tears, “but you needn't worry about me, I’m just not that hungry.” You quickly stood up, flashing him a grin before continuing,

“I am rather tired however, so I’ll be heading off to bed now. Good night!” and before Bilbo could say another word you had turned around and made your way for your bedroll, even though you knew sleep wouldn’t come to you that night. You weren’t angry at Bilbo. You knew he only meant to do good, but you couldn’t stand eating the food, couldn’t even bear the thought of having to eat more of the food. As your head hit the pillow, dark thoughts started to consume your mind. How long would you have to go on like this?

As the night got darker more and more members of the company made their way to their bedrolls, until eventually only Dwalin and Fili - who were on nightwatch together - and Bofur remained. The latter sat on a big rock overlooking the valley below, smoking his pipe as he was lost in thought. He worried about you. A lot. He noticed you acted rather strange as of late, even though you seemed to try and hide it. At first Bofur figured it was simply the homesickness for your own world that made you seem detached from reality, and that, being as young as you were, it were the travel circumstances that made you seem so tense and exhausted at moments. But then his brother informed him that you started to eat less and less, and he heard from Fili and Kili that most nights you would barely sleep at all. And then there was your strange humming. Now, there was nothing wrong with humming of course, Bofur himself was always singing one kind of folk song or another, so it wasn’t the humming itself that was strange. No, it was what would happen after that. You would get up in the middle of the night and start to wander around, seemingly in trance until Ori had shaken you out of it, or when not even a few days ago, you had come back from bathing in the river, and had cut off all of your hair up until your ears. Bofur had worriedly asked you what happened, but you simply said you had wanted a change of style, and so he had reluctantly dropped the subject.

“You’re thinking about y/n too?” Fili’s voice startled Bofur out of his thoughts, and made him turn his head to look at the blond haired prince.

“Aye, I am.” he sighed.

“She’s been getting worse lately,” Fili continued, “I’m not sure what exactly is going on but, I- I fear she might be hurting herself, and she’s not reaching out for help, so I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ve been trying to keep an eye on her,” Dwalin spoke, who had joined them on Bofur’s other side, “been tryin’ to make sure the lass was eating and stayed in her bedroll, but I can’t stay awake all night.” and the warrior let out an audible sigh. Bofur fondly shaked his head at the warrior.

“Softy.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all.” and the three dwarves let out a chuckle, but it was short-lived when they simultaneously realized; humming. They whipped their heads around to look at your bedroll, only to find you gone, and so was Fili’s knife. Then Dwalin saw a glimpse of your form disappearing into the forest, and he ran after you, Bofur and Kili hot on his heels.

You only faintly realized you were humming as you wandered into the forest, some distant kind of melody from the subconscious of your mind. You didn’t feel the sting of sharp rocks under your bare feet, or the cold wind chilling you to the bone. You just felt tired. Tired and numb. When you stopped walking you had arrived at a small clearing. As you let yourself sink to your knees you started to toy with Fili’s knife, looking at the runes and marking embedded in the blade. It wasn’t your intention to take it without asking, but it was the closest sharp object you could find. You didn’t like the sting of the blade on your skin, you knew you shouldn’t be doing this, but you felt like such a burden to the company of Thorin Oakenshield. You deserved to be punished, didn’t you? You deserved to-

“STOP!”

A startled cry made you look up, and before you knew it someone removed the knife out of your reach and warmth enveloped your body as Fili wrapped his fur coat around you.

“What in Mahal’s name do you think yer doing lass?! Ya could’ve seriously injured yourself!” You recognized Dwalin’s voice. He sounded… almost concerned?

“Y/n… please, don’t do these things to yourself, we care too much for you to hurt yourself.” and it was as you met Bofur’s glassy eyes that tears started to form in yours. A broken sob left your throat as you tried to bury yourself further in Fili’s coat.

“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t mean to- I’m so sorry!” and you wept as three pairs of arms surrounded you in a hug, letting out all the hurt and anguish you had bottled up inside you.

“It’s alright lassie,” Bofur choked, “you’re gonna be alright.”

Dwalin carried you back to camp as Bofur collected some extra tunics and some warm socks for you to put on. While they helped you get dressed, Fili went to quietly wake up Oìn, softly explaining what had happened. The old dwarf tended to your cuts; cleaning and bandaging them, making no comment except for the shake of his head. When he was finished, he took both of your hands in his, squeezing softly to make sure he had your full attention as he said,

“If you ever need me to patch you up after these kinds of things, don’t be afraid to ask. I will not judge or make any comments, as long as I get to make sure you get looked after.” then he patted your hands one more time, before making his way back to his bedroll.

After that Fili and Dwalin went back to their nightwatch, but not before Fili insisted you kept wearing his fur coat. “You need it more than I do”, he had said. As you looked their way, you noticed Dwalin glancing at you from time to time, as if to make sure you were still there.

“Lassie?” Bofur said, and you turned to meet his gaze.

“I just want you to know that it’s okay not to be okay sometimes. Life isn’t always gonna be great, sometimes it just sucks, and makes you believe you’re things that you're not, that you’re someone who doesn’t deserve to be here, and when that happens I want you to come to me. I want you to know that you are worth it, so much. And that you are loved, and cared for, and irreplaceable. So please…” and he took his hat off and plopped it onto yours,

“Keep on living, and I promise you, the sun will shine on you again.” and that’s when you knew. That’s when you knew that you deserve people to care for you, you deserve people to tend to your wounds, to tell you it’s gonna be okay, and people to hold you when life feels like drowning you. Fondly gazing at your bandaged wrists, with Fili’s coat around you, Dwalin’s watchful gaze and Bofur’s caring smile, you knew;

You are loved.

#commission #the hobbit #the hobbit x reader #bofur x reader #Bofur #dwalin #dwalin x reader #fili #fili x reader #platonic #the company #the company of thorin

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snifflesthemouse · 3 years

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Harry’s Blaming the Wrong People for his Genetic Trauma... Chapter Two of Lady Colin Campbell’s book reveals a lot!

The more I listen to Lady Colin Campbell’s YouTube Channel, the more I realize how little I truly paid attention to what she was really saying in her most recent book. Lady C is a woman of high caliber. She understands better than anyone that HOW something is said matters MORE than WHAT is said. She knows how to get information out there in a way that prevents any lawsuit happy turkeys from getting litigious. There is more than one way to say something. Finding the way that says it all without saying it all… well that is an artform.

To be honest, I believe all the answers we really want to know are woven into that book. Here recently, especially since the video about Princess Anne and the conversation had with Harry, I have noticed little clues dropped. One could almost argue that Lady C has somewhat direct information being given to her from close sources. And it is worth noting, to date there have been zero legal actions taken by the Montecito Muppets. Because of this, I have started re-reading Meghan and Harry, The Real Story. It’s important to remember I am taking this go-round literally line-by-line. This post is specifically about chapter two in the book.

Chapter two is the chapter in which Lady Colin Campbell provides us with Harry’s and his wife’s upbringings. She draws comparisons between both spare and spouse, as well as contrasting points. When she gets to Harry’s side, the light bulb started to get juice. You see, when you consider that Lady Colin Campbell was first chosen by Diana to write the biography Andrew Morton later got tapped to pen, Lady Colin Campbell was given a unique opportunity. She was able to see who the person was behind the media image of Diana, Princess of Wales.

She could not put aside her dignity, her responsibility of the truth, to seal that deal. Andrew Morton had no qualms with twisting truths slightly to perpetuate the Diana Saga. When you factor in Lady Colin Campbell’s knowledge on the British Royal Family, especially regarding the Queen Mother, you realize that Lady C is telling us who’s really behind the Montecito Man-Child just called Harry. Which again brings me back to the light bulb moment.

This whole time, Harry and his wife have been hurling accusations at his family. Harry especially pointed blame toward his father, grandmother, and late grandfather for causing his “genetic pain” and trauma. But if we look at what Lady Colin Campbell writes in chapter two of the book, we learn the reality of life growing up for William and Harry. Lady C writes in chapter two that Diana would encourage the boys to go against the grain, even if that meant bucking the protocols and measures put in place to protect the Crown’s survival.

Lady C mentions that William and Harry both were wild children with little to no rules to follow from their mother. She writes that Diana was infamous for screaming matches, throwing matches, and the peace of the home rested solely on the status of Diana’s love life. She says Charles was approving of James Hewitt, knew of their affair, and was okay with him teaching the boys how to ride horses. Diana would rotate between James Hewitt, Hasnat Kahn, and eventually Dodi. When trouble was brewing for Diana and a lover, she brought that trouble to Charles.

Furthermore, the Queen Mother was so concerned with instilling her own influences on the future of the Crown, she was a major influence in the issues between Prince Charles and his mother, Her Majesty the Queen. Lady Colin Campbell even writes in chapter two that the Queen Mother would tell Prince Charles it isn’t his place to stand up to the mother of his children, even when she was leading her boys down a wild-child path.

History cannot ignore the facts. Lady Colin Campbell even highlights how Diana’s own grandmother was so disgusted with how Diana was behaving and undermining the monarchy, she died before Diana and she could make amends. Her grandmother was a Lady of the Bedchamber for the Queen Mother, and she died 4 years before Diana. Her own grandmother saw through her tricks, as the Queen Mother did.

Again, what’s my long, drawn out point? Well, just in the first half of chapter two… we learn that Charles is a hot mess because of the Queen Mother’s meddling and Diana was the one in control of how the boys were raised. As a matter of fact, Diana was known to tell the boys “do whatever you want as long as you don’t get caught”.

Of course, I still have the rest of chapter two to finish, but I found it especially interesting that Lady C quotes the Kensington Palace chef, Darren McGrady (1993-1997) as remembering Diana telling him frequently to keep an eye out for William. She would tell him that William would manage, but Harry was an airhead like her. The exact wording on page 47 of the book says “You take care of the heir; I’ll look after the spare” (Campbell, 2020). So what does all this mean? Why does it matter? And how is THIS a light bulb moment for me?

Well, when you consider the fact Harry and his wife repeatedly bash his own family (more so from the former lately than the latter)… and you consider the factual recollections from everyone else… you realize Harry is blaming the wrong people for his problems. He says his father and grandparents are to blame for his own pain, that his father only treated him how he was treated by his own parents. But that goes against reality and truth. Because Charles was raised differently than his siblings; mainly because of the Queen Mother favoring him. Plus, William and Harry spent far more time residing with their mother than they did their father. By the age of twelve, a child’s personality is already well-seeded and developed. Essentially, who you were around puberty is who you are now, save for the maturity gained.

What we have here is repeated historical recollections of both women, the Queen Mother and Diana, being at the source of it all. Charles failed to step in and prevent his boys from growing up wildly misbehaved because he took more advice from the Queen Mother than his own mother and father. We have Diana constantly instilling in Harry this sense of bucking tradition and being the rebellious one. Both women had a direct hand in creating who Harry is. Both women left him rather large chunks of change when they passed. Yet… neither are blamed when Harry goes on the record? You mean to tell me, the two women who essentially gave you all of your wealth… the two women who predominately raised you to a teen… had no impact on you life nor bare some of the weight of responsibility for your issues? Just your father? Hmm.

Why does Harry only blame his father and his grandparents? Why doesn’t he ever utter one word about his mother that is honest instead of some fanatical warped version of a distant memory? He instead hoists all the blame from his own mother and great-grandmother onto the Royal Family. Why does he never mention how his mother would have screaming matches with his father, throwing things, or how she had multiple heated affairs of her own? How she struggled with her own relationships and would gaslight his father? We hear him slant his father for cheating on his mother, but never a word about his mother cheating on his father, too.

My whole point is Harry is comfortable blaming the people still living who cannot respond to these accusations. He is not comfortable with the truth. Why? Well, let’s face it. A lot of the affection and love people have for Harry is transference. Most people “loved” him because they loved her. They loved Harry because she loved Harry. People felt like they were serving, honoring even, Diana’s legacy by sparing Harry a harsh glance. He’s the spare, “Diana’s second son” who’s not so bright. Hey let’s give the ol’ chap a break.

He can’t let anything get in the way of his mother’s victimhood, martyrdom, sainthood status. It tarnishes his own brand. When the world starts remembering the facts or realizing Diana wasn’t so innocent, the world stops garnering sympathy for Harry. The world isn’t as easily manipulated when they don’t feel sorry for you, remember? So, Harry’s biggest chore to date is protecting that image of the lamb taken to slaughter that he paints his mother to be. Without that, his own brand crumbles.

Sorry again for the rambling, but it’s important to truly think and consider just how vital a role both women had and still have in Harry’s life now. Two of the biggest reasons he could just leave the Royal way of life are the Queen Mother and Diana. They are also two of the biggest influences that made life as traumatic as it was. Yet, never a word mentioned about their own responsibility in Harry’s “generic pain”. Oops, meant genetic.

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exactlyenoughglitter · 3 years

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AO3 Pairings: Avallac’h/Eredin/Lara Warnings: non-con, NSFW, orgy, pegging, bondage, dead dove: do not eat Summary: Lara does not take Eredin's sneering implications, suspicions, and innuendos about herself and “her place” very well. Elves are proud, vengeful creatures. Disclaimer: An experiment for exploring the darker impulses of Avallac'h & Lara, which I think they might have in some capacity due to the very simple, insane fact that they were supposed to become parents to an elven Saviour with control over all Space & Time. It's a further experiment in exploring power and the dynamics of these three characters in a three-way pairing, which I, personally, do not consider very likely in any nice capacity.

The daughter of Shiadhal receives her guest standing in the middle of a rosette mosaic, underneath a chandelier dripping with riddling light refracting through heliotrope crystals. Tiny shadows dance on her low-cut anthracite dress, slit at the side, and in her long hair of white gold gleam mint alabaster gems set in filigree; the hairpiece cascades down the side of the woman’s head in a display of unparalleled artistry.

As it should.

For Lara is the most treasured apple of Alder Wood.

‘Your grace.’

‘Captain.’

Poplars sway gently in the evening wind. The tall windows make this open drawing room almost like the winter gardens of the upper palaces of Tir ná Lia. It is half-a-day’s ride from the capital to the chateau and the valley-grounds Lara favours.

‘Thank you for coming.’

He nods. ‘It would be the height of discourtesy of me to refuse a summons from your illustrious person.’

Emerald eyes shine on him coolly, with faint curiosity. It is that ruminative glint that so mocks its recipients, hinting at the possibility of care in the distant amusement of the one who was born forever a better to everybody and second to none. He knows that look well. It’s all he has ever received, all, they believe, a knight should be content with.

Delicate fingers of a spell-caster trail along a marble balustrade which divides the decorous space in two, until they reach crystal glasses and a pitcher under the roses.

‘Do you feel hungry?’ she asks. ‘Thirsty?’

‘Neither, your grace.’

‘But you are a man of great appetite, are you not?’

By way of an answer, Eredin offers half a smile. The spotless glasses and the pitcher have been prepared, but the elf does not sense the presence of either servants or handmaidens. It would appear their meeting is a private one; he wonders about that.

‘Well? Aren’t you curious?’

‘Nobody has ever called me incurious.’

‘To your face, maybe.’

‘Maybe,’ he crosses his hands behind his back. ‘Does your grace usually concern yourself with the barking of dogs?’

Lara gives a small laugh, which is beautifully hollow.

‘Could we drop this, do you think? This artificial politeness. This prancing.’

She approaches slowly, the anthracite fabric of her dress shifting with the sway of her hips. Eredin looks openly, for there is no point in complimenting the most beautiful woman in the world unless the compliment can say something beyond itself.

‘Behind closed doors,’ the daughter of the Alders speaks, ‘I have always been “that witch” to you and you, in turn, have always been one of my father’s beloved dogs to me. Well, when I say beloved.’ A burst of light blue butterflies erupts from a bowl drowning in greenery at one end of the balustrade. ‘I think we can speak freely, don’t you?’

‘By all means,’ he sneers. ‘Let us speak freely. If it is your freethinking ideals you wish to discuss –’

‘No, I do not wish to discuss! Not like this, not today, and not with you.’

He inclines her head at her. Unlike her mother, Lara is not an imposing woman. She is an ineluctable one.

Standing close, her eyes absorb the lines of his face. ‘We have never been friends, you and I.’

‘Have we not? Astonishing.’

But Lara changes tact, and this indeed does astonish the Sparrowhawk. An elegant pale hand lays down on top of the amaranth-vermillion cloak wrapped around the dark-haired elf’s strong shoulders. Eredin looks. The priceless jewels on Lara’s priceless fingers shimmer.

‘No. We have never been friends,’ she murmurs, letting her palm slide over the large silver brooch. ‘Even so, I am not my mother, Eredin. I wish to know what you think. As you said, perhaps there is something you can say – offer me – that no one else can. Perhaps I even wish we could be... friends?’

The heavy cloak, bearing the fresh smells of the journey, falls to the floor at the elf lord’s feet as the Gull departs as lightly as she had arrived, in a soft swish of a dress from which flashes the toned line of her leg.

‘I like curious men,’ she throws over her shoulder. ‘Are you one who is curious for its own sake, or one who is curious only to experience the satisfaction of satiation?’

‘Latter, I’m afraid,’ he trails her closely with his eyes. ‘Chasing the wind does not interest me in the slightest.’

‘Is that so? You never imagine what could be?’ a hint of something plays on her lips and she shows it to him. ‘Do you lack the imagination, or the means?’

Poplars rustle outside, along the whitewashed avenue and somewhere beyond, fountain water falls. Lara sighs.

‘I am not entirely sure I believe you.’

The secret something in her demeanour does not disappear as he approaches. It holds firm, even once they stand face to face by the marble balustrade under the brilliant chandelier. Jewellery in Lara’s hair crinkles like the spring melt as she looks on him, brazenly, and he feels his blood stirring.

‘Why did you summon me?’ he asks. ‘What is it exactly,’ he glances down the lean line of her neck, ‘that the princess of the Alder Folk requires of me?’

‘Understanding,’ she replies simply. ‘Of where we stand.’

A thin, unassuming string of gold winds around her neck, leading his eyes, while she trails her fingers along the petals of a rose, not letting her guest out of her line of sight for a second. The Gull’s eyes, Eredin has to admit, can put a spell on you. So he looks elsewhere instead.

‘I have been thinking a lot about our little dance lately,’ she says. ‘About your concern for me.’

‘Have you now?’

‘I have,’ her gaze falls briefly on his lips. ‘Or do you think I lack appetite?’

Her lips part, her eyes narrow. He takes another step. Her dress brushes his knees.

‘I am at your service.’

‘Then serve me.’

He catches her wrist on its way up.

Lara does not flinch, though a shadow darts behind her eyes. It pleases him. Perfume of iris and white musk mingles with the smell of wild roses, which Eredin loves. And that pleases him too.

Slowly, at his chosen pace, he moves the delicate hand of the Gull down. Slowly, along the curve of a narrow waist and round hips. To the slit of the dress.

Their eyes meet – green that is everything in green that is not – in that cool disdainful way before people make friends. He knows a little more still: that this is the look of all women who do not want to ask. Who do not have to ask – ever!

Eredin plunges their joined hands underneath the dress between Lara’s thighs. Neither of them so much as blinks. And then – after silk parts and she parts – then he raises her hand to his lips.

‘Wet.’ He tastes her. ‘Like any woman.’

He cannot proceed entirely how he would like though; despite seeing burgeoning fury and desire breaking the cool indifference in that lovely face. Lara makes his knees go weak – literally. With those nimble spell-caster’s fingers. Fingers that the elf believes would look elegant around his cock.

‘On your knees.’ She wipes her fingers in his hair. ‘Like any man.’ And sits on the balustrade.

Eredin does not respond any more.

His experienced hands clutch the front of the anthracite dress on which light and shadows twirl in fey regalia. Silver hooks clatter weakly against marble alongside pearl-trimmed panties and a tense gasp joins the rustle of poplars in the fragrant summer eve. Grasping Lara by the sides and tugging her against his waiting mouth, he smiles; the panties were probably a gift from Crevan.

Crevan, who does not know you as well as he thinks after all.

The weakness in his knees proves surprisingly persistent but easy to ignore.

It is easy when a firm thigh trembles on his shoulder, pushing the crowning jewel of the Alders further under her “dog.” When it is his lips that nudge apart the slick petals of her, him who smothers the trembling of her core around her swollen clit, him who presses it back and forth and drags his tongue all along that very special, very warm and wet cunt. Which in the end is just another cunt – to be sated.

It is easy.

The spells of Auberon’s little girl will crumble and she will rock against him in her insatiable hunger, and then he will put her face down on the floor, where people kiss her feet, and fuck her until she is heaving full of his seed.

‘I wonder,’ he murmurs, inhaling her, ‘if your fated can imagine you like this?’

‘Oh, Eredin!’

Lara’s fingers pull at his hair as she moans. He looks what has become of those iridescent pools of green that would mock him so, releasing her with a bite and a pop.

She smiles gently, her eyes far away.

‘He knows.’

The collar snaps into place.

---//---

Wisps of lazuline smoke rise under open lattice-work ceilings and skies that are paling pink. The humid nocturnal air is erupting in chirps, chits, trills, and the distinct whirring of dusky starfrontlets who dart from flower to flower in the hanging gardens. Lara follows them with her eyes, breathing palisander and fading notes of ozone, and feels fingers playing in her hair, scattered like aurous rain on huge, plush pillows.

She squeezes her eyes shut, holds her breath. The fingers stop, wondering. Then resume in a tip-tap between her shoulder blades.

Tip-tap. Tip-tap-tip. Tap –

Lara laughs into the pillow and shoves at the warm chest hovering over her, and Crevan’s smell washes over her as he falls into the pillows. He is showing her funny images.

‘Sleep, I beg you.’

‘No.’

‘You are cruel!’

She rises on her forearms, tossing her head back and stretching, and meets the witch-lines on his body along which she has walked and left her marks, lines which lead her to the male’s triangular face in which bright eyes, as intensely awake as hers, shine at her.

‘Cruel, do you understand?’

He smiles, softly. ‘I will put the sun in you.’

Sometimes Lara tries to imagine how it would be like to hear Crevan’s words as a lesser woman to whom words are just words, not spells. To whom their lover’s desire is solely a matter of acceptance and fleshly pleasure and not... sacral rapture. Or are they somehow the same – them and her?

‘Everyone is expecting... to have you, Lara... any man would... golden children you will give... waiting with bated breath... love is very dear... “cosmic significance”... satisfying your grace... do you know your place?’

