#I respectfully disagree with his mouth moving in my presence
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Me: If it walks like a Nazi, if it talks like a Nazi... It's a Nazi.
Coworker: Well, I would have to respectfully disagree -
#I respectfully disagree with his mouth moving in my presence#We were literally talking about why it's bad to wear swastikas in public#Help#Tw: nazi#Nazi#Fuck this guy
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Joyful Reunion, Chapter 103
Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1
Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr
Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang
Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index
Book 3, Chapter 23 (Part 2)
Through early spring, the last bout of falling leaves flies through the Jiangzhou palace; tenderly yellow shells which used to wrap themselves around young buds have shaken loose from their branches with the lightest of touch from a breeze, and scatters all over the ground. It is a time of warmth interspersed with bursts of cold, budding scenery infused with a sense of melancholy.
“Please remove your sword, my lord.” A Black Armours bodyguard is blocking Wu Du’s way.
“I have special permission from the late emperor as well as the current crown prince to wear my sword in the palace.”
The two are at an impasse. “According to the general’s orders, unless permission is granted by the reigning emperor, no one is allowed to wear their sword upon entering the palace. The meeting with the Mongolian envoy last time was an exemption.”
“Let him go inside,” Xie You’s voice says.
The guard, saved from a round of vomiting and diarrhea, lets Wu Du inside. Xie You looks at Wu Du with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, while Wu Du’s mouth curls into the slightest smile as he realises that Xie You has already noticed the plans set into motion by Duan Ling. The Mongolian envoy must have also made a visit to him.
“Came to meet His Majesty?” Xie You asks.
“Just came back from meeting His Majesty?” Wu Du says, chilly.
It’s question marks from both of them, neither answering their questions, each stepping aside to let the other pass.
Wu Du’s cape is fastened all the way to his collar with the Lieguangjian hidden beneath his cape, and by the time he arrives Zheng Yan has already announced his presence. Thus the Li Yanqiu sitting within calls for him, “Wu Du? Come on in.”
Li Yanqiu is flipping through memorials regarding the spring sowing, and on top of his desk is an imperial decree, already written.
“We don’t yet know where the Zhenshanhe is,” Li Yanqiu says. “So you can’t bring the sword with you to investigate this matter in my stead, but it’s more or less the same when you have an imperial decree written by my hand.”
“Certainly,” Wu Du replies. He takes the order and immediately tries to leave.
Li Yanqiu stops him by saying, “Wait a moment. I have something to ask you.”
Zheng Yan tactfully goes outside to stand guard outside the door. Wu Du gives Zheng Yan a look, as he’s just now wondering how come Zheng Yan is at the emperor’s side one moment and off to the Eastern Palace the next? It can’t be that the crown prince can’t stand him?
Li Yanqiu cuts to the chase just as Wu Du had expected him to. “Once this whole business is over and done with, come work in the palace. You’ve worked for the late emperor before, so we can give you a title of the fourth rank, one where you can keep wearing your sword here and serve at the crown prince’s side. You’ll supervise the crown prince, so he’ll not pass the time idly by; in several years, if you pass your reviews without any fault, you’ll be appointed the Junior Guardian of the Heir Apparent.”
Though Junior Guardian is an empty title, it’s still a title that makes him an official of the second rank — he’ll be suddenly placed above most officials and made peers with Xie You.
No wonder Xie You made that face when he saw him earlier.
Li Yanqiu waits for ages, but he doesn’t see Wu Du trembling with emotion or fall to his knees in tears to thank His Majesty’s imperial grace. He raises his eyes to take a look, thinking Wu Du may be so moved he can’t even speak, but to Li Yanqiu’s surprise, Wu Du is hesitating for a moment before he puts one fist in hand and bows.
“I have failed at fulfilling the late emperor’s last wishes,” Wu Du replies. “I dare not accept this order.”
Li Yanqiu is momentarily speechless.
“The crown prince was the one who demanded you join the Eastern Palace,” Li Yanqiu says coolly. If Zheng Yan is here right now, he’d notice that Li Yanqiu is already furious and would have told Wu Du to accept for now and not be so pigheaded.
“I’m a disagreeable man and fear my service may run counter to Your Majesty’s wishes. I dare not accept this order.”
Li Yanqiu sets his brush down, watching Wu Du; sunlight slants in through the window, casting a ray of light onto Wu Du’s face. Li Yanqiu is utterly flabbergasted, however — what on earth has given him the gall to refuse?
But Li Yanqiu suddenly starts to laugh. “Wu Du … oh Wu Du.”
Wu Du replies, “Your Majesty.”
Li Yanqiu studies Wu Du carefully, and his tone is quite cordial, “Out of the four of you, the only one I can’t understand is you.”
“I am devoted to Your Majesty,” Wu Du says, “I may not be any good at expressing oneself, but my loyalty to Your Majesty is undeniable.”
“Second rank first class is too far beneath you,” Li Yanqiu says solemnly, “with your martial arts skills and the ability to strategise, you should have been made Senior Guardian to begin with, but unfortunately that’s Wuluohou Mu’s position. Since you’re so determined not to join the Eastern Palace, then go off and be free then, free as a bird.”
At the end of that sentence, something flies through the air and hits Wu Du on the head. Ink poured over his face — what hit him was the ink stone. With Wu Du’s skills, he could have easily dodged out of the way before Li Yanqiu even started the throw, but Wu Du didn’t dodge, and didn’t get out of the way — he simply endured the blow.
“Get back to work then,” Li Yanqiu says, smiling. “Wu Du, with such willpower, you’re sure to become a major general that contributes greatly to Great Chen’s recovery.”
Wu Du reaches up to wipe his face. His neck too, is covered in ink, dripping down along his collar. Bending over, Wu Du picks up the ink stone and respectfully places it back onto the imperial desk with both hands, making sure it’s set down properly before he withdraws from the study.
Seeing Wu Du with half his face covered in ink as though he’s wearing a mask, Zheng Yan doubles up in laughter. But from inside the room, Li Yanqiu is saying, “Zheng Yan.”
Zheng Yan’s expression freezes and he quickly steps back into the imperial study.
Before he does anything else, Wu Du heads to the palace gardens. He scoops up some water from the pond and washes his face. Shortly afterwards, there are footsteps approaching him from behind.
“Let’s put a halt on the plan for several days.” Lang Junxia’s voice rings out behind him. “There are some things I haven’t been able to make clear yet.”
“We’re going to halt just because you say so?” Wu Du says coldly.
Lang Junxia narrows his eyes and looks Wu Du up and down, unsure why his face is covered in ink; neither does he understand why Wu Du’s face is covered in ink and he’s somehow still so arrogant.
Wu Du examines his reflection in the pool once he finishes washing his face. Lang Junxia kindly reminds him, “Your neck isn’t clean yet.”
Wu Du can but rub his neck down with more water. “I’ll give you another three days.”
Lang Junxia says no more and turns to go. Wu Du checks himself against the water some more before he leaves himself.
Wu Du had thought he’d gotten himself quite clean by the time he got home, but he’s met with Duan Ling’s riotous laughter anyway.
A pond is no mirror after all, so it doesn’t give a very good reflection. Wu Du has washed himself into a calico, standing in the courtyard beneath a shining spring sun.
“Hahahahaha—” Duan Ling never expected for Wu Du to come back looking like this, since it