She feels herself sinking deeper into the softness around them with the male’s hips pressing against her rear, lips lulling, appeasing over the scruff of her neck as the growing girth of him is sliding languidly back and forth between her thighs. And in return, on a mean whim stoked by the memory, she does something slightly rash. Slightly... impolite.

Because in the next moment the elf’s hands squeeze her painfully and then he is gone, and the ringing of wind chimes startles away the hummingbirds and spangled cotingas, and already Lara turns after him before her Fox can sulk, though knowing he will have an explanation from her as only the first of several repayments. But frankly, Lara can no longer bring herself to care about how below her this is supposed to be – everything is anyway – and so, she simply tells Crevan – about what their “friend” allows himself in her presence...

‘It is different between you, but I do not believe you have not noticed how he is,’ she says at last. ‘The way he speaks. To me? As if I owe him anything.’

Bare feet tap on tiles of black onyx with mother of pearl inserts and diamonds. Lara finds an abandoned glass of spiked ambrosia inside a feather crown and picks up the long pale-spotted lynx fur. Perhaps as a result of the delights of their night she feels everything more intensely, including the vengeful impulse overcoming her now. Perhaps it is simply what Lara is really like – with the ethereal strappings stripped away. The promised daughter and mother of blessed blood; an elven maid – not to be slighted.

‘Just imagine,’ she leans over the mahogany table toward him, rich fur softening the impact. ‘If the golden vessel that will feed our people with endless opportunities were nothing but a mindless, manageable, pretty trinket that would fit on your hip. Sentience is so troublesome, after all.’

‘Absurd.’

‘Is it? Is the state of my womb not a matter of the vox populi? A Daughter of Dana belongs to her people. Perhaps it has even given our captain the impression I should also belong to him?’

‘You belong to me.’

A strange thrill sparks in her and she catches his eyes.

‘This? This is,’ he twiddles his long fingers in the air, ‘little piggies’ blither. They are hungry and impatient and make a lot of noise, and this annoys my beautiful Lara. I do not like it.’

How his expression has changed, from concern and indignation in the beginning to something stronger. She realises then that Crevan’s anger is indeed a slowly burning thing, sly fury under turf, that once aroused can burn until the world is ancient.

She wonders if she can push this...

‘I don’t know, Crevan, sometimes I think you are more alike than it seems.’

The elf lord rolls his eyes, letting his head drop back. It should concern her but for some reason, right now, his ire excites Lara – very much.

‘Why do we allow him so much?’ she draws nearer to where he sits in sable furs under tall open glass doors. ‘Eredin –’

‘– is nothing,’ he intones. ‘Without us.’

‘You think?’ She steps between her Fox’s legs. ‘Sometimes it seems to me he fancies himself the prime stallion. A unicorn?’ And dangles the end of the fur seductively along the male’s thigh. ‘Are you certain?’

Crevan’s lip curls mockingly. Lara slides hers along the edge of a glass flute, looking and swaying, long hair tickling the small of her back, as the wizard contemplates her naked form, his beautiful brow drawn together in a scowl. She sits down on his thigh and his hand circles her waist, stroking the lynx guarding her nudity. Aromatic wisps of smoke bend around them on their way out. She leans into the kiss.

‘The best of me,’ she murmurs, ‘belongs to you. Always.’

‘Then why are you telling me about a rude horselord, instead of lounging about my neck?’

His tongue flicks over her lips before he takes hold of her with both arms, moves her into his place, and stands.

‘Where are you going?’

He gives her half a look, a lively low fire yawning in it, and reaches for a gown as the paintings along his back stalk in dawn’s twilight. Lara reaches for his wrist.

‘Wait!’

The night air hums. He looks inquisitively, letting her stroke his hand along the serpents. The sorceress’s eyes narrow as a thought occurs to her.

‘I have a better idea.’

‘Ah?’

‘Yes.’ She smiles up at him, her sun-blessed fox, with a smile that makes Crevan hers. Soft fur brushes her mouth. ‘But first, my heart, you will have to promise me –’

---//---

Lara’s head is reeling.

Attempting in vain to control the flushing of her neck, she watches how Crevan tugs her mother’s favourite about like a scary marionette on invisible strings. For a moment both men had resembled their namesakes to her – struggling with tooth and claw – until magic had brought brute force under its control. Magic from which such brute force derives.

In fascination she watches how powerful arms belonging to a lifelong warrior stretch out like the wings of a giant bird and are nailed down in fey bondage at a soft whisper from the sorcerer’s lips. It reminds her of how Crevan whispers to his birds. To me. The spasmodic twitching in their captive’s limbs is made that much more enchanting by the visible violence trembling in the veiled chains, which still succeeds in sending one of the stone planters on its plinth shaking.

‘Give in to me.’

They stand chest to back, light and dark. Alabaster skin under the spell-sown collar is reddening dangerously quickly.

‘Or you can garrotte yourself.’

At last, the Sparrowhawk goes still.

Quiet.

Water runs merrily in the in-door fountains, magic hums in the air. Lara guesses chit-chat might be coming hard to Eredin at present. Only the leer of his burning greens persists on her. Not that it matters, because his looks will shortly follow the floor on which he had imagined taking the most precious daughter of the Alders like a common whore.

Adjusting her partly ruined dress in a makeshift arrangement, Lara looks with no small amount of pleasure at how that hard-line of a back bends over the marble balustrade under duress from the Power, like a birch rod. Something in her envies her betrothed this fun, for this simple spell gives the sensation of bending blue steel with one’s fingers. She realises she can still feel the steel of those palms on her hips as she looks how Crevan’s hand runs up the back of Eredin’s neck and across his scalp, gathering pitch black hair and pulling it carefully away from the elf’s face above the velvet-lined collar; until he can curl the dark waterfall around his fist and yanks.

‘Look, my love!’ he gazes at her fondly. ‘I have a new mount for you!’

Lara’s eyebrows rise, she hides her excitement behind crystal. The sorcerer’s aquamarines, despite adoring her, are also colder than in the dead of winter. We agreed! Her Fox is not malicious by nature just... playful. Sometimes so in evil spirits, though.

‘Shall I break him in for you?’ he smiles.

The plinth shakes again dangerously, a few light blue butterflies emerging from the flora, and an ugly wheezing sound arises out of Eredin’s throat.

Lara nods. ‘Please.’

Her eyes fall on the collar.

‘Do you think you could –?’

He sucks in air like a drowning man.

‘You fucking witch!’

Oh, his voice is raw! Mangled from the burn that scathes tissue with electrifying heat, as if skin was nothing more but thin layers on a cabbage. White pin points dance at the edges of his vision and he feels the Sage’s annoying fingers flick against the side of his face.

Lara frowns. ‘I only allowed you to breathe, spared your voice. Gratitude really means too little to you.’

‘Oh princess, pretty princess,’ he hawks, intensely furious, ‘you do not fight fair, your grace.’

‘Would you?’ she sips at a drink. ‘I thought novelty thrilled you.’

‘Did you not say you wished for a friend in me?’

‘We will be friends – afterward.’

He laughs; somehow. It does not sound pretty.

‘I have annoyed you deeply then,’ Eredin grins, still tasting the woman on his lips. ‘Is fair Lara so irate with me perhaps for implying true things which even she has not become aware of yet? But such is truth – annoying. Simple, sometimes, and annoying. More so still to the Wise.’

Emerald eyes flash. ‘Truth?’

He knows he guesses correctly – about how traitorous are Auberon’s daughter’s thoughts about her purpose that allows her everything. How she does not think twice about opportunities to go slumming with the wretched, when all she really has the duty to do is to let herself be loved until her belly grows. The hair on Eredin’s neck rises at the touch of a small blade. A quick tickling line shoots down the length of his spine and expensive fabric slides down the sides of his ribcage.

‘The truth, Eredin, is that you and we are not equal, nor will we ever be,’ she says. ‘You speak to me on behalf of our people, “us”, yet you only look after your own, while we look after everybody. We look after you too, don’t forget. I am “us”, Eredin. Me.’

He feels Crevan’s hand tugging at his hair, baring his throat, while another wanders contemplatively along the shape of his back. It slides around him, feeling up his abdominal muscles and a tingling, voiding sensation suddenly moves through his intestines. Lara’s precious eyes, which oust the hoarfrost from in-between the stars, do not meet his gaze.

‘You are curious about things which do not really concern you.’ They pass him over for another, and a blush spreads along the graceful neck before she turns away altogether. ‘You allow yourself too much.’

Something cold and vaguely heavy trickles onto the small of the elf’s back, followed by the magician’s palm. He twitches. The hand rubs methodically along the flexor muscles of his lower back, before yanking at his breeches.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Why Eredin,’ Crevan responds lowly. ‘You are the breaker of horses; you will work it out.’

Instinctively, he attempts to crane his neck, defend himself, and is crushed by aches when tearing against his tethers. His black hair falls back around his face, as fury splashes ineffectually in him like acid, finding no proper outlet.

‘How pleased you must feel,’ he sneers, trying to think, ‘with your little trap.’

‘Mine?’ oiled fingers circle slowly, and penetrate resistant flesh. ‘I am doing my dear heart’s bidding, nothing more. Please stop trying to tamper with your bonds. I am angry with you and not in the mood to do all this tidying. Understand that I will immobilize you utterly regardless of Lara’s wishes if you insist on misbehaving.’

‘Indeed I would expect nothing more from you.’

The blonde snorts. ‘This is hardly for my sake, but hers.’

‘What do you mean?’

The Sage shoves his legs apart.

‘You will pay for this, Crevan.’

‘You are mistaken,’ the Sage replies as another slender finger enters him, scissoring, stretching, while its brothers continue to massage his perineum. ‘This is not a transaction between you and me. For starters, Lara believes you deserve a lesson, not punishment. I disagree. Presumptions such as yours should be rooted out with iron and salt, even if they are but the by-product of the blessings you have received from my caste. Then again, giving a disloyal subject a taste of what they want can sometimes do the trick just as effectively.’

‘What a vixen you are making out of our Gull, Crevan.’

‘I am loathe to refuse my darling. Perhaps if you learned not to run your mouth about our games, none of which should burden her... but then again, I appreciate seeing your hand every once in a while. You see, between you and me, I know whose enjoyment should come first. Hers, not mine. Oh to be an instrument serving only noblest of purposes. Alas!’ A contemptuous snort. ‘You will be staying overnight, of course.’

‘Serve?’ Eredin feels a grim, disturbed laughter rising in his tortured throat. ‘You, who helped create this woman to love you, would pretend in this to serve only her enjoyment, and out of humility? Principle? You are enjoying this vastly more than Lara.’

‘Well, I do enjoy it a little.’ The elf flinches against his will when the fingers inside him find the special spot and feel it up. ‘For instance, I understand her anger much better now, and as they say, common dislikes tend to bring people together perhaps even stronger than preferences. Should I thank you?’ The additional digits squeezed into him almost entirely undo the work of their predecessors, no longer aspiring to any pretences of kindness. ‘You are wrong, Eredin. I serve. Unlike you, my highest purpose is to serve life, not close life’s eyes. In return for which She opens Her bosom before me – willingly. Me.’

‘Perhaps you will be happy to learn then that this life you serve is not averse to spreading for whoever she whims.’

The collar around his neck squeezes like fiery pinchers.

‘Do not be envious.’

Hands warm from magic knead his buttocks, spreading him open, and he feels the press of a warm, blunt head. Shackled and immobile, he realises then that all he is allowed to do – all he has ever really been allowed – is to wait. Seizing him by the hair as he pushes forward, the light blankets the dark.

‘You will still have the honour of serving my children for all eternity.’

The brass frame of the tiny, sealed amber horn digs into her palm. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear them, and in her mind’s eye she sees. If she opens her eyes, she will see tall poplars swaying beside the avenue leading to the chateau, but she cannot open her eyes – his aquamarines on her do not let her; when she had failed to suppress enjoyment from Eredin’s lips against her. Now he is calling to her softly through the bond they share, and Lara’s heart beats faster. She feels wet. She feels exhilarated. She feels awful, and she likes it.

She opens her eyes and turns. They are both looking at her. Moving in rhythm like a white vessel over dark waves. Will whoever ends up in the middle be torn to pieces? Lara cocks her head and approaches.

The dark one, his curtain of black hair flowing back and forth like silk with each thrust, stares at her with naked contempt and hatred for once.

‘I did not know your grace enjoyed punishment this much,’ he bites through a line of small white teeth. ‘If I had known earlier –’

‘Up!’ the light one commands, and so it goes.

Lara feels her cheeks glow as she steps lightly and comes so close she can smell them, one familiar and the other not, and sees Crevan bottoming out in their captive, again and again and again, patiently as is his manner at Alder court. Run? The impulse she suppresses, but not the hot flushing desire that pools in her stomach and shoots to her head like a tiny icicle trail in a burning desert at the small smile on her intended’s lips – he can feel it too. All of it.

‘This is not punishment,’ she leans close to Eredin, touching his warm chest through which she feels the deep thrusts in rhythm with the elf’s powerful heartbeat, before moving on to Crevan’s magical fingers on the captain’s shoulder. ‘This is... play. Novelty!’

Black hair tangles in the enchanted collar, hot breath exuding from the magnificent elf’s half-open mouth above which cold green eyes tear at the elven maid’s face.

‘Are you uncomfortable?’

Lara leans her hip against the balustrade and looks, and Crevan indicates to his waist. She knows the details, of course, but truthfully, it is still new to her, and her breath catches in her throat when she touches her Fox right then. The roughness in his hips – he never treats her to this, whatever this is, ever, even when they get carried away with each other. Why it is maddening!

Summoning the vial and refilling it with magic, Lara watches with fascination how glistening oil the shade of marmalade pours into the cleft where he moves relentlessly, coating his shaft. He helps himself with his hand, never quite leaving the captain’s body. In her mind’s eye, Lara sees what he would prefer though: to have her fingers wrap around him, lathing him in lubricant, before he continues; a kiss...

Lara hooks her fingers in Eredin’s collar, shutting Crevan out, or this will simply not work out as they want.

She tests the collar lightly, changing pressure and listening, observing how his neck works. She wonders if Crevan would, on her... he is smiling at her openly now. No, better not to wonder. But the captain too is smiling! Mockingly, knowingly. And what does he know? Lara drops her bejewelled hand completely – to Eredin’s crotch. He is hard. His grunt falls pleasantly on her ears. She unlaces him and takes him in her hand.

‘Do you not like my whims, captain?’

She strokes along the girth of him, long, until she feels her fist rest at the base, and then hard – several times – as the collar tames the groan that Crevan pushes and she pulls from him. The little brass frame of the tiny amber horn in the palm of her other hand is beginning to hurt her.

‘You will pay for this,’ the warlord rasps, the muscles in his arms straining.

‘Why?’ she leans up closer, squeezing his hard flesh in rhythm to the slap of hips. Crevan swears. ‘You are our friend, Eredin. Our very... good... friend.’

Lara kisses the elf lord on the mouth, bruisingly, with the Sparrowhawk’s teeth drawing her precious blood and the tail of his elated grunt at being given something – anything – ending up on the Gull’s own tongue. She feels Crevan’s hand in her hair, pulling her in and pressing her against Eredin’s front, bringing them all together for a moment. The sorceress flicks the lid of the amber horn in her free hand. Fairy dust spreads into her palm.

And then, raised before the puckered full lips of the treasure of the Alders, Eredin sees the magic powder, which flies in his face with a puff of her sweet breath, settling like snowflakes on his eyelashes, in his eyes, on his tongue and in his nose; and he breathes in the rest from her fingers. And roars.

Lara feels him twitch in her hand.

‘Do you know what this is, captain?’ she asks, admiring his dust-sprinkled eyes.

‘This is pure!’

‘Of course it’s pure. Who do you think I am?’ Crevan growls, holding out his palm to Lara. ‘It will make an eagle out of a sparrow. I am curious, I have never had an eagle before.’

‘Plenty of sparrows,’ he chuckles. ‘At least your taste remains refined.’

‘As you were,’ the towering form of the captain jerks forward. ‘Enough, Lara my love, enough. You are smaller, not used to –’

‘And you are? Thank you, Crevan. I know.’

‘What delicate cornflowers both of you!’ Eredin licks the dust off his lips. ‘Is that really everything, your grace?’

‘Oh, Eredin!’ Crevan laughs, pushing his light hair back over his head and delivering several extremely unpleasant thrusts in a row, after which Lara simply has to abandon the captain for the time being. ‘Give him more. Give him! He doesn’t know anything, but he wants. Yes, my darling, let him have it, I want you to have an unforgettable ride.’

‘Your servants would be unable to get you anything better,’ Lara explains, feeling her blood rushing faster in her chest as vivid clarity takes her head, ‘because no matter where you look for the one thing you will always crave, you can only ever find it with us. We must not fight, us and you. Never!’

Power, power, power. It’s always power that he wants. There is no stronger aphrodisiac.

‘How well you know, Lara,’ Eredin’s tongue licks at her fingers, his eyes laughing at her. ‘How well this role suits you, our beautiful pacifist. Women – they always know better, don’t they, Crevan? As you can see, I cannot but bow before your wisdom. I, too, wish for peace, would you believe it?’

‘I know! It’s just the appetite, Eredin,’ her emeralds narrow evilly. ‘And you are mistaken if you think our appetites do not align. Do you want to know a secret? Do you want to know what Crevan tells me? In my little pointed ear, at night. He describes the sun to me in all its glory.’

The elven princess sits on the balustrade, next to her mother’s most talented light-douser’s half-bent form, and turns her eyes on the elf whom Dana made so he always carries the sun around his head.

‘How the sun burns with the life it gives. How big and bright and lethal it is. How it would scorch my wings if I flew too close, yet freeze me if I drifted too far. Like you fly on your Dragon – are they all Dragons, by the way? Never mind. I don’t really care.’

Lara likes how her Fox laughs, how giving he can be; they really don’t know him like she does.

‘He knows so many tricks, this lover of mine. That is why it can only be him, you understand, because I am more like you – a creature of the skies; just not as privileged to be selfish all the time,’ she caresses his bicep. ‘So anyhow, Crevan tells me – Eredin, are you listening? He tells me – because he knows I too have an appetite like you, and him, and Auberon, and all other nice elves – how he will one day slip the Sun into my hand when I am not looking. And then...’

The magician rests his hand on the other elf’s neck, pushing downward, looking at the daughter of the Alders as if he wanted to lay her down on their stallion’s sturdy back that very second, but Lara, who is smaller and cannot have as much of the fairy dust, suddenly feels the magical tethers trembling and quickly lends her partner a hand. Before, like him, losing herself – in those cool stars from faraway skies, from whence their race once emerged, which have made a home in his triangular face.

‘Then the sun in me will not burn,’ she whispers, ‘but will light up entire worlds. One after another. Sun and moon – mine and his. Do you know that song, Eredin?’

She leans over the captain’s shoulder claiming Crevan’s lips in passion as the strong body between them shudders and her Fox moans loudly, moving erratically for a while to the desirous growling of their dark and dashing captive squashed between two pieces of Alder Gold.

And then it is over and done with and Lara laughs, not even really knowing at what exactly, as she dances a few steps back with her ruined fey-woven dress of anthracite slipping a little. Before slipping back one more time in order to put her hands on this wild Sparrowhawk’s cutting cheekbones and kiss him too, because why not? They are all born under their own lucky stars.

By the stars, why not?

‘Sun and hail ‘til night becomes day, dawn and dusk hand-in-hand, he’ll whisk me stars for a song, a moon half its price; apple and sin – that’s how it’s done,’ she utters in a sing-song voice, pulling golden pins from hair of white gold which cascades over her shoulders.

‘Down the spiralling avenue of stars. Mine and his – this universe, and some other, less important paths.’ And Lara’s eyes flash like a deadly moulinette in your last moments. ‘Could you offer me that?’

More melodies appear in Lara’s head which she can taste and hum, as gold from her hair clatters on marble floors. Ruined? Maybe. So what? Fairy gold is made of dead leaves and dried dreams. The shiver begins at the back of her neck, spiralling all the way down and wrapping the elven princess in unruly delight.

She puts her arms around her to ground herself, her fingers disappearing into lush hair – to keep her quickened breath and pulse from becoming her character. World has a funny habit of appearing and disappearing when under the influence of dust. She jumps at the hasty touch on her waist.

Crevan takes her by the chin, drawing her against him and falls on her mouth greedily. His hands are slightly damp.

‘You are beautiful,’ the Sage breathes, his disarrayed hair tickling her cheeks. ‘Magnificent. Such sweet voice. My Lara.’ Her fingers tangle in the clasps of his imperial purple kaftan opened to mid-chest, desiring to run her hands over skin that tingles of their magic. ‘Say it.’

‘Yours!’ she pecks her Fox’s nose. ‘Yours, Crevan!’

‘That’s right.’ His hands move through the slit of her dress, fondling the curve of her thighs as he winds the straps around Lara’s waist. ‘Now it’s your turn, my love.’

He fastens the buckles with a harsh movement and Lara flinches, her green eyes drawing wide. They had agreed, but –

‘What is it?’ he inquires, insistently, the low fire in his dark pupils having gobbled up the bright irises, and takes her in his arms. ‘Lara? Lara, come back to me. He will not bolt. I promise you. Look, he is excited.’

So he is! Lara’s head falls slightly to one side. Oh, but what a mess!

Eredin snorts, tossing back his full head of tarry hair. The glistening alabaster skin has reddened – in one spot in particular on his shoulder – and the vein under the velvet-rimmed collar throbs to the heaving of the elf’s chiselled chest. A ruined shirt hangs forgotten around a tense forearm, tense and erect like the rest of him that persists by vigour alone under the awkward angle of perpetual bowing.

Hot lips move along her neck. ‘Like it?’

Pearly white gleams along the Sparrowhawk’s shaft; more of it still dribbling down the back of his powerful thighs. He is staring at her incredulously. Is it excitement that exudes from him, or skittishness? She cannot entirely tell.

She decides she likes it.

‘Go on,’ her beloved whispers, giving the strap-on a few tugs. He is still semi-hard himself. ‘Mount.’

Lara gently approaches her horse.

Bewildered pale green eyes roll under curling eyebrows. Observing. Measuring her up. Blinking in disbelief. She is glad her steed has such sharp eyes. Yet she is not her mother.

‘You are no rider.’

‘Am I not?’

The male chortles. Her fingers trail along the ribcage of the beast, as she slips over the balustrade, feeling the smaller muscles twitch funnily. Is he ticklish?

‘You will have to do all the work, princess!’ the Sparrowhawk hisses, craning his neck. The Gull lets him. There are so many interesting things right now in those sharp eyes that prey in the skies they share. ‘Appearances may suit you, but do you know how to use this?’

‘This?’ she takes “herself” in her hand. ‘Let’s see.’

Visible trembling passes through solid muscle as she gives him her first try. She looks up. And looks away again. Looking at her Fox right now is of absolutely no help here – she has to concentrate! It is strangely exciting.

‘How does it feel?’

‘Simply exhilarating.’

‘Don’t lie. Am I that different? How?’

‘No. You, too, talk too much.’

Gulls and foxes do chatter. Eredin, like Crevan, is notably larger than her, but the pinned position in which her Fox has left the Sparrowhawk helps. She strokes the curve of his rear.

‘I would like for you to enjoy yourself.’

‘What for?’

For him to understand that Lara does, in fact, wish for all of them to get what they want. For him to... to trust the rider. Trust her. He laughs throatily.

‘You get distracted too easily, your grace. I wager we will face lots of problems because of it one day. Call it a sagely intuition.’

He is slick, stretched, and as she brushes past the male’s prostate – she presumes by her knowledge – the muscles in his thighs contract, but Lara does not entirely understand this side of desire. Until, after several shallow movements with her hips she catches the Sparrowhawk staring at him from the corner of his eye.

‘You are no rider, your grace,’ the elf drawls dryly. ‘Let yourself be loved and leave the loving caresses to us. This is not your place.’

Indignation burns through the daughter of Shiadhal. She almost misses entirely how dark the captain’s eyes really are and, a moment later, delights inordinately in the ravening moan that escapes his lips as she thrusts deep without qualms. The trembling in the sculpted flesh under her fingers shoots up the male’s damp smeared back and the sorceress’s hands follow until they brush dark hair.

‘Play with it.’

She tickles instead.

Crevan smiles broadly, throwing the empty crystal class – it turns into light blue butterflies before crashing into countless smithereens.

Lara surges again, feeling her steed push into her in what little capacity he can. She loosens the magical bindings a little, witnessing at once how the pent up, violent energy swirling within him finds an opening to dissipate and leaves taut flesh momentarily shocked and trembling by the slack it is allowed. His graceful sigh – entirely unexpected – convinces her to loosen the bindings a little more. She is not her mother. She is spring! Not winter. All the while moving with increased confidence, as they are gradually reaching an understanding.

With the second sight that fairy dust opens, the Gull experiences the Sparrowhawk as the magnificent creature he is in his own right and it delights her. She hopes he can appreciate his own beauty in this moment, no matter their differences. For there is something beautiful and befitting in fitting. They should always move, the mount and the rider, as if entwined – each in their proper place. Only like this can they take on the stars.

We must not fight, you and us. We must not!

‘Take this.’ Appearing by her side, her Fox puts the end of his belt in her hand. ‘Then, like this.’ He reaches around her swiftly, flicks Eredin’s face with his fingers, and before the curse aimed at them can ring out in its wholesome glory, the etched buckskin belt is flexed tight and the elf’s head jerks up like sprung from a mouse trap.

‘Hold on to it. Hold it! Tightly.’ Lara pulls, her perspectives whirling, melting, changing. ‘That’s right. Around your fingers. Now, spur.’

‘What about his teeth?’

‘He will bite down. Endure.’ The familiar smell of Crevan is filling her with pleasant surety. He is restoring the binds to their former position. ‘It’s his duty. He serves you. It must never be the other way around.’

‘I do not wish for my subjects to hate me!’

‘This is a natural reaction. When you spur and whip your mount, it hates you. Sometimes whipping is necessary. Other days you groom it, feed it, and it loves you.’

He presses into her back, his hard flesh rubbing against smooth fabric, as his fingers undo the makeshift ties on her hip.

‘In the end, it must always recognise your authority because it cannot do otherwise. Because such is love between a servant and mistress. You are the Goddess, but he is not the God. Nothing but harm can arise out of confusing these rules. It would not allow either of you to get your due.’

Crevan places a footstool between them and lifts Lara, leaning her forward over their guest’s back, ensuring she neither slips out nor falls.

‘Eredin is our most magnificent master of horse. He knows these rules very well. It is his duty, once called upon, to help carry us to new worlds. And ours, to show and open the way.’

‘Crevan, what are we –’

‘Keep going,’ he breathes heavily, solid and secure against her with his heartbeat pounding in her ears; his mouth sucking on the pulse in her neck while his cock brushes back and forth along her wet folds. ‘Keep going, sweet heart. I am here.’

And then his hands dive under her dress beginning to work their tender magic before which there are no barriers. Gathering her excitement, playing with it, re-directing it – for her pleasure. Lara shudders in ecstasy. Always for her pleasure, always.

‘That’s right. With your back. You are doing beautifully.’

The belt slips out of the princess’s hands, and the elf lord spits it out, cursing. Groaning, as she buries in him encouraged by the hips of the male settling over her. They all really want the same thing at the end.

‘Do you hear it, Lara?’ the princess of the Alders moans as her Fox slides inside her. ‘He loves you. In his proper place, he cannot but love you, and will never betray you. Ever play only on your terms, my sweet heart.’

‘I am,’ she breathes, moving her hips forward to give, and back toward the increasing fullness – to receive.

He curses softly. ‘So warm. So beautiful. Keep going, my love. I’ll move with you.’

‘To where the sky’s the limit, but in-between there’s you. Always you, Lara.’

She threads her fingers in his sun-kissed hair, kissing them both breathless, and tapping into his pleasure which is her pleasure which will be the pleasure of all of them.

‘There will be a mess.’

‘A mess,’ he growls, shifting deeper and deeper inside his heavenly Gull. ‘Yes. There will be a mess.’ Her back arches. ‘What else is there for us? There is already such a... mess.’

Crevan covers her hands with his.

Lara finds her rhythm.

Between life and death.

Then the fox reaches around his gull and jerks the sparrowhawk off until he feels him buck wildly against fey tethers and choke in his friends’ giving stranglehold. Until Crevan’s mind is eaten away by trembling contractions greeting him and he slides his palm across Lara’s belly.

‘Shall I catch you a sun, Lara? Shall I hide all the stars – one, two, three – inside you? First it makes you ill, then it goes straight to your head.’

His Lara laughs.

He pours into her in pleasure that does not fade, thinking:

Let them all, one day, have their free fall up the hill.

#lara dorren #eredin #avallac'h #the witcher #wiedzmin #aen elle

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allmonstersxarehuman · 4 years

Text

Out Of The Woods Chapter 2

A/N: Alrighty, here's a filler for you guys. Yes it’s going to be one of those slow burn stories. But trust me it will be worth it. I have not proof read this I apologize for any mishaps. I am very excited to show more of this story as it progresses. Also thank you so much to @jtargaryen18 she has definitely helped me move this story along.

Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader

Warnings: No big spoilers. Just some of the things you hear off of the trailer.

Word Count: 1468

Chapter 1

Andy Barber appeared on the outside like any other family man, a good paying job, a nice home in a nice city, a beautiful wife and a very smart son. He had it all, but on the inside his life was on the brink of collapse. He and his wife Laurie never slept in the same bed anymore, he had begun taking up residence in the guest bedroom. His son had become distant and moody, though his son was a teenager and most teens start to become moody, it was very unusual for his son. Then there was his sex life, which since he and Laurie had been fighting that part of his life had become non-existent. Which left him lusting after a co-worker, one that was younger than him and hadn’t been in the firm for as long as he had but was already fantastic at her job; which led him to bump heads with her. He had never met such a strong willed woman, she was the extreme opposite to his wife. Y/n spoke her mind didn’t let people including the men around the firm push her around, she never took no for an answer when it came to cases making her one of the best DA’s in the firm. He loved his wife, but recently things had changed. His feelings for her had changed, it wasn’t because they were getting older. It was because there was no spark left in their relationship, though he was determined to try to make it work for the sake of their son. But damn Y/n Y/l/n out of his head, though she didn’t know it and he was way too proud to admit it; but she had him hooked. So there she sat on the other side of the meeting table, pen between her lips. What was she thinking about? He hadn’t realized that he had been staring until their boss came in to announce that he and Y/n were to be leading any new cases along with other colleagues. Andy gave a smug smile towards Y/n. “Looks as though you’re in with the adults now kiddo.” He gave her a wink before walking towards his office. He already had plans to get home so he and Laurie could talk, it would be the best time because his son Jacob was out with friends and wouldn’t be home until around dinner time. As he was walking out of the building he couldn’t help but over hear a colleague talk about asking Y/n out on a date. Andy couldn’t help but scoff, like she would go for some loser like Jack Louis. She wouldn’t right? Why was he even concerned about who she dated, she wasn’t his. But, he needed her to be.

Walking into his house, he could smell that his wife had been cooking which meant he was in for a long night of either arguing or silence. He desperately hoped for the latter, but life isn’t nice to men who long for someone who is not their wife. “Nice to see that you came home early Andy, we need to talk.” Laurie said turning to look at him her hands resting on her hips. Andy sighed running a hand down his face, as he hung up his coat and bag before grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Alright Laurie, what do we need to talk about?” He said popping off the cap of the cold bottle. “I want to make things work. If not for us for Jacob.” Laurie stated walking over to her husband resting her hands on his shoulders. “What do you say? Why don’t we rekindle this flame?” Andy sighed softly taking a long sip of his beer. “Let’s talk about this later.” He spoke before tilting his head towards the sound of the front door. Upon seeing their son Jacob enter the room they put on forced smiles.

Andy heard his alarm sound from his phone, groaning he turned it off and ran his hand over his face. He knew Laurie would be out running and he obviously knew that Jacob wasn’t up yet, so he got up walking over to his sons room and knocked on the door. “Jake time to get up.” He spoke as he opened up the bedroom door. “Come on Jacob, let me see those eyes.” After a bit Jacob finally popped his head up from under the covers and groaned to let his dad know that he was up. Once Andy finished getting dressed, he headed down to the kitchen seeing the normal sight he usually saw. Laurie pouring two cups of coffee and Jacob eating breakfast. Little did he know, his life was about to turn upside down. That morning he got a call saying he needed to be at a certain location, there had been a murder and they needed him and his co-worker Y/n Y/l/n to be at the scene. He let out a sigh and pulled out his cell before calling Y/n. “Y/L/N, we have a new case. They need us at the scene as soon as possible.” When she spoke his breath hitched a bit. Y/n told him she would meet him at the scene, and with that he headed on his way to the crime site. Andy got there before Y/n and soon noticed that the weather had become colder, the sun could no longer be seen like it had been earlier that day and it had seemed like it was going to rain. But when Y/n arrived it was as if his body became warmer, like he was borrowing her body heat it wasn’t sexual; it was more comforting. Andy snapped out of it as the two of them ducked underneath the yellow police tape. “Nothing worse than a kid.” Spoke a detective when he heard the victim’s name he stopped in his tracks, the kid went to the same school as his son. Andy seemed to have spaced, he didn’t want to think about it and didn’t want to be one of the parents that would be thinking it could’ve been his own kid down there. He snapped out of his daze when Y/n called his name. “Hmm?” He hummed and turned his gaze towards her. “Any leads to go off of?” She asked her head tilted slightly. “No. None yet.” He sighed heavily rubbing at his beard. “You know him don’t you.” She spoke a bit more sternly her arms folded over her chest. “He and Jacob went to school together, know his parents but not much.” He said shaking his head.

_______________________________________________________________

You sighed softly, Andy had just revealed to you that he personally knows the family of the murdered boy. “Are you sure it’s wise for you to be on this case Andy? Lynn might not agree when she finds out.” You spoke softly but enough to make him know that you were serious. “Um. Yeah it shouldn’t be a conflict.” He said before disappearing. You ran your fingers through your hair and sighed out in frustration, you knew what you were about to do was something that could break any trust with your work partner. Taking out your phone you called Lynn. “Lynn we have a problem.” You said.

Here you were sitting in your boss’ office 3 days after the murder, you knew this was going to break your co-worker but it needed to be done. When he walked in, he definitely wasn’t in a good mood. You chewed on you lip nervously. “Andy, we found a print on the victim it’s partial but it’s a print. The finger print that has been lifted from the victim is your sons. Y/n will be taking over the case.” Lynn spoke calmly. Andy looked at you and then back at Lynn. “You’ve arrested my son?!” He spoke loudly. “Not yet, but they are preparing to get a search warrant.” You spoke up, when his eyes met yours. You felt uneasy, his usual bright blue eyes seemed almost grey. It wasn’t until he stormed out that you noticed that you had been holding your breath. “Y/n are you alright.” Lynn asked you. “Yes ma’am I’m fine.” You spoke before leaving to go to your apartment that you shared with your roommate Diana. “Hey loser, I ordered take out. I figured you hadn’t eaten yet.” She yelled at you from the kitchen. A sigh of relief escaped your lips, it had seemed as if you were sighing a lot lately and for many different reasons. You walked into the kitchen and gave a small smile to her. “That rough huh?” She said raising a brow at you. “You don’t know the half of it.” You said jumping onto the counter and grabbing the beer she had handed to you.

Taglist-

@kapricesunforever @princess-evans-addict @sunshir @ssworldofsw @patzammit

#andy barber x reader #andy barber smut #andy barber imagine #andy barber x you #Defending Jacob #chris evans imagine #chris evans smut #chris evans x reader

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fulcrum-agent · 3 years

Text

Comatose

Darkness.

Silence.

Distant gunfire.

Muffled clashes of metal.

Humming magitek.

Distant...

...closer...

Her eyes open, sky blue gaze sweeping across a battlefield. Blue hues reflecting raging fires, glinting twisted metal, pools of blood. Her brow furrows as she realises where she is.

The Bozjan Southern Front.

She freezes in horror as it registers where she is.

When she is.

Eyes wide, she turns slowly, slowly...

A body lies on the ground, clad in familiar raiment, blood pooling beneath the figure.

***Blink.***

She kneels beside the body, frantically casting spell after spell, the weak regenerative and heals seeming to do nothing. Instantly, tears stream down her cheeks as she cries hysterically, rapidly burning away her still-meagre aether reserves. Her gaze flickers about the area, and she wonders why her twin and her lover aren't there.

"Because it's a dream, daughter-in-law."

Wide eyes refocus on the dying man she's attempting to save, her jaw falling at his voice and at his words.

How was he speaking? He couldn't speak...shouldn't talk...and why call her *that*...

A soft smile crosses the dying man's lips as he reiterates gently, "...because it's a dream, Aquila."

Slowly, the aether stops streaming out of her hands as she blinks at him over and over. And then the corner of his lip turns up in a faint smirk as she begins to understand what's going on. Then, weakly, his hand moves to lower hers entirely, placing them on her lap before covering one with his.

"So you're...still dead?" she queries with a deep frown.

The man nods as he replies, "Yeah. Nothing can change that. It was time."

His answer causes her to sigh before she places her other hand over his.

Brow furrowing further, she murmurs, "I...don't understand why we're here..."

She's given that slight smirk again as he states, "...you're sharper than that - my son wouldn't love you if you weren't."

Blue eyes widen again as she whispers a single word, "...Talekeeper..."

The man who would have been her father-in-law nods a few times, the motion just barely noticeable.

"Did he explain what the blade is?" he asks, glancing at the weapon on her right hip. "And what I was?"

Nodding again, she answers, "A little. He told me you were a Blade of Queen Gunnhildr and that the sword was forged for you."

Her response is greeted with a sigh and the faintest shake of his head.

"Telling you everything and nothing," he fondly murmurs, "sounds just like my son."

And then, the dying man does something he shouldn't be capable of at all - he sits up, albeit slowly. Reflexively, his other hand covers the worst of his wounds, blood flowing over his tanned skin. Otherwise, he seems undisturbed by the failing state of his body.

"Everyone in Bozja will tell you something different about what it means to be a Blade, outside of the obvious task of being the Queen's guards," he begins to explain to her. "Even within the Blades, you won't find an exact consensus - we all had different motivations for accepting the position."

She tries not to stare at the wound in his torso, at the blood spilling over his hand, forcing herself to focus on either the hand she's holding or his features and gaze. Had this been real and not a dream, he would have already bled out.

"When I first joined, it was during a time of peace - before the truth of what happened to save Bozja the first time was known. That's not to say we didn't have skirmishes with bandits and the like," he continues, nodding out to the battlefield. "This place wasn't at all like it is now; most of the country wasn't. Hells, sometimes it felt like I had to attend more social functions than actually fight."

"Then...why leave? I know Leth wasn't raised in Bozja," she asks before adding, "especially not going to a bunch of social functions..."

Her expression makes the dying man laugh, blood briefly gushing with each contraction of his midsection. He shakes his head a little, smiling at her for a brief moment.

"I am sorry for that. You've got your work cut out for you, but I'm sure you'll manage," he states, still grinning. "You'd already done quite a bit of good for him before we even met."

She can't help but flush a little. She'd known that her lover had changed in the time they've known one another, but she was surprised that it was as much as her dead father-in-law-to-be was claiming it was. But, unfortunately, she also has no idea what to say in response, so she just gives him a sheepish smile while waiting for him to continue.

"Anyroad, aside from serving my Queen and Bozja writ-large, I thought that it would provide a suitable environment for my wife and later Byleth," he resumes, his expression softening at the mention of his family before becoming worn again. "And then the Garleans invaded, and everything changed..."

There's an awkwardness about her now, at the mention of her homeland's penchant for conquest. He notices and gives her hand a squeeze, exuding reassurance and care.

"You're okay, daughter of mine. While I was a little hesitant when you all arrived in Bozja, I quickly realised you weren't like the people we were fighting," he quietly comforts. "If more Garleans had been like you and your twin, we'd never have had to fight in the first place."

Her head shoots up, her now wide-eyed gaze shifting from their hands to his features, jaw falling again.

"Why-- why do you keep calling me that?"

Despite having a gash across his back from shoulder to hip, despite having a fatal stab wound on his front, the question makes the dying man laugh hard. He's too amused to notice how much blood the movement causes to spill from his wounds, though it's much harder for her not to see.

"Because you're going to marry my son," he replies with mirth. "I'd planned on walking you down the aisle since your dad's well...more of a sperm donor than a dad."

For a moment, she has a stray thought, wondering why her lover hadn't inherited his father's humour - as shocking as his words were. She stares at him, much like some surprised little critter, mouth hanging open with surprise.

"I'm kidding. I know your brother'd likely be the one to do that part," he adds after a long moment of laughing at her shocked expression. "Anyroad, that established, I should finish explaining everything to you before it's too late."

"Too late?" she echoes in confusion.

The dying man nods a little as he points out, "It's a dream, kiddo. You're going to wake up in a little bit, and it'll all be over."

His words make sense, and she nods a little as she gives his hand a squeeze, waiting for him to continue speaking. Faintly, she can sense the presence of her twin, close at hand yet incredibly distant.

"I was nearly captured during the invasion, but my mentor managed to help me escape. For a time, Sitri, my wife, and I went into hiding," he continues, the amusement draining from his features as he speaks. "After she died, I felt it was safer to leave Bozja entirely, and so Sylvain and I took Byleth and started our company once we were well away."

As he speaks of his dead wife, she gives his hand a gentle pat and a squeeze, trying to emulate the comforting air he used on her. He notices the shift in her emotions, swiftly realising how uncannily similar his earlier concern had been. Realisation dawns, and he gazes at her with an entirely new understanding.

"Can you do that with anything?" he asks her.

Confused, she murmurs, "...do what?"

He hadn't expected that she wouldn't be consciously aware of her ability, but he nods faintly at her confusion before he attempts to explain.

"It's one thing to express the same emotion as someone else," he theorises, bloodied hand lifting to rub his chin, seemingly oblivious to the blood that covers such. "It's a whole different thing to express the same emotion with identical intent and reason. Most of us do the former, but you do the latter. I wonder how far such can go."

She's quiet for a brief moment, looking away towards where her brother would be back in the waking world. Then, she murmurs softly, "...it goes pretty far. I learned an Ilsabardian technique without being told how it works - I only saw it in use. I didn't even know what it was at the time. I just...summoned a weapon made out of aether...then had trouble drawing it back in because my opponent hadn't done so."

The revelation causes the man to pause, primarily due to having only ever seen or heard of the Blades of Gunnhildr being capable of the feat. His eyes fall to the blade on her right hip again before they shift back to stare at her.

"So...you have no way to regulate the use of aether?" he seeks clarification.

"I...sort of do. The Captain gave me a piece of Magicite to channel it through - it works sorta like a focus does," she clarifies for him. "But...I have to be conscious for it to work. The whole reason I'm asleep right now is that I got knocked out while using it...and it nearly drained me."

And then, all of a sudden, it becomes even more evident that this is a dream. Withdrawing his hand from between hers, the man who should be dead several times over by now...stands up. He reflexively covers the stab wound with his hand as he straightens, the other motioning to her blade.

"Let me see that a moment, Quil," he requests as he holds out his other hand.

For a very long moment, she just sits there staring at him with a pallid expression before she manages to nod. Then, standing as well, she passes the blade back to its original owner. He flicks his wrist several times, reacquainting himself with his old friend. He makes several slashes with it then, before falling into as much of an en garde as he can manage, with his insides trying to fall out.

"Watch and learn, daughter of mine," he softly states before suddenly channelling aether into the blade; he means it quite literally. He makes a series of motions with the sword, an aether trail forming behind it, and then suddenly flings the excess aether from the blade. It lodges into the husk of a mantis magitek nearby. Before she can even comment, he reactivates the rapier's Royal Armoury, mock-fighting once more before lowering the blade, the aether retreating back into his form - without his consciously thinking about it.

Falling into a more relaxed stance, he looks over to her with a questioning expression. "Do you need me to do it again?" he asks, head inclining just a little. "It's not something you'll master immediately, but do you think you can do it already?"

There was only one way to find out.

She holds her hand out for the sword, and he passes it back to her. Then, taking a deep breath, she assumes the seemingly counterintuitive stance she uses for fencing. Another deep breath, and she begins channelling aether down into the blade, although she doesn't make the series of cuts he had.

Instead, she focuses solely on how he'd discharged the aether from the blade. Without any sort of telegraph, she suddenly makes the same slashing motion he had. The aether that's released is far more chaotic than what he released, its form barely cohesive before it splatters against the same mech.

"The lead-up motions were important, though it might not be quite so obvious," he corrects gently. "It's a matter of piggybacking the aetheric energy off the kinetic energy."

Nodding, she tries again, this time executing an identical series of motions before releasing the aether. It has more form this time, though it's still quite pitiful compared to his; he nods his approval anyway, as he'd already stated it wasn't going to be something she could instantly master.

"Now, the other one," he instructs.

Taking another deep breath, she refocuses on the blade. Although she doesn't assume the mock-fighting was entirely necessary for this one, she did think it was likely good to learn how to cut off the Armoury amid combative movement. Again, she executes an identical series of motions before falling out of an aggressive mindset - not that there's much visible difference in how she stands or how she holds the blade.

Some of the aether flows back into her, but some of it still lingers within the blade. Frowning, she makes the same series of motions again before falling back out of combat.

"Stop thinking about it," he orders, tapping a finger to his temple. "Let your mind empty as you lower your guard."

"...it's not as easy as it looks," she murmurs, looking confused as he bursts out laughing again.

That doesn't sit well with her. However, it causes her to redouble her efforts.

Deep within her mind, the frayed remnants of the conditioning her father had created and her stalker had tried to erase finds something to finally cling to. It wraps itself around the techniques, around the ephemeral mantle being passed, reviving old triggers and creating new. Her eyes close as she concentrates, and she takes another slow, deep breath.

When her eyes open, they're not entirely focused. Instead, a trance-like quality stirs as she begins to execute the motions again - this time identical down to the tiniest fraction of measurement. And then, just as suddenly as she began repeating the moves, she drops out of combat once more; this time, the majority of the aether flows back into her.

He's torn about praising her for her success, debating on whether or not the cost was too high. Unsure of whether the battle-trance was something she learned by watching someone else, or something more, there's a moment of hesitance before he speaks.

"Aquila..." he softly calls as he moves over to her. A hand is placed on either of her upper arms, gently gripping. "I don't know what just happened, but I hope someday you can accomplish this without having to do that."

She gives him a confused look as darkness starts to invade upon the edges of her consciousness. He frowns, sensing not only her confusion but her mind's shifting towards wakefulness. His gaze drops to the sword she's holding, then back up to her features.

"Ask my son about my nickname," he urges in a manner that implies there's more than meets the eye to the request. "And...take care of him for me."

Her brow furrows as the darkness encroaches upon her vision, but she nods at the pair of requests, murmuring, "I promise...dad..."

Without warning, everything goes dark.

Sitting up, she reaches her hand out to where the dying many should have been.

"JERALT!" she shouts before she really focuses on the room.

Beside her, her twin startles from his sitting sleep, rising immediately, hand reaching for his scythe until the word finally processes. Then, hand lowering, he looks at her in confusion.

"You...had a nightmare about his death again, didn't you," he murmurs as he lowers himself down beside her, pulling her into a hug.

She shakes her head a little as she slumps against him, all of the pain her sleep had been keeping at bay flooding over her, especially her left hand.

"No, not a nightmare," she clarifies to him, "more like an extraordinary dream."

Frowning a little, her brother begins to gently pet through her hair, murmuring, "Well, you'll have to tell Leth and me about it once you've recovered."

Nodding, she rests her head against her twin's shoulder, eyes closing as his comforting presence begins to lull her back to sleep.

#the aurelius twins #the aurelius saga #Byleth Eizner #Liocyon Aurelius #Aquila Aurelius #Calcifer

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isabilightwood · 3 years

Text

The Problem with Authority - Chapter 1

CQL!Verse, Wangxian and Yanqing, canon divergence with Qin Su sacrifice summoning JYL after Jin Rusong’s death. JYL teams up with NHS to fix things, starting with bringing back WWX. Wen Qing is alive because I said so, and LWJ gets in the way of plotting because he’s a romantic.

See my self reblog for the AO3 link/additional tags and warnings

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The problem with authority is that if you leave it lying around, others will take it. — Yoon Ha Lee, Ninefox Gambit

Qin Su was tired of the constant hovering.

Every time she set foot outside her own rooms, she was beset by disciples and the wives of subordinates, telling her over and over how very sorry they were.

It was all bullshit.

Fake, social climbing schemers, who were more concerned with the fact that Jin Guangshan’s legitimate grandson was once again the sect heir, than sorry for the death of her son. Her A-Song.

They expected her to sob constantly, to wail and tear her hair from her scalp. That they could comfort Qin Su by repeating the same trite, cloying words day-by-day. Earn a little status out of tragedy. If Qin Su had to listen to one more apology, she was going to be sick all other the offending madam’s embroidery hoop.

It was true that she still couldn’t go a day without crumbling into tears. But mostly, she was numb. Exhausted, in more ways than one. She wanted to go to sleep, and wake with her son tucked safely into bed, or not wake up at all.

The private treasury was the only place where she could be certain she would not be disturbed. Even in her own bedroom, it would only be so long before a maid was sent to find her. Only she and her husband could open the hidden entrance to the vault. Only in the treasury, could she be alone, to find something to distract herself, however briefly, from the avalanche of her grief.

There were still many items that had been claimed by her deceased father-in-law after the war that had not been cataloged. Priceless relics and weapons and irreplaceable texts alike sat neglected in trunks. Jin Guangshan had cared only for possession, occasionally touting one item or another out to show off. Ten months after A-Yao’s succession, shelves continued to sit empty. Neither she nor A-Yao had found the time, busy keeping everything running smoothly, as he made bids for projects he called progress with the gleam in his eyes that had first made her chase after him. Back when he seemed flattered by her attention, interested in her as more than a friend or colleague.

Qin Su herself managed the internal minutiae of the Sect and oversaw disciple training. The latter would traditionally fall to the Head Disciple, but they had lost one after another. The woman who had been intended to aid Jin Zixuan had resigned over some disagreement before his death. Her replacement, a second or third cousin to the main Jin Clan, married out to the leader of the Fengyang Hua Sect, a growing sect that bordered Gusu and Lanling. Their replacement died at Nightless City, along with the next dozen or so disciples in line. And so Qin Su was free to manage the training as she wished.

Or had been, until she was asked to take a step back from training, for fear her grief would destabilize her qi. It was true that she had been unable to focus. However, stewing in the unending reminders that she would never hold A-Song in her arms again was no help. Attending to her duties as a hostess only made it worse.

Sorting the looted relics was mindless work, that required none of the focus she had lacked for the forty-one days since A-Song’s death. But it was something to occupy her hands, and some small part of her thoughts.

She began with the books that day, sorting into titles that were common and could be sold, those that needed to be repaired, and those to dangerous to be held anywhere but the treasury. Qin Su moved to start a new pile, for useful, rare texts that should be copied, on a table, and a disorganized pile of notes and notebooks caught her eye.

It was the disorganization that stood out. A-Yao never left anything out like that. He must have been called away, but if he returned and saw it, that would trigger his own flood of tears. Qin Su had heard him sobbing, late into the night, from the next room over. But each morning, he greeted his work with his habitual dedication, no matter how puffy his eyes, or how little he’d slept. A-Yao would never forgive himself if his work was delayed by his composure crumbling over a small thing out of place.

She picked up the papers, intending only to organize them into an even stack, and place them evenly between the notebooks. But their subject caught her attention.

A circular array was drawn on each paper. Identical, to her unpracticed eyes, with varied notes printed in precise calligraphy in different locations on each page.

Qin Su had always focused on the sword, leaving talismans to those with innovative minds yet weaker cores, like her husband. Yet this array made her look twice.

Sacrifice Summon was written at the top of the first page, the one with the least writing. The soul of the caster is permanently exchanged for that of a chosen spirit or ghost, fully resurrecting the deceased. It was a complex design, meant to drawn in the blood of the caster.

Voices, from the other side of the portal. A-Yao must have wanted to show an item from the vault to a guest. Her heartbeat sped up, her hands shaking as she dropped the papers back onto the table.

The last thing Qin Su wanted was to have to greet her husband’s guests, while he smiled his disappointment in her for shirking her duties.

She raised the tablecloth and ducked beneath, knocking one of the papers off the table as she did so. Catching it, she pulled it to her chest, dropping the cloth back into place just in time. It was dark in the small space, and stuffy. Her heart hammered hard enough Qin Su felt certain it must be audible throughout the room. But her presence was not discovered, and so Qin Su did not have to answer as to why Jin-furen was hiding from her own husband.

“The remainder of the He Clan has been dealt with.” Su Minshan reported. His voice was easily identifiable from the obsequiousness with which he always treated her husband. She’d asked A-Yao what he saw in him once, and he’d flashed his dimples at her and said, unfaltering loyalty is a trait I cannot afford to lose. So Qin Su tolerated Su Minshan, though he made her skin crawl. And made certain never to be caught alone with him. “Xue Yang tracked them down to the last man.”

Why he kept Xue Yang around, on the other hand, was a mystery.

“Good, that’s good,” A-Yao said. Never shy of heaping praise on his subordinates, he would be smiling up at the other man. “Tell me, what did Xue Yang bring back with him?”

“A few urchins, from town. He said they were his payment for leaving the bodies alone.” Su Minshan scoffed, disgusted.

It didn’t sound like Xue Yang had brought the children to become disciples.

There was the slap of a forehead hitting a palm. A-Yao’s voice was slightly muffled as he gave an exasperated sigh. “I told him he could experiment with animals or dead bodies or not at all. Especially not children.” There was the slightest break in his voice at the word children. “Xue Yang has outlived his usefulness. Have him disposed of and left somewhere remote.”

The command was delivered coldly, casually. He sounded nothing like the warm, if more distant than Qin Su had initially expected, husband she knew.

“Yes, Zongzhu.” A pair of disciples said, their footsteps receding as they took their leave.

“Your research is not completed, is it?” Su Minshan asked, once they were gone.

“I have better means now. My dear younger brother is eager to please, and will not dismember the test animals for kicks and giggles.” A-Yao spoke as though this was an ongoing discussion, yet Qin Su, his wife, had never heard a whisper of research on animals before that day. Only of field testing of the Yiling Patriarch’s inventions. “Or decide to run tests on townspeople and dismember them, too.”

Just what had her husband been allowing Xue Yang to do? It seemed impossible that flighty little Mo Xuanyu could achieve it, whatever it was.

“Another headache eliminated, then.” Su Minshan said. “That’s nearly all the most dangerous ones out of the way.”

There was a weighted pause before A-Yao replied, incongruously. “I did love my son, you know.”

“I did not mean to imply otherwise.” Su Minshan rushed to assure him. “I am deeply sorry this step was necessary.”

Step? What was he implying about A-Song?

“If only that woman had told you the truth earlier.” Su Minshan snarled. “Keeping it a secret while her daughter courted her own half-brother? What a selfish bitch.”

What? Qin Su clapped her hands over her mouth, stifling a choked gasp.

“Now, Minshan, please. You remember what my father was like. We were all of us his victims. A-Su, me, and both of our mothers.” For the first time, Qin Su understood what Lianfang-zun’s detractors meant when they said he dripped insincerity. “Ultimately, A-Song’s death can be placed at his feet.”

But A-Song was murdered after Jin Guangshan died, she thought stupidly. Utterly frozen in place, the short, harsh pants of her breath the only sign she had not just been dropped into hell. The two men spoke for a few more minutes, but Qin Su didn’t hear a word.

It was some time after they left that Qin Su moved, her stiff joints causing her to fall onto her side on the edge of the tablecloth.

How was she ever supposed to face the court, knowing what she did now? Look her half-brother in the face without screaming?

The honorable thing would be to expose him, and to then take her own life to restore her own honor.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t do that to her father, to her older siblings. Half-siblings, now, she supposed, with a crazed giggle. The only real siblings, the only real father Qin Su would ever have. It would be better if they never knew what had happened to their mother. To her.

But she couldn’t carry on as she had, either.

The forgotten paper crinkled in her hands. The Sacrifice Summon. Exchanging her life for another’s.

Was that the solution she was searching for? Could she?

Qin Su remembered her husband’s - her brother’s voice saying especially not children. Only breaths before declaring his own son’s death necessary.

Her A-Song was lost forever.

There was, however, another child under Lianfang-zun’s care. Another mother whose son was not lost, but who had nevertheless lost the chance to see him grow. If Qin Su exchanged her life for that woman’s, perhaps her soul would pass on quickly enough to find A-Song in another life.

Jiang Yanli would see Jin Ling grow up safely, ensure Lianfang-zun did not keep the power he had married his own sister and murdered his own son to secure.

That would be best for everyone.

Qin Su shakily extracted herself from beneath the table, returning to the one room she could be certain Lianfang-zun would never enter.

Now she knew why.

Locking the door to her room, Qin Su emptied what little was in her stomach into the chamber pot. When she was through, she began to draw the array.

The first thing Jiang Yanli noticed was the silence. She had been on the battlefield at Nightless City, pushed A-Xian aside, and a sword went through her heart —

She had been dead. She was certain.

Oh, A-Xian. What did you do?

Slowly, Jiang Yanli sat up. She was sprawled on the floor of a well-appointed lady’s bedroom. In Koi Tower, by the color scheme, but its occupant had uncommon taste. Rather than gilded everything, there were accents of gold on the drapery and to emphasize ink paintings of the ocean and a palace she did not recognize.

There was also the matter of the array of blood that surrounded her. Demonic cultivation, which only supported her certainty that A-Xian was involved. But where was he? And if she was in Koi Tower, where was her son?

Yunmeng, something inside her whispered. Though she could not explain why, she knew it was true.

Checking herself for cuts, she found a gash across the palm of her hand. But it was already sealing, far faster than Jiang Yanli had healed from so much as a paper cut before her death.

She wasn’t an expert in raising the dead like her brother, but Jiang Yanli was fairly certain fierce corpses did not work that way. At the very least, she should have been bleeding black. Yet her blood was as red as ever.

Getting to her feet, she started to inspect the room for clues. On the way to the desk, she passed a mirror. Her gaze skipped past a mirror. And snapped back.

It was not Jiang Yanli’s face that looked back.

This woman’s face was rounder and softer than her own. Pretty, with a natural pink in her cheeks where Jiang Yanli’s had always had to be painted on, due to the frequency with which she lost her breath and grew dizzy. There, too, was a hint of the agelessness that came with a fully developed golden core. With a feeling of foreboding, Jiang Yanli felt along her meridians until she reached her core. No longer a weak, underdeveloped thing due to her inability to practice the heavily physical Jiang techniques, it shone bright and strong.

That was a point against this being A-Xian’s doing. He wouldn’t have stolen her a body, when he could simply bring back her own.

Why am I alive? Asked a voice in her head.

That would have been a reasonable question. Only it wasn’t Jiang Yanli thinking it.

Maybe resurrection came with the ability to understand spirits. The results were entirely untested, so it was possible. Yet the voice seemed certain it was alive. If her current state was due to demonic cultivation, she might as well do what A-Xian would: experiment.

“I could ask you the same question.” Jiang Yanli told the voice.

Jiang Yanli? It worked! But why am I in your head?

“Are you the one who brought me back?” She tilted her head back, trying to place the way the voice made her head feel. Almost like the moment at the start of meditation when she began to forget her body to focus on her spirit, but with a disconnect keeping her grounded.

Yes. And then, I can hear your thoughts, the voice said, you don’t need to speak out loud.

That was disconcerting. Is this your body? She thought at the voice.

Yes. The voice said. Stop calling me that. I’m Qin Su.

Strangely, it was a relief to have a name. It made Qin Su feel more real than anything else in this surreal afterlife. So it would be more accurate to say I’m in your head. Am I possessing you?

It was supposed to be an exchange. My soul for yours.

Well clearly, it hadn’t worked that way.

Responding to her unformed question, the woman continued. The array is on the desk.

This… It was obviously A-Xian’s work, copied out by a more careful hand. But it looked incomplete, a half-developed first draft or his scattered notes on an older text that he could always piece back together perfectly, but left out crucial details for anyone else. Utterly unlike the labeled, if nearly illegible, minutiae on his complete work. Jiang Yanli would never have cast an array with so little information. Especially not one of A-Xian’s.

I didn’t know the Yiling Patriarch. And I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.

No, she supposed not. Anyone casting this array would have to be desperate.

Everything fell apart and I just… used what I had on hand. There was the impression of a shrug, like her mind contorting itself into a new shape. My impulse decisions always have terrible consequences. That’s how I ended up pregnant and marrying the last person in the world I should have. Qin Su gave a short, harsh burst of hysterical laughter, startling Jiang Yanli into making the same noise aloud.

Telling whoever this abusive asshole was that her husband had died only a week ago, and she was certainly not performing any marital duties could wait until she figured out what Qin Su had done.

There are other pages with more notes in the treasury.

Jiang Yanli sprang to her feet. I’ll need to see them immediately.

She slid open the doors, and came face to face with a maid carrying cleaning supplies. Jiang Yanli quickly shut the doors behind her, so the maid could not catch a glimpse of the blood still staining the floor.

“Oh! Jin-furen.” The maid bowed deeply. “This one apologizes for assuming you would be out.”

It was something of a shock to be addressed by a title that had, from her perspective, belonged to her mother-in-law only yesterday. Jin-furen?

Ah, yes. I’ve been Jin-furen since Jin Guangshan… passed… ten months ago. The word “passed” came with a flash of embarrassment, telling Jiang Yanli enough for her to extrapolate the cause of death.

Jin Guangyao must be Jin-zongzhu then. Strange, he hadn’t seemed the abusive type.

Not abuse. Worse. Qin Su gagged in her mind, making Jiang Yanli do the same.

“Are you all right, Jin-furen?” The maid asked, hovering closer.

At least the gagging gave her an excuse not to allow anyone inside. “I’ll be fine. But please wait to clean until tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. Would you have some soup sent on a tray for my dinner?”

“Of course, Jin-furen.” The maid backed away, bowed, and hurried off.

Jiang Yanli turned to inspect the door, placing her hands on her hips. With Qin Su’s Golden Core, she could likely cast a locking spell. If she knew how, that was. She had always relied on A-Xian’s talismans, many of which he developed specifically for her. Unfortunately, she had none on hand.

That’s easy. Qin Su said. Draw the characters for lock, then modify it with…

It took Jiang Yanli a few tries to draw properly on her new core, but she was able to lock the door against casual entry. No cultivator with a sword would be kept out for long, but they would have to be willing to trespass in Jin-furen’s bedchamber.

The thin flush of victory faded the second she stepped through the treasury portal. Suibian lay on a shelf, visible from the door. A-Xian had not carried his sword for a long time. But he would never have handed it over to the Jin Clan, unless it was directly into Jiang Yanli’s arms. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Qin Su. Why is my A-Xian’s sword in the treasury? Jiang Yanli demanded. The answering silence was deafening. “Qin Su! Tell me why!”

He… died. At Nightless City. Not long after you did. Qin Su’s voice was hesitant, as though confused why she cared.

“No!” She let out a choked sob, clasping a hand over her mouth. A-Xian wasn’t — he couldn’t be —

Didn’t he kill you? I was told —

“No! Never!” A-Xian would never have hurt her. I tried to save him.

Silence, for a moment, other than Jiang Yanli’s own ragged breaths. Then, I’m sorry. I’ve learned a lot of things I believed were lies today. Perhaps what they said about him was too.

They were. A-Xian was bright, and good, and cared too much. He had never been what they thought. Jiang Yanli had not needed to ask to know A-Xuan’s death was a horrible mistake, likely the result of stepping in between his cruel, vindictive cousin and her brother at the wrong moment. If he had meant to kill Jin Zixun, A-Xian had had good reason.

I think anyone who had the misfortune of meeting Jin Zixun considered killing him. Qin Su said wryly.

Jiang Yanli had had those thoughts. She gave a watery giggle that was answered in her head. It was sweet of Qin Su to try to comfort her when she could feel that she was still reeling for her own reasons. The least Jiang Yanli could do in return was get her some answers.

On the table.

She found the stack of diagrams easily, along with a tattered notebook that appeared to contain A-Xian’s original work. Jiang Yanli flipped through that, knowing that unless had both gotten a hold of one of the few people that could read his note-taking scrawl — her, Lan Wangji, and perhaps Wen Qing, who had taken their turns as A-Xian’s sounding board in succession — and convinced them to help details would likely have been missed.

You can read that? Qin Su was incredulous.

Years of practice, she replied. Before Lan Wangji, Jiang Yanli had been the only person who took A-Xian’s inventions seriously, the only person willing to sit and listen while he bounced from idea to idea, eventually solving the problem himself.

The average person would not think it necessary to puzzle out the text under a sketch of Lan Wangji holding a child, assuming it was a caption. When it was, in fact, an absolutely crucial detail. A detail that had made A-Xian conclude the Sacrifice Summon Array should never be used.

There were perhaps a dozen variations on the array. Most worked in a similar way to what Qin Su had intended, summoning a spirit to take the caster’s place. The earliest could not target a specific soul, but A-Xian had worked that out. Luckily, Qin Su had used one of those arrays, allowing Jiang Yanli to be summoned, rather than causing the closest vengeful spirits to battle for her body. The very last caused the caster’s body to be torn apart, and replaced with a copy of the spirit’s own.

But every version had two things in common: a call for revenge, and the destruction of the caster’s soul.

In her mind, Qin Su went perfectly still.

Jiang Yanli had a theory as to why Qin Su’s soul had not been consumed by the array. It had started the job, pulling Jiang Yanli in, but Qin Su had not asked for revenge, and so the array spat most of her back out. What the consequences were, for either of their spirits, she could not begin to guess.

There was a distinctive air of panic to Qin Su’s continued silence.

Qin Su, Jiang Yanli prodded, if this had worked the way it’s written, your soul would have been consumed by it. What could have been worth this?

I didn’t know about that. I didn’t want that.

It didn’t happen. You’re still here. She attempted to reassure Qin Su, wishing there was a way to mentally pat someone on the head. That had always helped calm both her brothers.

I’m still here. Whatever the fuck that means. Qin Su giggled nervously. That wasn’t very ladylike.

I think it’s forgivable, under the circumstances. Jiang Yanli raised a sleeve to cover her smile.

You don’t know the half of it. Qin Su sighed. I didn’t think things like this happened, outside of stories.

Jiang Yanli waited for her to go on, gritting her teeth in response to a wave of bitterness.

Only a few hours ago, I found out my so-called husband is my half-brother and he murdered our son. And now here we are.

Oh. Jiang Yanli could not so much as think of a reassuring response. What the fuck is correct.

“A-Su,” Jin Guangyao said from behind her, before Qin Su could say anything more. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

#the untamed #cql #wangxian #yanqing #qin su #my fic

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elane-in-the-shadows · 4 years

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Drabbe: 12.- I'm pregnant 18.- it's okay to cry... Farley and Cal friendship

This took long but I did my best! Please take this piece of fictional angst in these times of real life angst. 3721 words.

The Want

After weeks in hiding and on the run, nights spent awake and alert, in thin tents – or in a cave –, a real bed was a luxury she couldn’t suffer. The air, always cold and damp in the base of Irabelle, she was used to, even on their first night, having arrived only hours ago. So was sleeping in rooms with a dozen others, as either was an improvement to their way here, from the evacuated island of Tuck. Diana Farley had endured hardships for a long time and taken what small comforts and safety she found in the rests she was offered.

What unsettled her were those who weren’t safe.

She lay awake, her mind spinning in pointless circles that demanded her to act yet still eluded any options how to. Her teeth grinded, her fists balled. She squeezed her eyes shut but one didn’t fall asleep when your whole body and soul were so tense you wanted to shout.

Oh, the want.

Give it up or stay in restless rest?

Experience advised her to pick the latter. But her most important finding was not to rely on the usual.

“Fuck it,” she murmured. Opening her eyes, she assessed the dark room before she rose, stretched, and put on clothes. I’ll get to pull back more than soon enough. There wasn’t enough light to assess her belly as well, but she knew its rounding shape well enough anyway. She sighed as she touched it one more time. Not round enough to be obvious yet just big enough to draw attention. It was the worst time in that regard, probably. She should simply announce she was pregnant to undermine any gossip, though she also knew that wouldn’t stop it, only replace curious with pitying glances. And pitying herself, she could do well on her own.

She moved her hand off her belly to push herself up – and hesitated. She stayed seated, palms on the warm blanket and blood pumped fast by her racing heart.

You should be here.

It was the one thought that paralyzed her the most. As if dreaming, she remembered the softness he’d given and woken in her in return, the tenderness that had turned into stinging pain now that he was gone, like everyone she loved, apart from their child.

You should be here and hold me, soothe me, kiss me … Stifling a screaming sigh, she shook her head, fists tightening again. Shapes that had appeared as her eyes had gotten used to the dark became indistinguishable as she blinked – no, not at tears. She wouldn’t shed tears. It didn’t help, did it? She rose, finally. The only option was the way forward, and that was saving the ones left.

“Captain …?”

Surprised by the unusually sleepy voice, Farley turned back to the bunk bed and grabbed its upper rail. She looked up at Ada Wallace, half risen and wrapped in her blanket.

“Sorry I woke you,” Farley said, startled by her own hoarse voice. “I’ll be in the control room.”

Ada bent forward to cover Farley’s hand with hers. “Is that so?” she asked.

Her pulse throbbing at the touch, Farley shrugged. “A captain has her duties,” she replied, neutrally, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Ada always called her captain since her rank had been restored, apparently a politeness remaining from her housemaid occupation, though Farley had learned in their weeks travelling together from Tuck to Irabelle that it was also Ada’s kind of wit. With her Newblood ability always the smartest person in the room – without exception –, Ada had developed her own methods to stay under the radar as she withstood the Silvers’ disdain, and one was a delicate sense for irony.

I am no match for her, Farley thought. If we hadn’t found her, she would’ve joined the rebellion on her own, sooner or later.

Now they held each other’s gaze despite the dim room, both filled with tension and held breaths that bespoke the opposite – the concern of friends. At last, Ada relaxed. “You’re okay?” she asked.

For an instance, Farley lowered her eyes. “I’m not,” she confessed, adding, and you know that, in her mind. “But I’m well enough.”

Ada audibly released a breath, her fingers squeezing Farley’s and brushing over them like the tickle of a feather before she let go. “Then I’ll go back to sleep, captain,” she replied, and Farley nodded.

“I’ll see you at 0600, Wallace.”

She glanced around as she left the bedroom but took no notice of anyone else awake and overhearing their exchange – which didn’t mean there wasn’t any. If so, she couldn’t care about them. She entered the underground corridor of the base, lit with meagre lights, smelling moist and so quiet the silence had an oppressing quality. For a while, the base had been the best excuse for a home she’d had, but that was before the Notch. Before Shade. Although it had only been him and not the place that had carried such a notion.

His love had ruined the persona she’d carefully carved at for years. Now it kept her hand tingling from Ada’s touch. She was glad for it, their conversation, really, because of its normalcy, the support, and the forgiveness it meant after their last, awkward, talk.

Ada knew about her state, of course, having figured it out quickly, so she, Farley, had asked her a few days ago, “have you ever been pregnant?”

She’d asked with the wish for sharing common ground, for the understanding of someone who knew how the current strangeness of her body felt, and in that moment, she’d picked Ada because she didn’t dare to try with Ruth Barrow who was both too distant and too close to her.

She’d had rued it the same second she’d asked. Ada, of all people? As a housemaid, she might’ve very well taken care of babies. As a Newblood minder, she could’ve gathered all kind of knowledge on pregnancy and childbirth. But Farley had inquired about neither; she’d asked about the private story of Ada Wallace, the person, who had no children, and who might’ve been hurt by a question that could’ve very well been a question about loss or pain.

Ada’s face had gone blank before she said no and Farley apologized and glimpsed a smile so tiny, she must’ve imagined it. Maybe it was real, Farley considered now, relieved. But only a little.

They were friends as well as comrades yet she couldn’t fully appreciate it. A touch was a gift she craved and feared because it couldn’t be enough. As good as it felt, it wasn’t the touch she wanted – Shade’s touch. She wanted him to turn up, see her, hold her and hold their baby in due time. She wanted her baby, period, healthy and safe and with a different future. Many Reds – and the few Silvers she’d had part in bringing over – came to the Scarlet Guard out of despair or anger. Those were emotions she was used to as well, but they weren’t her motivation. What got her here was longing, raw and demanding want. She, Captain Diana Farley, was filled with it to the brim.

Another memory rose, carrying more desire and urge with it: Shade embracing her from behind, his face leaning against her neck and his breath nuzzling her skin. He held onto her, he kept her up – and walking ahead. “I don’t know how to help Mare,” he’d whispered that day. His hands hugged her so tightly, she’d reacted to his touch just by breathing. Uncertain what to say, she’d covered his fingers with hers, entwining them.

“I’ll do better,” she whispered now. Back then, their closeness had been enough – for them, in their infatuation. Now Shade was dead but she could still do her best to free Mare for him.

Her fists balled. In the control room, the colonel would wait for her, the father who always told her all she couldn’t do – until she would succeed and he’d find another thing to take away from her, only for her to get it anyway. She could do this. She’d save Mare and everyone else she was able to keep safe.

“‘Morning,” greeted a voice behind him, and Cal’s head spun, aching as his neck had been stiff and unmoving from staring in the same direction for hours. He knew he was not welcome, couldn’t gain traction here, so all he could do was staying, determined and obstinate. Now his eyes could hardly follow Farley as she broke into the control room. Her entrance shattered the words of dispute, said and unsaid, still hanging in the room although Cal, the colonel and the two remaining operatives had fallen silent more than half an hour ago, tired from discussion that went nowhere. No point was made yet Cal couldn’t leave, couldn’t call it a night like Kilorn or Bree. He was a thorn in the side of the colonel, and he knew the older man wanted him gone. Cal wouldn’t give up this night of insisting on Mare’s rescue, he stubbornly remained because he suspected he wouldn’t be let in again.

He hid this suspicion though, he was versed in that: never show insecurities, always maintain royal dignity. It didn’t endear him to the Guard operatives, though. Often, their faces plainly revealed how Cal’s habit and demeanour chafed against them when he didn’t even guess what it was this time.

He shifted in his chair to watch Farley stride in while she assessed him and the others in the room. She didn’t meet his gaze, her eyes passing over him after a glance. I deserve this, he figured, I could’ve gone to welcome her as soon as I heard of her arrival with the others left on Tuck.

Though she assessed wrong, he thought as well. She walked to the colonel like she didn’t even notice how her cold presence froze the flammable atmosphere in the room.

“You’re late,” the colonel said rudely but Cal had witnessed enough of his grim miens by now to find the needy relief he tried to hide beneath his frown and barked words.

If Farley did as well, she snorted at it. “Better safe than sorry,” she replied and secured and sat down in the chair next to her father in one fluid motion. With the next, she reached for the papers on his desk. “What’s the current operation?” she inquired, but the colonel stopped her, slamming his palm on the papers and pulling a folder out of a drawer as if he’d just waited for the moment. “I think you need to catch up at first, captain,” he said in a dangerously low voice.

Cal stretched his neck, wishing Kilorn or Bree, anyone from the Notch or Mare’s family, had been stubborn enough to linger here with him, so there might be three voices present to urge for freeing Mare –

No matter. Then this had to be his moment. Cal rose, catching the attention of Winters and Williams, the other two Scarlet Guard operatives, as he sidled to the desk.

The conversation between Farley and the colonel had turned only quieter, more private. “… I’m not surprised you hold this against me,” Farley said, clearly piqued.

“Please –”

“I owe him …”

“Sir,” Cal interrupted them, and it sounded like a hiss. Heads spun to him, he swallowed. “Colonel, I agree with Captain Farley” – he looked at her – “she should participate in the mission and share her thoughts.”

He’d considered calling them both by name but decided that reminding them of their relation they liked to blur so much would rather work against him. Yet stunned they were, as he’d intended. At last, Farley fully acknowledged him. The corners of her mouth twitched. “There you are, Calore,” she said. “Stopped sulking?”

Her taunt irked him; until he saw her own fallen face, her exhausted demeanour. She was taunting herself as much as him, commiserating with him and mocking herself in an attempt to keep them both over water.

He made a face and inclined his head, she sighed. She spun her chair, hands folded in front of her. “What is the objective?” she asked.

“Free Mare,” he replied without hesitation.

She raised her eyebrows but withstood glancing at the colonel for confirmation. Cal didn’t read only surprise but anticipation as well on her face. “Tell me of your plan,” she demanded.

His heart raced in excitement. Finally! “We know Mare is alive, for now. So the sooner we act, the better –”

“That’s not a plan.”

“Well –”

Farley frowned. She glanced at the colonel’s files while the man’s expression was a very clear I told you so. Turning back to Cal, she continued. “Excuse me, I didn’t have regular access to most news, but I haven’t seen broadcasts or announcements regarding Mare for weeks. Thus, your information is coming from spies, right? What else do they say?”

“What else?” he repeated, flustered. He moved closer, leaning toward her. “I know Whitefire best, and by my colours, do you like to imagine Mare under Maven’s torture? It’s been a month, and time to act –”

She jumped from her chair, forcing him to step back. The ten centimeters he had on her meant nothing, her eyes burned no less. Only then did he realize his words: as if he hadn’t watched her getting tortured.

“All I understand you’re saying is we should run into Whitefire without a plan, without preparation, on a suicide mission! Endangering ourselves, our spies and Mare!”

He gaped. Had he said it like that? But he couldn’t believe her – he’d trusted Farley to support him, yet she denied him, him and Mare. He tried one last time and reached for her shoulder. She shoved him away.

“Oh, fuck it,” she muttered and pulled him with her, out of the room. As he stumbled after her, he caught the sight of Winters and Williams, staring at him, aghast, and of the colonel, looking annoyingly smug that his estranged daughter served this one purpose: finally removing Cal Calore from the control room.

In the corridor, Farley pushed him against the wall. Her face was pink with anger and Cal couldn’t guess which accusation she’d throw at him first. Thus, he took his chance while she still caught her breath. “Is Mare just like any other operative to you?” he snapped. “Or are you uncertain what happened, Farley? Because I was there. You weren’t. You stayed back while –”

“I did what I could! How dare you fault me for ….” She stopped, her voice losing its spite. “I did what I could,” she repeated. “I will do what I can, because it’s right, and for Shade. I’ll get Mare out of there, I’ll bring the Scarlet Guard to success, but I won’t run into trap after trap by being rash. I’m done being rash! I’m pregnant.”

What?

She was too close suddenly. He felt wrong here, wrong to bear witness to this moment. Did she mean to tell him this? She seemed too charged to even be surprised by herself. He blinked, forcing his eyes to stay on her face, not to move down. He suspected she’d slap him if he did the latter.

Her agitation waned slowly. “You see,” she went on, quieter, “that I’m unwilling to run into death?”

He nodded carefully.

She sighed and from one moment to the next, her anger was gone, replaced by sadness. “Shade wouldn’t want this, he would …” She couldn’t go on. She cleared her throat, looked down, trying to hide her glistening eyes.

He made a dare. He lifted his hand to her cheek. “Hey,” he said softly. He couldn’t congratulate her, could he? Instead he said, still as tender as he managed, “Farley, it’s okay to cry.”

She gasped, for seconds frozen in shock. Then she clasped his hand – instead of pushing it away. “Do you … do you cry, Cal?”

He swallowed, stalling to answer as he was as frozen as she seconds before. A shiver woke in the hand that touched her cheek and spread through his body, both sizzling and freezing him. But he wasn’t frozen, not anymore; he dared even greater than cradling her cheek. As before his shiver gave way into sobs, he hugged her close.

One more time, she didn’t shove him away. She pressed her face into his neck, breathing heavily. Did she cry? Did he? He couldn’t tell, could only smell her, sweat, sleep and gunpowder, skin and hair – hair that scratched his face. It didn’t annoy him, there was some comfort in her, and also his, physical presence felt in this moment.

He’d thought Farley in sore need of touch and closeness, but he was as well. Mare wasn’t dead like Shade, but her absence stung, piercing and wearing him down and pulling the ground away from him. He feared for her. He needed her. He swam in danger and loss of purpose he’d never known before. What was he doing with the Scarlet Guard without Mare? These people mistrusted, if not despised him. The colonel had locked him up and would’ve sold him to the highest bidder; now Cal as good as begged for his support in his mission to bring Mare back.

Farley hadn’t been a friend, but she was an ally, and he was glad to have her back, at least. He liked to give her some of this relief in return, although she now had her own insecurities and fears. To have a baby in this chaos? Mare’s niece of nephew? Mare would want to meet them desperately. And Farley …he hoped she was happy about this at least. He didn’t want to imagine how she fared, with feelings wavering like a wave, between grief and love and anticipation. She was brave.

The moment passed like an eyeblink that lasted on hour. Farley pulled away tentatively, without letting go fully. She still had her hand on his arm when she spun to lean against the wall, forcing Cal to slide down next to her.

They were quiet, yet hardly calmed. He wiped his face with his hands, covering traces and enjoying the brief darkness before he glimpsed at her. Farley’s face was flushed and her eyes similarly pink – he concluded she did cry, though the weeks before might’ve been as much a cause for her look. Pain spoke from her whole being, pain born both of grief and yearning. Her panting might stop, her brow might frown as if scheming, but Cal recognized the emotion all too well. From familiarity, he realized. What he saw in Diana Farley in this moment was how he’d always felt about his mother he’d lost and never known.

“I want him to do this with me,” whispered Farley.

He swallowed. The urge to reply rose in him yet he didn’t know what to offer. Yes? How lame. He hesitated. His fingers twitched so he extended them slowly, carefully, to rest on her thigh.

She breathed in and tensed.

Now his whole body twitched.

It wasn’t aimed at him. “He,” spat Farley, her chin jerking toward the control room. The colonel. “He doesn’t understand. That we were in love. He thinks I had some nice bed sport and have to deal with the results.” The last word dripped with venom. “By myself, he means, on my own, but most of all away from the Scarlet Guard.” She grimaced. “And even if … “

He had to clear his throat after the breath he’d holding during her outburst. He’s been worried about you, he thought. He couldn’t say that. What use had she for the colonel’s worry if he shamed her? Noticing his hand was still on her thigh, he wanted to pull away, but she covered his hand with hers, meeting his eyes. Determined. Distraught.

“You’ll do it,” he said. “Your way.”

For a second, she looked aghast, then grateful for someone to understand. She inclined her head, he held her gaze. “I owe it to Shade,” she said, softer now. “I want our child to have it better, and … I can’t do nothing.”

“Yes,” he agreed eagerly, relieved to enter more common ground.

But was it? Farley wouldn’t abandon Mare; he was sure now. She was stressed, mourning, he saw why she reacted strongly. So had he.

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning several things. Then added, “of course we need a valid plan.”

He was aware freeing Mare was one operation among many. The Scarlet Guard officers didn’t know what to do with him – fill him in and use him or treat him as a better hostage? This indecision was obvious, clear on all their faces, but it wasn’t their confusion alone. It was also his.

Cal had almost always lived under large expectations and he’d come to embrace them. To be intelligent, regal, shrewd, skilful with ability, versed on the battlefield as well as in tactics and strategy. He was a prince, a son, a brother. A betrothed, and he’d lost all of it. He was hanging by a thread to stay alive and the Scarlet Guard wanted him to cut the thread and fall into their net.

You never become used to falling, especially not if you’d always stood high.

Farley next to him, who yearned so much for the love she’d lost it hurt to watch, would tell him to do it. Let go and commit himself to the cause.

If Mare was with him, he thought he would. He’d laughed with her, danced with her, kissed her. They’d run and fought for their lives, protecting each other. He’d slept next to her and hadn’t felt lost and so he could, almost, imagine he just wanted to hold her in his arms and it’d be good enough – until she faded away, again and again. Maven was the cause, but Cal feared she’d always slip away from him, intangible in heart and soul.

She was her own person. Would her sparks vanish or ignite, along with his flame?

“I’ll make sure of it,” said Farley. She almost smiled from conviction as she squeezed his hand, a squeeze that helped ground him in his drifted mind and reminded him he wasn’t completely alone after all. “We’ll defeat Maven and free Mare.”

That, he could commit to. “We will,” he promised.

@elliemarchetti @lilyharvord @avid-author-activist @farleydiana @mareshmallow @marecalrandomstuff

#red queen #marecal #red queen fanfiction #red queen fan fiction #a-scarletguard-member #request #victoria aveyard #cal calore #diana farley #shade x farley #mare barrow #red queen one-shots #the want #colonel farley #ada wallace #fada

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dragonoracle · 4 years

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Let’s talk about why my Mom did not bond with me and why my Maternal Grandma did.

I think the best thing to do is start at the beginning. I was born one month after my parents first child had died. This sister is my older sister but she was not really a part of our lives. (She will be called from now on DS = Dead Sister in this blog if she is ever brought up.) I think in our entire house there was only one picture of DS and maybe one at my paternal grandmother. I know my mother did have a baby book for DS but she kept it put away out of sight. So was the picture. The picture was shoved to the top of a book shelf in the living room. This death did make it hard if not impossible for my parents to bond with me. Well I should say for my Mom to bond with me. My Dad has made it clear several times that he ever wanted kids and only had me and my siblings because he liked having sex with my Mom. (The next post will go into my details on this point.) But my Mom never let that death go. And this death seemed to have warped my Mom’s mind where my early years are concerned. Whenever I have brought this up to her she always points out that she made me two baby books and will blame my MGM (Maternal Grandmother) for interfering with any bonding we could have done. I want to break down these two excuses one at a time as they both irritate me and upset me. The Baby Books my mother made for me are creepy to tell you all. Not in that way you get when seeing your baby pictures. They seem to document every day of my life until around the time I was two years old. My DS died when she was two years old. As if she was expecting me to die at the same age. My baby book even has a section of my umbilical cord in a little sealed baggy (yes it’s as gross as it sounds). Neither of my sisters’ or brother’s baby books have their cords in it. Also my sisters who are twins only have one shared book and my brother has half a book. It’s almost like once I didn’t die she stopped caring for me. She focused on my sisters and then my brother. She bonded with them but stayed distant with me. Her complaints that my MGM interfered with any bonding we could have had are all lies. My MGM had explained to me (when I was around 18 I think) that my Mom never bounded with me. She took care of me (feeding, changing, and bathing…etc). But once my needs where met that she would set me down or hand me off to another family member. My MGM stepped up and took a major interest in my life as a baby and that carried threw as a kind. She bonded with me and provided me the love and attention that all babies need to grow and thrive. My MGM loved my siblings but our bound was stronger than her bound with them. Partly due to them not needing a mother figure in their lives, partly due to the interference of my Mom, and partly due to how my MGM actually parented when we were in her care.

The distant and lack of bonding with me made my life and relationship with my siblings hard and very abusive. They would bully and beat me up a lot. They would steal my stuff and keep it for themselves. Give my bike to their friends to use so I could not fallow them. Take my diaries and share them with my Mom to get me in trouble for the feelings I had written there. They would break or destroy their stuff and then try and blame me for the breaking of the stuff. Or just try to break my stuff. My parents did not care nor punish my siblings for doing these things. Or even punish me for defending myself or standing up for myself. Saying the line “You’re the oldest and as such need to set an example for them” or some variation of that. This worked to build their bond between my parents and my siblings.

My MGM on the other hand would punish my siblings for doing them same thin. This would also keep my siblings from wanting to from a relationship with our MGM (cause they where spoiled brats not wanting to get punished). One example of her standing up for me was when we were kids me and my two sisters had been given these lovely cloth merry go round horses. They were kept at my MG house as most of our toys where due to how bad and disgusting our living conditions (to be explained in a latter post.) They each had tails made of color yarn and ribbons. My siblings one day when we were dropped off at my MGM’s house to be watched went back to the room that my Sisters’ merry go round horses were stored. I had joined my MGM in watching TV as we liked to do. Then my siblings came running out and lied that I had cut off the tail of S1’s horse tail. My MGM called them out as she had been in that room and seen the Horse and its tail had been intact before we had arrived and as I had just sat down with my grandmother on my arrival and not moved since. My Mom always blamed my MGM for why I never bonded with my siblings. She also would say that my MG could only bond with the first born grandchildren of each of her children. She always explains it as because my MGM mother died shortly after I think my MGM’s sister was born. My MGM’s father remarried and her stepmother was kind and caring till her stepmother and her father had their own child. Then my MGM and he sister where pushed aside. I have always felt this was just bull shit and excuses. My Mom would take glee in always telling me that had DS lived my MGM would have focused and bonded with DS and I would not have been the favored child. This has gone on ever since my MGM died. My Mom would never have told me that while my MGM was alive cause she figured that I would tell my MGM about what she said. My Mom has since poisoned my siblings with these thoughts and they went with it. It’s made it hard to talk with my sisters about this as they always mimic my Mom’s words back to me.

Saddest part is that my MGM didn’t feel this way at all. She loved all her grandchildren. But did not agree with how my parents (latter just my Mom) where raising us(the continued abuse and bullying I was receiving from my siblings, the lack of punishment and stopping of the behaviors by my parents, and the allowing of my siblings to do dangerous and illegal activities). After my parents divorced and my Mom moved us to a new state my MGM would send $20 a week to be split between the four of us. Then as first my B and S1 started to smoke she had the money to be split between me and S2. Then when S2 started to smoke I was to get the whole amount of the $20. My Mom was upset and angered by this and often said that my siblings were upset by this (and maybe they where I have no idea) but my MGM had hoped and explained this to us and my mother that she would not pay for my siblings to smoke. This didn’t stop my mother from trying by “borrowing” the $20 from me to help with groceries till I found out that she was using the $20 to help pay for my siblings cigarettes I stopped giving my Mom the $20’s and told her that I would tell my MGM what was she was doing. This stopped my Mom asking me for the $20’s. (Note my mother has never once paid me back for any money borrowed.)

My Mom was not above using the fact I was close to my MGM. She used me almost all the time to ask my MGM for money. Mainly because she felt and knew my MGM would be hard pressed to turn me down. It got so bad that when I would call my MGM I had to make it known to my MGM that no I was not calling for my Mom to ask for money.

She was deeply saddened by the distance that my siblings put between her and them. They stopped calling her on holidays and never wished her a happy birthday. As such she decided to stop sending them gifts. She would still send my siblings cards for holidays and for their birthdays. She just stopped giving them money. She did make it clear to them and my Mom that they just needed to reach out. But it was too late to repair much of the relationship. I do have some memories of my mother half halfheartedly bonding with me in my latter years that where clearly after thoughts and more meant to prove my growing feelings wrong. Or where just either forced on her to deal with my learning disability or cause it made her look bad. These bonding attempts where also always pushed aside quickly either to focus on my siblings or because I was not that receptive to them. These only hurt any relationship we could have had. Now I’m not saying if what my MGM did with her relationship with my siblings was right or wrong but I do understand why she did it. I’m not saying that she did everything right with our relationship. But I will say that without it my already very turmeric childhood would have been truly nightmarish. And I would not be the person I am today. For that I will always be grateful to my MGM and all she did for me. As for my Mom I don’t blame her for not boding with me. It’s impossible and would be monstrous of me to want that. After all her first child had died a month before her second was born. But what I do blame my Mom for is for lying about the fact that we did bond and trying to use the baby books she made for me as proof when they just more seem like they are epitaphs for me for when I was suppose to have died, blaming my MGM for us not bonding, for the issues between me and my sibling, and finally for the continued attacks on the one person who ever cared and stood up for me and protected me. Those are what I blame my mother for. Sorry for the rambling manner of this post. I think I’ve pretty much covered the bonding issue between me and my Mom I think this Friday I’ll post about my bonding issue and relationship with my Dad and his parents (how I did not bond with my PGM(Paternal Grandmother) and how I did bond with my PGF (Paternal Grandfather).

TL;DR My Mom and I did not bond cause I was born a month after my DS died. And my Mom has two excused for the bonding issue that contradict each other of first we did bond using creepy baby books as proofs and second to blame my MGM for interfering with our bonding. My Mom rather than accept the truth tried to gaslight me. Tear apart my relationship with my now dead MGM and poisoning my siblings to any relationship they could have had and had with our MGM. My mother tried half hardheartedly to bond with me in my latter years but always made it very clear my sisters and brother where her preferred children. I don’t blame my Mom for not bonding with me but more for her lies and her trying to destroy the only happy safe place I ever had during my childhood.

Update I recently talked with my S2 about our childhood. She actually confirmed some of what I said here. My Mom had all through our childhood drilled into the heads of my Siblings head that’s my MG loved me more then them. She would make them jealous of me by telling them my MG would buy stuff for me not them. She also said that my Mom and Dad would all but encourage my parents to beat me up or take my stuff to avoid fights. Now I’m not so foolish to fully believe what she said in this call. But it was interesting to see she backed up my beliefs without me saying what those beliefs where.

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unofferable-fic · 5 years

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The Flower & The Serpent (Arthur Morgan x OFC)

Chapter 4 - Conversing, For Beginners

Summary: In the early 1890s, the Van der Linde Gang were truly at their finest. Experts at stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, they’ve made a name for themselves across the West. Two of their newest recruits, a pair of rebellious Irish siblings with an unknown past, slowly find their footing and settle into their new lives as outlaws. And yet, as they grow older, threats from all sides begin to appear. A strained relationship with Colm O'Driscoll spells disaster for the gang, and no matter how far they roam across America, the world continues to change around them. If they want to survive, difficult choices must be made. No one is as they seem and the impending arrival of law and order threatens to tear the siblings, and everything they hold dear, apart. Is it too late for anyone to find a happy ending?

Originally found here

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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC

Warnings: Language, some fluff.

Word Count: 4,065

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Playlist: Further Away” — Ben Howard, “Morning” — Gustavo Santaolalla, “The Fine Art of Conversation” — Woody Jackson

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A/N: Also available on AO3. Chapter four comin’ at y’all.

Arthur had thought the bank robbery would go smoothly, so the drastic turn of events that occurred was an unwelcome one. They adapted — as they always did — but two close calls with Dutch and Maebh were not something he would ever feel ready to comprehend if the worst comes to worst. The former had merely been lucky in his escape with the arrival of a random passerby and he dreaded to think what might have taken place had the Reverend not been present. And Maebh, well… The second she fell behind and her horse lost its life, William had turned his own mount right around. It was only by the young man’s insistence that Arthur and Dutch didn’t try to assist. Instead, they waited until the siblings reappeared over the hill from a short distance away — only then did they lose the lawmen and make the journey back to camp.

Maebh looked shaken up, and Arthur couldn’t blame her. By the looks of the blood covering her fancy clothes, it had been an eventful rescue. Upon returning to camp, William was quick to help her off the horse she’d escaped on. Dutch had already called for Mrs Matthews and Miss Grimshaw to come and see that the girl was alright, but her brother looked like he would just about murder anyone who put a hand on her. It was only when he and Arthur had carried her to their tent that the latter felt the need to step in.

“You need to take a minute,” Arthur instructed him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. He eased the younger man back a bit, closer to Hosea and John who looked on from a polite distance. “Grab a beer or somethin’.”

William stared at her while she sat on her bedroll with some effort and the two ladies began to look her over for any injuries. “How the hell can I have a beer when there might be somethin’ wrong with her?”

“What happened back there?” Hosea asked in concern. Even John looked a bit worried.

“The law nearly caught her but I shot the fucker before he could take her in. Shot her damn horse though, so she went flyin’.”

Hosea nodded, some of the worry in his expression fading away. “I know it might sound insensitive, but that’s good in the grand scheme of things. Better to fall off a horse than be shot.”

“You saved her, kid,” Arthur added. “Give yourself a bit of credit.”

“And a break.” Hosea turned and took a seat at one of the camp tables. “John, would’ja fetch us some beers? I think the kid needs it. If she needs you, William, she’ll call.”

John went to fetch some drinks, albeit it with a slightly disgruntled expression, and Arthur and William took a seat around the table. Arthur watched curiously as the kid practically refused to take his eyes off his sister in the caring hands of the camp’s two finest matriarchs. He only looked away when Bessie fetched a hot bucket of water and closed the tent off to the outside world. Soon after, John returned and handed each man their own bottle. Arthur cracked his open immediately, enjoying the taste as the cool liquid slid down his throat. After reassuring William that his sister would be alright, they descended into casual conversation, Hosea smartly steering it so that William had to speak and take his mind off things. They discussed the successful aspects of the bank robbery, including the size of the take and what they planned to do with their individual shares. Not only that, but they pondered what would be done with regards funds and the locals who might need it.

In the midst of all this, Dutch came over and briefly joined in the chatter, his jaw now swollen on one side and throbbing red. “A job well done, gentlemen. A damn fine job. It was a tough one, but we adapted just fine as always. Seems like we’re just too slippery for the lawmen in this state.”

“We certainly did alright given the circumstances,” Hosea agreed, and offered Dutch a match as he whipped out a fat cigar. “How’s that bump?”

“Could’a done without it but I’ll live.” He took a drag before turning his attention to young William. “More importantly, how’s your sister doin’, son?”

William shrugged and scratched at the short hair on the back of his neck. “She wasn’t shot at least. Mrs Matthews and Miss Grimshaw are with her now.”

“Well then she’s in the best hands we got. I’ll go pay her a visit and have any formal celebrations rescheduled to suit with whatever recovery time she needs. In the meantime, I’m proud of how strong you’ve been, William — she’s lucky to have a strong lad like you for a brother. God knows where she’s be now if you it wasn’t for your protection.”

William gave the man a nod in thanks as he left them to it, approaching the tent not far across camp. Hosea and John also headed off a little while after that, joining the others around the campfire. Arthur remained, noting how William made no move to go elsewhere.

“She’ll be fine,” he said, glancing at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “She already survived gettin’ thrown off a horse once.”

William shook his head bitterly. “I know. I know it could’ve been a lot worse like Hosea was sayin’, but it…” He hesitated before meeting the older man’s gaze. “It was a close one. It wasn’t the horse that had me worried.”

Arthur nodded in reply. “I understand. Well, I ain’t got a brother or sister myself, but I guess that that bond is pretty strong. Heck, the Callander boys are lunatics but even they got each other’s backs through the thick of it.”

“She’s all I got…” He paused, finally letting his eyes rest on his companion with a sense of finality. “I know this gang has been good to us, and we do see you lot as family to a degree, but she’s…”

When the two siblings first joined that gang, William was definitely the more standoffish and reserved of the two. It took a long time before he opened up to any degree — he was always distant, always stiff in his stance with his arms folded across his broad chest. Arthur always thought that his eyes focused not only on you, but through you, picking away at every little detail and ill thought you held in your heart. He was like a wild dog, always ready to savagely sink his teeth into your hand if you got too close. His trust had to be earned, and it had taken Mr Morgan a long time to get what little he had. But, once you had it, it was a valued asset; something to be cherished like a priceless gem. His loyalty seemed unbreakable, and just looking at the way he and Maebh were together was evidence enough of that.

“She’s important to you,” Arthur finished, then took a swig of his drink. “I get it, kid. Y’know, I’ve been in this gang for most of my life. It’s the only family I got and I’ve always seen little Johnny Marston as my brother. We might not be blood, but it still counts for somethin’.”

William nodded in agreement. “You can see that this gang is a family for those who’ve been in it for a while.”

“You’ll get there too someday; just takes time. But she’s your sister. That kinda bond is special, so you hold on to it.”

“I’m tryin’ my best to do just that.”

Arthur huffed out a snort at that. “You guard that girl with an intensity I rarely see. I fear for the man she marries.”

“Jaysus,” William sighed with an amused expression. “As long as she doesn’t marry one like Marston I won’t have’ta kill him.”

He chuckled at the notion. “Naw, Maebh ain’t dumb enough to end up with someone like him.”

As the pair shared a laugh at John’s expense, Uncle came trotting over, a beer firmly held in his grasp. “Are you two anti-socialites gonna join us ’round the fire, or what? We’re tryin’ to learn more ’bout this reverend feller.”

Arthur played dumb. “What for, old man?”

“I am tryin’ to be kind here, Arthur,” Uncle scolded him in offence. “And acknowledge a job well done on the bank! No need for your usual sour sarcasm.”

Arthur looked to William before replying, but decided to oblige after seeing no negativity in his demeanour. Though the young lad did throw a glance at his tent before following them and joining the others for a somewhat civilised drink. It was awhile later when Miss Grimshaw and Mrs Matthews reappeared with Maebh in tow. Though she was walking with a visible limp, the ladies had helped her wash all the blood and dirt off her face and got her into a fresh set of clothes. Upon seeing his sister gingerly making an entrance, William sprang up despite having consumed a few bottles in the time he’d spent with the others.

“An bhfuil tú ceart go leor?” he immediately asked in their native language — of which Arthur had yet to understand a damn word. But, judging by the kid’s gentle placement of his hands on her shoulders and the look of concern in his eyes, he could gather what he was asking.

Maebh hushed him, insistence evident in her tone, though she was smiling up at him regardless. “Tá, fan bog!”

“You nearly gave the boy a heart attack,” Hosea jested from his seat. “Perhaps you ladies should check him over now, just to be safe.”

Dutch raised his drink to her. “We’re glad you made it outta there with barely a scratch, Miss Hennigan! A true testament to your abilities.”

“Or my luck,” she replied with a shrug. “I don’t think I can take all the credit for this one.”

“Beat me to the punch,” John muttered before handing her a bottle of whiskey. “You gotta play catch up now.”

“It would be wise to take your time,” Miss Grimshaw cut in, giving Marston a look that could kill. “Don’t drink at the pace those morons already set.”

“I won’t, Miss Grimshaw. I’m still a bit sore though, so drinkin’ at a reasonable pace is the plan.”

The group cheered to that one, raising their bottles to a job well done and safe return home.

* * *

26th August, 1893, outside Winterset, Iowa

Despite the fact we had two close calls at the bank, our luck held out and everyone made it out alive. While Dutch ended up with a swollen jaw, Maebh was the one who was ordered to have some bed rest. Thankfully she seems well enough now. She was nearly captured during the escape, but William insisted on going back to save her. The passion with which he protects his sister will always astound me. Maybe it’s because I didn’t really grow up with a sibling, but I’m a little jealous of their strong bond… Regardless, I can look at my own relationships within the gang to try and understand, especially my one with John. He was always like a little brother to me, even if he can grate me sometimes… Alright, maybe more than ‘sometimes’.

The pair of Irish orphans are something else though. I can only assume that they’ve been through quite a lot together. I’m only now suddenly realising that I don’t know much of their time before the gang. Maybe I’m overthinking things — maybe it is just because all they’ve had for so long was each other. I have to wonder whether I’ll ever know—

“Whatcha writin’ there?”

Arthur looked up from his journal to see Maebh standing at the threshold of his tent, two steaming cups of coffee in her hands. He shut the book before placing it down on his cot. “Nothin’ interestin’, I can promise you that.”

At the foot of his Arthur’s cot, Copper raised his head at the newcomer. His tail began to wag as Maebh offered the dog his own greeting.

“Whatever you say,” she replied and offered him one of the cups. As he thanked her, she took a seat on the ground. As soon as she was sat down comfortably, Copper was on his feet and plodding over to join her. She cooed at his dog and happily scratched behind his ears before once more meeting Arthur’s gaze. “All these years, Mr Morgan, and I still have no idea what in the hell you write in that little book of yours.”

He smirked at her comment. “Tell you what; maybe you finally tell me somethin’ ’bout yourself, and I can write it down in this little book of mine.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“What you mean ‘what I mean’?”

“Are you, the mysterious Arthur Morgan, insinuatin’ that I’m the mysterious one?”

He shook his head and aimlessly scratched the stubble on his chin. “All I know is I know very little ’bout ya. I think I’ve gotten a bit more outta your brother than you actually.”

“Well,” she sighed, gently cupping her coffee in her hands while Copper laid down on the grass beside her, his furry back resting against her leg. “I don’t exactly know loads ’bout you either. So to me, it sounds like we’re mysterious peas in an incomprehensible pod.”

Arthur assessed her from his spot. She was still decorated in a few bruises and cuts from her second fall off a horse, but seemed far less stiff and sore than she had previously been. Perhaps that was something to open with, and hopefully lead into other conversation. “How’re you feelin’ after Winterset?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, grand. Could’a been a lot worse, and while I hate being segregated to takin’ it easy, I know it had to be done.”

“I don’t like havin’ to rest much either,” he agreed sympathetically. “But it’ll help you in the long run, which is important.”

“I don’t even mind havin’ to loiter ’round camp if I’m doin’ jobs and the like, but sittin’ and doin’ nothin’ drives me up the wall.”

“You seem to spendin’ most of it lookin’ after that new horse o’yours.” He nodded towards where said horse was grazing on the other side of camp. After riding it out of Winterset during the robbery, Arthur had noticed how Maebh had tentatively approached the animal the next day, probably half expecting to receive a hefty kick or bite. But the tall horse seemed surprisingly docile, instead happily accepting the attention with curious ears titled towards the new stranger. She returned again later with pats and a peach, which seemed to go down well, so Arthur saw an opportunity to quickly sketch the pair in his journal, something he never intended on letting her see.

Maebh threw a curious glance over her shoulder at the relaxed animal. “She’s a nice horse. Seems to like me a lot more than Banquo ever did. William did advise me on how to approach her though, just to make sure I couldn’t add ‘kicked in the head by a horse’ to my long list of embarrassin’ injuries…”

“She’s a beautiful animal. You gonna keep her?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, clearly thinking it over. “I think it’s ’bout time I got a new mount. I suppose I wouldn’t be much of an outlaw without one. Maybe me and my horse can be as compatible as you and Boadicea someday.”

“If you look after her just right then it can happen. As I always say, if you look after a horse, it’ll look after you just as good.” He took a sip of his coffee before noticing that her eyes were subtly fixed on his journal, and found himself smirking at her inquisitiveness. “Still curious then?”

“Always,” she admitted and leaned forwards slightly. “I always see you scribblin’ away in that thing. I’m startin’ to think you’re writin’ the world’s longest novel.”

“I sure as hell ain’t no novel writer,” he replied, embarrassed by the insinuation. “That’s for sure.”

Her brow piqued slightly. “So if you’re not a novelist, you a playwright?”

“Naw.”

“A poet?”

That one made him laugh aloud. “Say that louder so Dutch and Hosea can get a kick out of it too.”

She held a hand up in mock defence. “I’m just tryin’ to cover all the options here!”

“Well there ain’t no stories, plays, or poems to be readin’ in here,” he said before gesturing to the apparently mysterious book. “Just… my thoughts really.”

The young woman let out a prolonged ‘ah’ and met his gaze. “So it’s like a journal?”

“I guess so.” He lowered his head at the admission, his rough fingers tapping on the edge on the warm cup. He cleared his throat and tried to appear casual about it all. “It ain’t nothin’ really. Just helps me keep track o’things.”

“You don’t need’ta explain yourself to me,” was her response, her tone having shifted from mild jesting to a gentle understanding. “Journals are personal things — maybe even more so than writin’ stories. So don’t worry; I’m not goin’ t’ask you to let me read it.”

The fact she didn’t tease him for keeping a journal was a small relief for Arthur. He’d previously been consumed with the worry about her thinking it was pointless or excessive, but now he merely wondered from where this empathetic awareness came. “You speakin’ from experience?”

She paused and suddenly she was the one finding the grass beneath her quite interesting. “Kinda. I used to write stories as a kid.”

Well, there was something he didn’t know about her.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that,” he mused. “You fancied yourself a writer?”

The subject was a curious one. Her entire demeanour shifted with the mention of her old hobby. He noticed her hands relentlessly tapping on the cup, causing it to ring out in a repeated rhythmic beat. “Maybe when I was younger, not so much now.”

Over the years, they had talked of the past surprisingly little in the time they’d known each other. They knew the basics sure, but personal details in the realm of secret pastimes were few and far between. He was quite intrigued with the new information, so curiosity got the better of him. “What made you wanna be a writer?”

“I like stories,” she replied with a small smirk. “Thought you could’ve guessed that from all the readin’ I do.”

“Suppose I should’a guessed that much.”

“I’ve just... always been into readin’ stories and tryin’ to create my own when I was younger. I had an active imagination.”

Arthur thought of the times he rarely saw a book out of her hand if she wasn’t otherwise occupied with chores or drinking. “You must’ve been read to a lot as a kid then.”

The ghost of a smile passed over her lips. The movement was one he rarely saw — it was genuine, entirely so, not the same type of smile she plastered on in most group situations. Her eyes appeared glazed, as though she was somewhere far away at that very moment. “My ma and da were big into storytellin’ — my ma in particular. She used to insist that it was important we were familiar with stories of where we came from, both real and fictional. So it was normal for us to be told a story before bed each night. Somewhere along the line, I think I began tellin’ my own ones. Or trying to at least. Sometimes I just repeated her ones over and over again.”

Arthur rarely heard Maebh talk about her parents. He still didn’t know much about what happened to them or who they were. Their existence remained a mystery to him, much like their children still did to a degree. Of what little he knew, her memories of them seemed mostly fond at least. She was lucky to have folks like that, lest he thought of his own bastard of a daddy.

He sipped at his coffee, trying to waste the bitter taste off his tongue. “They sound like educated people. Your folks, I mean.”

“Not so much actually. They were just brought up in the same way and I think they wanted us to be aware of what was goin’ on ’round us.”

“Were they from Dublin too?”

As she spoke, a tentative hand ran over the back of her neck, skimming the chain of her necklace back and forth. “My ma yeah, but my da was from Connemara which is in the west of Ireland.”

He sensed that he was veering into uncertain and unstable territory. Though he was curious about her upbringing, he got the feeling that she would close off if he pushed the talk of her parents, so with a casual nod, he railed her back in. “So, you got parents who love to read and tell stories, and then you start writin’ your own... Why’d you stop?”

Her answer was dismissive, and her fidgeting hands didn’t relent with his new question. “I don’t really have time for all that anymore. Kinda busy doin’... outlaw stuff.”

He thought about her reply for a moment, then let out a sigh and tapped the leather cover of his journal. “I’ve had this here journal for just over a year now. And I had one before that, and one before that. I’ve been writin’ in ‘em since Hosea got me my very first one a couple years after I joined this gang. You just gotta make time if it makes you happy. Dutch keeps up with his readin’, John whittles in his free time, Susan always tries to have a game of poker when things get stressful, Hosea and Bessie go out on huntin’ trips to get away sometimes. Hell, I’ve seen you and William goin’ on fishin’ trips sometimes. If you like it, you gotta make time.”

She seemed to ponder his words, the tapping of her fingers slowing until they stopped. When he met her gaze, he found her watching him intently with curiously glint in her eye. She nodded slowly and then said. “I suppose you’re right. I might look into it at some point if I have the time.”

“Good. And then maybe sometime you’ll let me read the stories you write.”

She actually grinned at the suggestion and let out a laugh. “The day that happens is the day you let me look in that lil journal.” She got to her feet, coffee in hand. “I’ll leave you to your writin’, Arthur. I don’t want’a take up much more of your time.”

“Alright, well, thanks for your company, Maebh.”

“The pleasure was mine.” She reached down to pet Copper’s head. “See you in a bit, boy.”

Arthur gave her a small wave as she wandered off to the other side of camp. He watched as she was set upon by Karen and the two got into a casual conversation. Copper eyed her too, before letting his head rest one of his paws again and catching up on some shut eye.

Without much thought, Arthur grabbed his journal again and opened it on the page he had been writing before her arrival. With a slightly dull pencil, he picked up where he left off:

So, seems that Maebh used to be a storyteller. Why does that come as no surprise to me? Hosea and Dutch always encouraged that I kept up with reading and writing, though I suspect she will not need to be encouraged to stick with reading. Regardless, maybe I can help ease her back into writing if that’s what she’s passionate about. I tried to explain how important it is to have hobbies outside of the gang, but I’m not sure if my words failed me or not. I’m not the best at passionate speeches — that’s more Dutch’s job than mine. Hopefully I didn’t discourage her, at least.

Still, it was nice to discuss trivial things for once. It seems that I’ve gotten my share of personal conversations with the Hennigan siblings in the last few days. Hopefully we do it more in the future and I can learn more about these two orphans and where they came from.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x oc #john marston #red dead redemption fandom #rdr #rdr2 #fanfiction #fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic #the flower and the serpent #dutch van der linde #hosea mathews #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x ofc

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diarrheaworldstarhiphop · 6 years

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How big is the average Canadian into the Royal Family? Is having Royal or Crown in government named things embraced?

Edit: jesus christ i accidentally stream of thought effortposted againyounger than 50, they dont give a shit. It’s been semi-systematically programmed out of the younger generations, as well as like, just the closer relationship to the USA now and the adoption of the post-national globalist state model that Canada can’t shut the fuck up about in bragging of in absence of any ties to our past. Unless, of course, you are Quebecois or a maritimer. The former, cus duh and the latter because significantly economically depressed regions have an uncanny habit of preserving regional identity.

The conservatives in this country used to be queen and country traditional styled anglophiles but since the 80s, the neoliberal platform (see: alberta) has completely subsumed that faction into becoming generic low taxes capitalist whigs in the style of the American Democrat party. They embrace the immigration and trade policies as we have it because, like the liberals of this country, they are the Fortress Calgary to the Fortress Toronto of the Grits in wanting to become a “super power” in that one sole tradition that Canada still maintains itself, which is the inferiority complex it has with the United States. Canada wants a significantly larger population so it can, in theory, accrue global power and prestige. It’s literally that shallow.

The long time nationalist forces that wanted to break from Britain in search of independence have won. They have the power, the money and the media. Their slow detachment from empire won out, but due to the timing with modernity and frenzied capitalism, we have no distinct culture to speak up aside from icons of consumerism. Tim Hortons, Ketchup Chips, and little red maple leafs on american corporation logos is the new cultural identity. Eat up, citizen.

I am currently living in the era where ive witnessed british arms, british servicemen bars/legions and british goods stores serving an extremely elderly demographic be replaced by japanese stationary stores, modern bars & grills and pho noodle places. My anglophile grandma (see: not the oma) was so distinctly british in her mannerisms and character that she used to have me shop with her in rural Ottawa and flip around the containers to show the english side out because she couldnt contain her disdain for the french, lol. She was the only family member i know who had portraits of the young queen, old queen and other commonwealth/empire memorabilia. That is another uniquely canadian feature of this dominion that is quickly being lost, which is the anglophone vs. francophone dichotomy in this country. The anglophone side has simply ceased to exist, or rather, just become Generic Globalist Consumers with a generically racist right wing that votes Tory. And it wasn’t necessarily something mourned. it just happened as a result of geopolitics, mainly.

Canada is in the process of pivoting toward the west, formerly Europe’s east

This is inevitable because of the collapse in British prestige, the relatively young age of the country and the normalization of Canada’s relationship with the USA culminating with NAFTA, so it can’t be helped. There is literally no political faction in Canada that wants to preserve this sense of identity. As has been the case for a few decades now because people feel its not “our” identity, let alone see it at all. What’s more, they would prefer not to. it feels like reaching into something full of moth balls.

Even Maxime Bernier’s kinda reactionary new Peoples Party is just a generic anti-immigration clone of the Tories.

And describing this cultural identity is not like, going “lmao british people” because it was bigger than that. It is rife with the simulacra that comes from being at the extreme end of a globe spanning maritime empire regarded to be at the time of time. It’s not a British culture, it’s british? It’s the culture that arises from great affinity for a distant mother you miss and try to emulate out of pride for her.

Contemporary conservativism is fundamentally modernist (late 19th century, onward), so it can’t grasp this gilded traditionalism that carries generations and is rooted in Enlightnment. It’s sense of identity is firmly restricted to the want for preserving how it was in the contemporary generation’s youth, which is itself fleeting from the acceleration of technocapital. This sense of identity is intrinsically degenerative because western society ran obsolete, the old aristocracy, it’s values of enlightenment and aristocracy itself almost a century ago. So we are left with a wildly expanded merchant (trade/business) class, the middle class, which has little intrinsic interest other than that of material concern. Conservatism, as opposed to this gilded traditionalism, is lowbrow nostalgia and liberal capitalist. lol

This limit for scope of cultural inheritance is why the conservatives of today were the liberals of two decades ago. In a few decades, the Conservatives will be defending/preserving their nostalgia of shit they tried to prevent today. Whig history, etc etc

Describing this cultural loss is like.. you can’t really look at it in an literally skin deep ethnic lens like in the way the modernist fascists fret, because it was a form of identity that precedes the modern, capital-corroded sense of the cultural. Even superceding that. Britain was a global empire that reached it’s zenith in the twilight of an older sense of identity (nationalism was a new, radical phenomenon then).

The loss of this Britishness in Canada is like the fading warmth from the last touch of a benevolent caretaker who has since passed. You weren’t around to know her when she was a cold, calculating, powerful, feared bitch in in her youth, but what you do remember in fragmented childhood memories is how she was in her elder years, glowing one last time after beating the cancer (nazi reich) afflicting her. But it took the strength out of her and so she quickly expired after that, leaving her children to divvy up, sell and throw away all of her belongings. After all that, all that’s left to you, this generation in the commonwealth, should we actually take care to notice, is that fading warm touch that is deeply of the visceral, the simulacra at this point. Hard to really distinguish what that touch felt like. You try to focus on the warm spot, to conjure her voice in your head and remember at least those stories from beating the cancer or other stories.

But then the contemporary alt-righter thinks he feels it too, so he quickly slaps his hand onto the warm spot and just replaces it with his own warmth. The touch is now completely lost. He doesn’t even realize it.

#effortpost

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amykingpoet · 5 years

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“There comes a point in everyone’s lives where we start to recognize that we are making choices, that we are determining who we are by the actions that we make,” poet, educator and activist Amy King stated in a 2015 speech at SUNY Nassau Community College, where she is a professor of English and creative writing. “What we do says a lot about who we are, not just what we say.”

As a young child growing up in the Bible Belt, King remembers going to the grocery store with her grandfather—her one source of stability, love and unconditional support at that time who, “everyday,” made comments that she was learning to understand were racist. She recalls watching her grandfather flirt with a Black woman who was checking out their groceries. “I was very young,” she told students about that day. “I didn’t even have the vocabulary at that point to recognize this feeling or to articulate what this feeling was, but it was the feeling that something hypocritical was going on.”

That was when King, who identifies as queer, began trying to figure out how to address those moments in her family. “A story begins when a protagonist recognizes a conflict and begins to address how to correct that conflict,” she shared, “and some of us choose not to address that conflict—and that is a story too.”

After growing up in Stone Mountain, Georgia, King lived with her father in Baltimore, Maryland. As a teenager, she worked for the National Security Agency after testing high for analytical skills, but says she felt “uncomfortable” there, even just at 17, and “didn’t like the way the institution was run.”

Two consistent themes throughout King’s life are “social justice and story.” Her latest book, The Missing Museum, is described as “a kind of directory of the world as it rushes into extinction, in order to preserve and transform it at once.” Publishing it won her the 2015 Tarpaulin Sky Book Prize and vaulted her to the ranks of legends like Ann Patchett, Eleanor Roosevelt, Rachel Carson and Pearl Buck when she received the 2015 Women’s National Book Association Award. (Named one of “40 Under 40: The Future of Feminism” awardees by the Feminist Press, King also received the 2012 SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Scholarship and Creative Activities.)

King is co-editor of the anthology Big Energy Poets: Ecopoetry Thinks Climate Change and the anthology series Bettering American Poetry; her other books include I Want to Make You Safe, one of Boston Globe’s Best Poetry Books of 2011. Much of her prose, activism and other projects focus on exploring and supporting the work of other women writers, especially writers of color. King is a founding member of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts and former Editor-in-Chief of VIDA Review.

During a 2014 interview King gave for Houston’s Public Poetry Reading Series, she spoke on the subject of trying to understand poetry by asking a pivotal question: “What is ‘understanding’ and what is an ‘experience’ with a piece of art?” She went on to say poetry should “jostle” us out of our regular ways of thinking—it should “undo” us in ways that are both good and uncomfortable.

For this installment of Ms. Muse, King opens up about learning to speak up and step up—and shares three new poems with Ms. readers. Here’s to hoping that they “undo” you.

THE POEMS

Selling Short

I cannot afford to live in the city I teach in, & the number of people sleeping in cars has grown, indivisibly. This is not a dream of guarantees but the pursuit of handwritten freedoms that night the sting away. Demons of clinics devise distribution mechanics based on who you were born to & who you might know. The 2 a.m. quiet promises no solace or silence when days are hobbled & taken. Soon, light will be privately owned.

I’m Building a Body to Burn My Effigy In

I will not mention stars Today. They have been used for purposes not their own. Listen to them. Give them space. Observe but leave them distant. If you think you know everything about them now, you have outgrown yourself. In the south we say bigger than your britches burns, but I do not wish to confuse. I want to learn.

Joy Even

The denim and calico patchwork of my childhood. Mothballs in a little black box, felt lining each crevice. Michael Jackson on a hobbled turntable someone left at the apartment complex curb. Costwald Village. Regal. British. Anything but.

The dislocation of Backwoods, Georgia. The first time a man touched me, his semen glistening my inner thighs.

“Thriller” and the plywood coffee table. The hoarder grocery bag maze and Childcraft Encyclopedias flayed across the shag. My 12-year-old amazement. My 12-year-old embryo. The fact of a body electric, searing for days. Turning that birthed another world with a song and dance.

So many ways to joy. Some to death. My anything. Me, anything. Joy even.

THE INTERVIEW

Can you tell me about your process of writing “I’m Building a Body to Burn My Effigy In,” “Joy Even” and “Selling Short”?

I don’t have one process. Sometimes compiled notes take shape. Or a poem just falls out of me as if, gored, the liver drops from my body. The heart seeping sounds more fitting, but a liver plop fits better.

“I’m Building a Body…” comes from an interest in physics and mortality.

“Joy Even” is part of the slow-burn of outlining a memoir.

“Selling Short” emerges as predictive dream, touching on issues that have recently led me to Rosi Braidotti’s “The Posthuman.”

What childhood experiences with language informed your relationship with poetry?

When I first moved to live with my father in Baltimore at 15, I spoke slowly and heard the same. I often said “What?” in a deep southern drawl, uncertain of my own ears, which was probably also testament to a deeper uncertainty too. My father was my only safety line in a house full of strangers and with a stepmother who, quite quickly, began to play her own uncertainties out on me.

One day, as usual, I asked “What?” and my dad, no longer riding the romance of his daughter’s betrayal of her mother to be with him, the winner, suddenly shouted at me, “DO YOU REALLY NOT KNOW WHAT WE’RE SAYING?” It shocked the shit out of me. I made adjustments over time to alter the way I spoke, how I heard, to absorb unknown word usages and infer what I could. And to recover from what that moment meant.

You might prefer the story of how I used to read Gertrude Stein to friends over the phone to annoy them until I realized I had tricked myself as I was enjoying sounding her poetry aloud. Or how I grew up reading Nancy Drew and science fiction late into the wee hours and then woke up and watched Saturday morning cartoons in black and white. But this moment with my father shattered something. Luckily, the cracks are often where we make things and the broken pieces what we make things with.

I’m stunned by that moment with your father and your struggle to understand what people around you were saying. I’m also struck by the notion of the poet as a young girl not trusting her own ears, as you say. How did you learn to make out the words all around you–and to trust yourself?

I don’t think I ever have really. I just embrace the temporality of life a bit more than usual and go with what comes across. It’s why I am not embarrassed to ask someone to pass the “lotion” for the salad or to verb nouns for decades now. I think subconsciously I suppressed my accent as a response to my father, but that shock taught me that not only is my mother unreliable, but so is the alternative, my father. I had already been disabused of the notion of unconditional love; I was holding out hope in him for at least a lasting, warm embrace. I’ve grown since that bottoming out: DNA is not all, and one can find family—and become family—elsewhere.

This is all linked to the notion that people speak to signal group intimacy; language is shaped by mutual alliances and allegiances. When family rejects your language needs, believe the message it sends and seek anew.

Do you seek out poetry by women and non-binary writers? If so, since when and why? More specifically, how has the work of feminist poets mattered in your childhood and/or your life as an adult?

I won a city-wide fiction contest for Baltimore ArtScape during my senior year of high school. It was judged by Lucille Clifton, which made a lasting impression on me. I was not a writer, but my high school English teacher, Carolyn Benfer, encouraged me tremendously. I was attending a vocational school in the city and, up to that point, was destined to become a CPA.

From there, I attended the University of Maryland at Towson State and had the good fortune to enroll as a double major in English and Women’s Studies. The latter program is especially noteworthy as the program served as the model for many other Women’s Studies programs across the country, as envisioned and spearheaded by Elaine Hedges, who was also an active feminist, affiliated with the Feminist Press. This program led me to numerous marginalized writers back in the early nineties that I likely would not have encountered so early on independently or simply from core English classes.

I cannot speak highly enough about the work that Women’s Studies program did. The short answer is that the program taught me to seek work by marginalized writers as I would be missing out on so much otherwise. I do not seek literature simply to reflect my own experiences—I seek to learn beyond them.

What groundbreaking (or ancient) works, forms, ideas and issues in poetry today interest and concern you?

There is no one work, and as such, I continue to read widely. There are so many books I have not read yet, which is thrilling. Some of my touchstones range from Cesar Vallejo to Leonora Carrington to Audre Lorde to James Baldwin to Lucille Clifton to Gertrude Stein to John Ashbery. There are numerous younger poets I look to for energy, shifts in consciousness and awareness of current cultural concerns and who also signal structural and formal changes. A handful include Billy-Rae Belcourt, Chen Chen, Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, Vievee Francis, Airea D. Matthews, Raquel Salas Rivera, TC Tolbert, Ocean Vuong and Phillip B. Williams—but this by no means is an exhaustive list. Check out the poets anthologized in the Bettering American Poetry series I am lucky enough to be a part of.

As a woman, and as a woman who writes, what do you need to support your work? What opportunities, support, policies and actions can/could make a direct difference for you—and for other women writers you know?

Besides the room, money and time Virginia Woolf called for, I’m beginning to find that a support network is vital. I don’t think this needs to be formal or a writing collaboration. I simply mean that it is encouraging to have regular check-ins with a small group of writers, as few as two even, where you discuss what you’re each working on, maybe share a small piece/excerpt, get feedback and discuss ideas.

It is often the idea exchange, even with just a friend on the phone, that I find generative. I find myself articulating ideas and vision in a way that is as revealing to myself as to my friend. I leave those conversations with ideas of where to head next with a poem or on what to research to build foundational ideas for a concept.

What’s next? What upcoming plans and projects excite you?

I’m outlining a memoir—fingers crossed—and writing poems. I may birth an essay down the road, but that is gestating for now. And volunteering time and support to a program called La Maison Baldwin Manuscript Mentors, a nonprofit arts and culture association that remembers and celebrates James Baldwin in Saint-Paul de Vence, to save James Baldwin’s house and turn it into a vital residency in France.

How has the current political climate in the U.S. affected you as a woman writer?

I am not so much shocked as often startled. I think we all knew white supremacy, colonialism and toxic masculinity were at the helm, but the built-in invisibilities kept them shrouded in respectability politics and notions of civility, and of course, that begs the question: Whose civility? I also don’t think we are in some unique moment of history where shocking things have taken hold and the end is nigh, but that is how it feels at times. Power and paradigm shifts are often premised on tectonic shifts, and folks have to finally step up, choose sides.

That seems key at the moment: one can no longer pretend to be above the fray. And that may be most painful for those of us with privilege. No one is outside anything after all.

TAGGED:

INTERVIEW

MS. MUSE

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MS. MAGAZINE FEATURE - CLICK HERE - HTTPS://MSMAGAZINE.COM/2019/02/28/MS-MUSE-AMY-KING-POWER-STORIES-WEIGHT-CURRENT-POLITICAL-MOMENT/

#poetry #ms. magazine #interivew

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beautyofendlessforms · 6 years

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“[In the following passage from near the end of The Voyage Of The Beagle, Darwin speaks from personal experience of the horrors of slavery. — George P. Landow.]

I must here commemorate what happened for the first time during our nearly five years' wandering, namely, having met with a want of politeness; I was refused in a sullen manner at two different houses, and obtained with difficulty from a third, permission to pass through their gardens to an uncultivated hill, for the purpose of viewing the country. I feel glad that this happened in the land of the Brazilians, for I bear them no good will--a land also of slavery, and therefore of moral debasement. [521]

On the 19th of August we finally left the shores of Brazil. I thank God, I shall never again visit a slave-country. To this day, if I hear a distant scream, it recalls with painful vividness my feelings, when passing a house near Pernambuco, I heard the most pitiable moans, and could not but suspect that some poor slave was being tortured, yet knew that I was as powerless as a child even to remonstrate. I suspected that these moans were from a tortured slave, for I was told that this was the case in another instance. Near Rio de Janeiro I lived opposite to an old lady, who kept screws to crush the fingers of her female slaves. I have stayed in a house where a young household mulatto, daily and hourly, was reviled, beaten, and persecuted enough to break the spirit of the lowest animal. I have seen a little boy, six or seven years old, struck thrice with a horse-whip (before I could interfere) on his naked head, for having handed me a glass of water not quite clean; I saw his father tremble at a mere glance from his master's eye. These latter cruelties were witnessed by me in a Spanish colony, in which it has always been said that slaves are better treated than by the Portuguese, English, or other European nations. I have seen at Rio de Janeiro a powerful negro afraid to ward off a blow directed, as he thought, at his face. I was present when a kind-hearted man was on the point of separating forever the men, women, and little children of a large number of families who had long lived together. I will not even allude to the many heart-sickening atrocities which I authentically heard of;--nor would I have mentioned the above revolting details, had I not met with several people, so blinded by the constitutional gaiety of the negro as to speak of slavery as a tolerable evil. Such people have generally visited at the houses of the upper classes, where the domestic slaves are usually well treated, and they have not, like myself, lived amongst the lower classes. Such inquirers will ask slaves about their condition; they forget that the slave must indeed be dull who does not calculate on the chance of his answer reaching his master's ears.

It is argued that self-interest will prevent excessive cruelty; as if self-interest protected our domestic animals, which are far less likely than degraded slaves to stir up the rage of their savage masters. It is an argument long since protested against with noble feeling, and strikingly exemplified, by the ever-illustrious Humboldt. It is often attempted to palliate slavery by comparing the state of slaves with our poorer countrymen: if the misery of our poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin; but how this bears on slavery, I cannot see; as well might the use of the thumb-screw be defended in one land, by showing that men in another land suffered from some dreadful disease. Those who look tenderly at the slave owner, and with a cold heart at the slave, never seem to put themselves into the position of the latter;--what a cheerless prospect, with not even a hope of change! picture to yourself the chance, ever hanging over you, of your wife and your little children--those objects which nature urges even the slave to call his own--being torn from you and sold like beasts to the first bidder! And these deeds are done and palliated by men who profess to love their neighbours as themselves, who believe in God, and pray that His Will be done on earth! It makes one's blood boil, yet heart tremble, to think that we Englishmen and our American descendants, with their boastful cry of liberty, have been and are so guilty; but it is a consolation to reflect, that we at least have made a greater sacrifice than ever made by any nation, to expiate our sin.

Darwin wishes for a slave uprising

The following passage, which appears in Life and Letters comes from a letter to Catherine, Darwin's sister, written in June 1833.

I have watched how steadily the general feeling, as shown at elections, has been rising against Slavery. What a proud thing for England if she is the first European nation which utterly abolishes it! I was told before leaving England that after living in slave countries all my opinions would be altered; the only alteration I am aware of is forming a much higher estimate of the negro character. It is impossible to see a negro and not feel kindly towards him; such cheerful, open, honest expressions and such fine muscular bodies. I never saw any of the diminutive Portuguese, with their murderous countenances, without almost wishing for Brazil to follow the example of Hayti; and, considering the enormous healthy-looking black population, it will be wonderful if, at some future day, it does not take place.”

Very interesting passage concerning Darwin’s views on Brazil and slavery at the moment he visited it during his famous voyage in the early 1830′s...

Its very shameful to realize, almost two centuries later, we’re coming back to it with a new class of workers with no rights at all serving as slaves. Everything we struggled to advance since them, including human rights is being challenged and lost.

Its sad to see one of your biggest idols saying so much painful truth about your country and revealing its long lasting, deeply rooted hypocrisy and realizing that very little has changed since them.

We’re just more subtle about it now... for how long?

How long until the rotten truth is completely exposed? It might be too late to turn back, then..

#brazil #charles darwin #slavery

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lifeflowingon · 3 years

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| QUICKSILVER | 5 |

• SUMMARY: After a student is gruesomely murdered on campus, Baek Haeju finds herself trying to extract information from the only person who might know the truth. But is secretive English major Min Yoongi just a witness? Or is he the culprit?

• WARNINGS: Death, murders, sex.

• WORDS: 2785.

"But you know nothing is outside and my secret is my silence.

My secret is my silence and my silence is in vain."

My Secret Is My Silence | Roddy Woomble

It's a wet, intense kiss, and Haeju feels a little uneasy, but she keeps kissing him. Jungkook presses his body against hers, groaning hoarsely as Haeju flings her arms around his neck, and their gasps are the only thing audible in the room.

Haeju opens her eyes for just a moment and she sees dark eyes staring back at her. She blinks again and realizes that she just imagined it, it's not Yoongi, it's Jungkook. Jungkook is the one kissing her, not Yoongi. No, not Yoongi.

She's losing her mind.

"Um..." Jungkook stops kissing her, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine! I'm... fine," reassures Haeju.

"You've been weird for the past few days," says Jungkook, smiling before leaning in to kiss her on the neck.

"Yeah, um, school work and all this hiding in my apartment thing is getting to me," says Haeju, running her fingers through Jungkook's hair.

"As soon as Min comes clean, this will change... Any progress?" mutters Jungkook, now placing a kiss on Haeju's cheek.

"I..." Truth is, although Yoongi is certainly nicer to her, he's still distant. He hasn't been able to spend much time with her working on the essay, claiming that he's busy. He's... acting weird. Especially after the "moment" they shared outside the library a few days ago. But Jungkook doesn't need to know that. Jungkook doesn't need to know that she has a tiny, insignificant crush on Yoongi. "Some, I'm still trying."

"Good," grins Jungkook and kisses her again, more passionate than ever.

"Oh, god!" Jungkook falls off the couch as Haeju pushes him away, and Chaerin is standing in the living room, covering her eyes with her hands.

"Can't you go hang out somewhere else?" protests Chaerin, stomping out of the living room and slamming her bedroom door after her. Jungkook and Haeju laugh it off, but Jungkook glances at

his watch and stands up, fixing his shirt.

"This was fun," says Jungkook, giving Haeju a side smile.

"Are you sure you're okay with me... you know..." Haeju blushes, glancing briefly at her purity ring.

"I really like you, Haeju, so of course I'm okay with it," says Jungkook, leaning in to give her a peck on the lips. "I swear."

"Okay," says Haeju, not feeling convinced. "What are you doing today?"

"Spending all afternoon in the newsroom, nothing too exciting," sighs Jungkook. "I'd rather spend time with you, but I think Jimin would kill me. You?"

"It's a Saturday, so I'll go to the library for a bit," says Haeju, standing up as well. "I'll get some work done... maybe I'll run into Yoongi."

"Sounds good," nods Jungkook. "Okay, I really have to go now, but..." Jungkook kisses her, and Haeju happily responds to the kiss. "Leaving now, for sure."

They start kissing again, and time flies by.

xxxx

Haeju walks into the library, looking around for a book for her public relations research class. She soon finds the section she's looking for, and spends a few minutes browsing around. Haeju sighs as she remembers making out with Jungkook, and then decides to focus on her search again.

"Yon is a threat to us, and you know it." Haeju stops searching around and stops, recognizing the voice at once. It's Jung Hoseok, Chaeku's brother.

"Not in here, Hoseok," says another voice through gritted teeth. Yoongi.

"He's sort of right, I mean... he is threatening to speak out and..." Tae's scared voice moves Haeju's heart. The boy sounds completely terrified.

"He won't," says Yoongi coldly.

"I talked to Rosso about it," says Hoseok softly.

"What? Goddamn it, Hoseok, why did you bring him into this?" says Yoongi angrily, and Haeju realizes that they're on the other side of her section.

"I had to!"

"No, you didn't. Fuck. You guys are really pissing me off," blurts Yoongi.

"Am I pissing you off?" asks Tae sadly.

"No, you're not," says Yoongi, his tone completely different. "Just... everything."

"We should call for a meeting today," retorts Hoseok. "I'll text Jiah and she'll let everyone know."

"Fine," says Yoongi tiredly.

Haeju stands still as the voices get closer, and she feels trapped, not knowing what to do. She walks out of the section as fast as she can, looking behind her back as she does and "Ouch!"

Haeju bumps into Tae and the latter's glasses fall off, causing Tae to start freaking out. "Oh, my glasses, oh no, oh no!"

"Here," says Haeju, handing them to him. Tae checks the glasses frantically, as if searching for any damage.

"He likes her glasses," chuckles Yoongi, smirking at Haeju.

"They belonged to Buddy Holly," huffs Tae crossly.

"No, they belonged to one of Buddy Holly's roadies," teases Yoongi, and Tae punches him in the arm. "Oh! Hoseok, this is Haeju."

"Hey," says Hoseok, smiling patiently at Haeju, but still looking upset. "We've met."

"Have you?" asks Yoongi, frowning.

"Yeah, my best friend used to date Chaeku," shrugs Haeju awkwardly.

"Ah," says Yoongi tonelessly and gives Hoseok a meaningful glance. "I rarely talk to Chaeku, and Hoseok never mentioned it."

"If it's any consolation, I think Chaerin was too good for Chaeku," says Hoseok, sounding more cheerful. "I like his new girlfriend but-"

"Pa-" starts Tae, and Hoseok and Yoongi glare at him. "Um, I mean, Soojin is so mean sometimes."

"Oh, so that's her name," giggles Haeju. "Chaerin just refers to her as 'slutty dancer.'"

"Sounds like an Elton John song gone wrong," notes Hoseok. "Anyway... Tae, we need to go and do that thing we had to do."

Tae looks confused, and Yoongi starts coughing dryly as Hoseok rolls his eyes. "You know... the thing?" insists Hoseok.

Tae looks at Yoongi and then at Haeju, then back at Yoongi, and he starts smiling brightly. "Okay, I get it," winks Tae, and Hoseok puts an arm around Tae's shoulders. Tae puts his hand in one of his pockets and something falls out, but nobody notices except Haeju.

"See you later, Haeju," says Hoseok. "And don't be late, Yoongi."

Tae and Hoseok walk away, leaving an awkward silence behind them. "Sorry I haven't been the most pleasant person," says Yoongi. "I swear, my life has been kind of crazy lately."

Haeju notices that Yoongi is holding his journal in one of his hands, and he sees her looking. He slowly puts it in his back pocket, and offers her a hesitant smile.

"Want to take a walk?" he asks. "Maybe we can get some inspiration for our essay."

Haeju looks at the books in her hands and thinks about Yoongi suggestion, knowing that she has tons of homework. She drops the books in one of the nearby bins and looks at Yoongi, feeling quite elated.

"Why not?" she asks, motioning Yoongi to walk in front of her. Yoongi gives her an odd look but he turns his back as Haeju swiftly grabs the piece of paper that Tae dropped.

You never know, thinks Haeju.

xxxx

"It's so cloudy today," mentions Haeju as they walk, and Yoongi has his hands deep in his pockets as he looks at the sky.

"It mirrors my mood," he sighs, sounding miserable.

"You sound tired," notes Haeju, and Yoongi just shrugs, not saying a word. They walk in silence, the pebbles of the trail they're walking on crunching underneath their feet.

"Do you like rain?" asks Yoongi, sounding pensive.

"Sometimes," says Haeju. "You?"

"I like it," says Yoongi, and Haeju hears thunder somewhere in the distance. "You can't stop it from falling, you can get sick if you spend too much time under it... but it's beautiful."

"Nature is," concedes Haeju.

"But rain is also depressing," continues Yoongi. "It's kind of overwhelming and it traps you indoors if you want to go outside... and it can also destroy."

"What are you getting at?" asks Haeju curiously.

"Rain is like love," says Yoongi simply. "Don't you think?"

Haeju stops walking and smiles, but Yoongi doesn't notice and he continues walking. "Have you ever been in love?" asks Haeju after him. Yoongi turns around and she can tell that she asked the wrong question, because there is sorrow in his features, and Yoongi nods.

"And just like with rain, it ended," says Yoongi abruptly. "I had no say in its ending, I didn't see it coming... it just... ended."

Haeju tilts her head to the side and walks over to him, wanting to somehow comfort the obviously broken boy in front of her. Yoongi looks at the ground and a sad smirk appears on his lips, and he finally removes his hands from his pockets.

"Have you ever been in love?" asks Yoongi, echoing Haeju's question.

"Me?" blurts Haeju, and Yoongi is still looking at the ground. Haeju doesn't know what to answer, because she's not sure. K.C.... well, she really liked K.C, but she knows that it wasn't love. The guy she went out with for a couple dates, May Yejun, doesn't count either. But Jungkook... she feels happy and fuzzy around him, and maybe that's love. She doesn't really know.

"I'm not sure," confesses Haeju, and Yoongi looks at her.

And out of nowhere, rain starts falling down on them, soaking them at once. Yoongi starts laughing and grabs Haeju's hand as they start running, looking for shelter. They finally find a tree and they stand underneath the branches, and Yoongi let's go of Haeju's hand.

"Not sure if this is safe," grins Yoongi.

"Great, now we're going to get sick," mumbles Haeju as they stand under the tree, drops still falling on them.

Yoongi says nothing as they stare at the now flooding trail, but after a while he stands in front of Haeju, his face a little pale. "I found a poem," he says, unusually shy.

"Really? About what?" asks Haeju.

"About... rain... kind of," shrugs Yoongi, not looking at her directly. "I thought that maybe it would help us with our essay. And now it's raining, so I thought that telling you about it would be... um... relevant."

"Oh?" The sudden tension between them changes everything, it's as if the air is barely breathable, as if the rain is gone, and Haeju is able to see nothing but Yoongi. What changed?

"I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens," says Yoongi quietly. "Only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses."

Yoongi takes another step and Haeju just stands there, rooted to the spot. Their proximity is making her nervous, but she doesn't move, not when Yoongi is looking at her like that. Nobody has ever looked at her like that. Not even Jungkook.

"Nobody, not even the rain..." Yoongi smirks at her as he moves closer. "Has such small hands."

"That's pretty," says Haeju, lowering her eyes, hoping that Yoongi won't notice the blush on her cheeks. She's intently looking at her shoes, which are soaking wet, and soon she notices Yoongi's black boots almost touching the tip of her sneakers.

Haeju looks up, her eyes locking with Yoongi's, and he clears his throat. "There is a reason why you can't be my friend," says Yoongi after a few seconds.

"I'm too nice for you?" asks Haeju teasingly, trying to remain calm and unfazed.

"I can't be just friends with you, Haeju," he says seriously. "I like you too much."

Haeju can't speak, she can't respond, she just takes in the words and feels her world spin out of control. Yoongi likes her. Likes her, likes her. His timing is wrong, this is happening too soon, and oh! She's with Jungkook.

But there is something about Yoongi that is just irresistible, and she can't help but feel drawn to him. The rain intensifies, and not even the tree can offer them shelter from the downpour anymore.

Haeju is shivering, but it has nothing to do with her wet clothes. Yoongi cups her face, his fingers delicately touching her cheeks. Her face feels very, very hot, and her insides are churning with nerves. She should stop him, she should push him away.

Yoongi gulps, moving closer to her, and she sees the fear in his eyes. He seems slightly confused, but he doesn't say a word, he just looks at her intensely. She can barely breathe, but somehow her hands find the collar of Yoongi's jacket and she holds on to him. Yoongi's fingers feel like fire on her skin, and he's looking into her eyes, still silent.

"I shouldn't," he finally breathes, and Haeju tenses up as Yoongi's lips brush hers.

"Me neither," whispers Haeju. Yoongi is teasing her, his lips hovering over hers, both of them taking each other's breath. After two tortuous seconds, Yoongi finally kisses her.

Haeju read once that first kisses are like sparks and fireworks, that time stops, that one feels nervous and anxious. And yes, Haeju felt this way with K.C, with Yejun, and with Jungkook.

But with Yoongi, it feels like her entire world is collapsing. The kiss is positively overwhelming, it's not only on her lips, but she feels it all over her body. Haeju feels like she's literally on fire, and a quiet moan escapes her.

Haeju feels lightheaded as their lips move in sync, both of them being cautious about the kiss. Yoongi's arms wrap around her possessively, and she kisses him eagerly, pulling on his collar.

Yoongi pulls away, opening his eyes to reveal full blown pupils and Haeju is breathless. "You're still here," says Yoongi amusedly.

"You have your arms around me, I can't really leave," mumbles Haeju, and Yoongi kisses her again. Haeju's back is pressed against the tree, and now her hands are tangled in Yoongi's hair, pulling him close to her. She knows that people might walk by, they might see them, but she doesn't care. Her chest expands with yearning when Yoongi deepens the kiss, and nothing really matters anymore.

"I really like you, Haeju, so of course I'm okay with it".

Haeju's eyes open and she pushes Yoongi away as the sound of Jungkook's voice goes through her mind, and Yoongi frowns. "Sorry, did I...?" he starts, but Haeju doesn't stay to listen. She runs away, almost slipping when she steps on a puddle, and she can hear Yoongi calling after her.

She kissed another guy... Min Yoongi of all people. She's going to hell.

xxxx

Haeju opens the door to her apartment, fumbling with her keys as she does. She closes the door behind her and she gasps for breath, her heart going a thousand beats per second.

Her lips are burning. That kiss is embedded in her mind and she can't stop thinking about it. She loved that kiss, and that's what scares her. Haeju feels like a floozy, because she is sort of dating Jungkook, even if they haven't made it official. She cheated on Jungkook. She's just like Jenna, the girl who stole K.C away from her. She's not any better.

This is not good, not good at all. She takes off her denim jacket and something falls on the floor, and Haeju picks it up at once. It's the piece of paper that Tae dropped, and Haeju starts to unfold it cautiously.

Aeon

Astir

Beam

Charmer

Foxy

Ivy

Joker

Jock

Pas

Posh

Pica

Quicksilver

The list is neatly typed, and Haeju stares at the crossed out names, Ivy and Joker. There is something scribbled with pencil at the bottom of the list, but it washed out with the rain, and Haeju can only make out a couple words.

Walker, September and Nine.

Haeju goes over the list again, and recognizes Foxy, Quicksilver and Aeon, because those names were on the envelope on Jungkook's desk.

"Walker, September and Nine," mutters Haeju, walking to her bedroom. Chaerin is not in the apartment, but Haeju hardly cares, she's still focused on the list.

She sits on her bed and thinks of calling Jungkook to tell him about the list, but doing so would result with Haeju falling apart in front of him because of the guilt she's feeling. No, it's not really guilt, because, shockingly, she doesn't regret kissing Yoongi. She can't believe that she doesn't feel bad about the actual kiss, because she should. And part of her, the little rebellious part that she is always trying to ignore, wants to kiss him again.

But a little voice in the back of her head tells her, "You can't."

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#bts #bts au #min yoongi #au

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starryvioletnight · 7 years

Text

A Memory Of What Was (Light Damien x William)

((Omg am I really writing Markiplier fanfic?? I swore I never would but here I go~))

Summary: Sometimes Wilford remembers things that never happened. Sometimes Dark has to remind him that these things never happened. Sometimes Dark doesn’t bother to.

Characters: Dark, Wilford Warfstache, Damien the Mayor, Colonel William

Enjoy~

Dark rarely drank anymore, the effects of alcohol making it even harder than it already was to keep the broken shell he wore together. On occassion, though, he would share a drink with his, dare he say, friend, Wilford. Colleague, even acquaintance sounded better, a lot more distant and impersonal. It was what Dark strived for these days. Impersonal. Tonight, though, he was feeling kind. Warmed by the alcohol most likely. Yes, tonight Wilford was to be titled as a friend.

Wilford was humming a quiet tune, sipping his drink with his shoulders slack against the back of the worn, leather chair. He wore a loud, yellow button down shirt with bubble gum pink suspenders, his cartoonish mustache made all the more outrageous by being the same pink as the suspenders he wore. He looked at Dark with lazy, sluggish eyes.

“What kinduva name is Dark anyway?” He slurred.

“It is the name I chose for myself.” Dark replied, slightly peeved by the question.

Wilford huffed dismissively. “What a bad name. Very bland, very boring, very-”

“-to the point.” Dark finished for him, interrupting whatever thought he was trying to form. Wilford huffed and took a drink. Dark watched him swirl the drink in the glass, looking confused.

“I knew someone else once, with a name that started with D.” A soft, unsteady chuckle escaped his lips. “D-A, even.”

The hair on the back of Dark’s neck stood up, and after a slow sip of his drink, he set the glass down. He needed to shut Wilford down. He needed to tell him that no, he hadn’t known anyone like that. If Wilford continued down this train of thought, surely he’d remember everything, which would eat him alive.

Normally, Dark would stop it. But tonight, something caved. A memory of someone he used to be. He tapped his fingers against the armrest, annoyed with the sudden flare of intense emotion. A flare which grew into a burning flame as he continued to watch Wilford, and without his permission, Dark felt his control shatter.

“Oh?” The voice that came from the suited specter was softer, losing the sharp tone it usually held. “Tell me more.”

Wilford eyed him suspiciously, but continued on. “I… don’t know. It’s fuzzy, you see. Ah, but he… he was my friend. A real rapscallion, if you could believe it under that guise of Mayor.” Wilford’s usually slurred accent smoothed out into something comprehensible, surprising the mustached man himself. “He and I had been friends since we were just lads, he, and I and… someone else. But that other one wasn’t always around. Mostly it was just me and Da… Da…”

“Damien?”

Wilford’s eyes widened, and with that, memories long buried, long forgotten, were rising to the surface. His drink fell out of his hand, splashing against the floor. He stared, his mouth open as he came to terms with what he heard. “Damien…” He repeated.

“Yes.” Damien nodded. “Yes, it’s me.”

The Colonel started to shake, having just recovered his lost memories. “No.” He murmured. “No, no no no no. It was all a joke. It was all a joke. I didn’t kill anybody!” He shouted, and Damien got to his feet, rushing over to the Colonel’s chair. He put his hands on the Colonel’s shoulders, trying to steady him in the moment.

"Hey, hey it's okay. Colonel, please, stay with me."

"No no no..." The Colonel shook his head. "I-I'm Wilford Warfstache. I'm Wil-"

"Stop it William, please! Don't leave me!" Damien gulped. "Please... I don't know how much longer I can keep in control please... stay with me."

The Colonel looked up into the soft, brown eyes of his friend. He swallowed hard, and slowly, staggering some, he got to his feet. He was standing right in front of Damien now, still staring into his eyes.

“What’s happened to us, Damien?” He asked quietly. “Why... why do I feel so divided? Why is it I see you every day now, but this is the first time we’ve spoken in so long? I-I don’t understand.”

Damien broke eye contact, staring down at the floor. “I don’t think either of us have the time for explanations, old friend.” He said quietly. “For now, I believe we should just enjoy each other’s company, while it lasts. Like the good old days.”

The Colonel nodded, and smiled in return. He clasped Damien on the back, Damien forcing a smile as he did. His shell, no matter how mended it was now, was always going to be fragile. Even gestures as kind as a pat on the back still caused pain to reverberate through his body.

They chatted for what felt like an eternity together, about old times mainly. They were smiling, laughing even, with the threat of losing control above both of their heads at all times. Whenever one would slip, the other would catch them, and the merry conversation would carry on.

Sleep had begun to overtake the Colonel after a few hours of chatter, and he let out a deep, bellowing yawn to show it. “Ah, old friend... I believe it’s time that I take my rest for the night.” He was still smiling, but there was a pain deep in his eyes that Damien was sure he reflected. Come morning, the Colonel would be gone. Wilford Warfstache, the crazed, murderous maniac that he was, would be back. At least Damien could take comfort in knowing his friend would not be in pain.

“Yes, it is getting late, isn’t it?” Damien glanced out of the window, staring at the full moon. He didn’t sleep these days, but to be fair, he was something much more otherworldly now. A being who didn’t need sleep.

“Yes, yes...” The Colonel stood, and seemed to be struggling to say something. “Say, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, would you be opposed to my joining you in your quarters these fine evening? I... I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

Damien nodded. “Of course you can, dear friend.” He smiled. He offered to lead him there with his arm, a gesture that made the Colonel laugh.

“Oh Damien, ever the romantic. You know, Celine was quite like that too, when she wanted to be.” The Colonel hummed, taking a hold of Damien’s arm. Damien started to walk to his room, leading the Colonel. Something in his gut twisted at the mention of Celine, and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain in control. The Colonel took notice. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Damien nodded, and once again found himself forcing a smile. “Yes, I’m fine.”

They didn’t speak again until they were both laying in the queen sized bed in Damien’s, well, more accurately, in Dark’s bedroom. Damien was already losing his control, blending back into the other souls that occupied that vessel. Pretty soon all that would remain would be Dark. Damien wondered what his reaction would be to seeing Wilford in his bed.

“What happened to Celine, Damien?” The Colonel asked, laying on his side and facing Damien. Damien jumped, his train of thought shattered.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Celine... You two were both pulling the joke, right? It was all a joke, and you’re here now, so... what happened to Celine?”

Damien felt again that twist in his gut. He reached out and gently cupped the Colonel’s cheek in his hand, a gesture that wasn’t entirely his. “William,” He said, his voice softer and sweeter now than it had been all evening. “I can tell you honestly, where ever she is, she is only ever thinking of your well being.”

The Colonel nodded and shifted closer on the bed, almost snuggling against Damien now. “Good night, dear friend.”

“Sleep well, William.” He said, holding on until he saw the Colonel fast asleep. The feeling of relinquishing control was almost like letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Damien began to fade, and Dark was quick to retake his reign.

“Don’t ever do that again.” The entity growled lowly, careful not to wake his friend.

“I will keep your concerns in mind.” Was Damien’s response before he lost any shred of conscious thought he could hope to have. Dark closed his eyes, sighing and shaking his head. He was the balance, the equilibrium between the three different souls making up his being. If one could grab power, why couldn’t the others? Would the revolt inside of him? A constant battle for dominance? The body he wore was already so fragile. He didn’t know if he could stand it.

When the man in his bed woke the next morning, Dark was pleased to see that it wasn’t the Colonel who greeted. Rather, the obnoxious Wilford Warfstache, his friend, another entity created right along side himself. Yes, friend. He wouldn’t distance himself from Wilford any longer.

“Well good morning you!” Wilford practically yelled, flinging himself onto Dark’s body, making the latter groan from the unexpected impact. “So, I don’t really remember what happened last night. Obviously it ended well,” The pink mustached man winked a few times. “Care to fill me in on the details?”

“Get off of me, Wilford.” Dark seethed, a ringing sound piercing the space around them as the world started to become monochromatic.

Wilford scoffed. “No need to be so dramatic.” He said, rolling back onto his side of the bed. “Do you think we could do this more often? I don’t know what we did, but whatever it was, I had the best sleep of my life.”

“We’ll have to see.” Dark replied, pushing himself up and out of bed. He rolled his shoulders, feeling his bones move and relocate within his body. It’d take use of the Seer’s abilities to try and put everything back where it belonged.

“Oh goody goody!” Wilford shouted. “Well, I’m getting breakfast.” And with that, he ran out of the room. Dark couldn’t help the fond smile that grew on his face.

#wkm #who killed markiplier #damien the mayor #william #the colonel #darkiplier #wilford warfstache #markiplier fanfiction

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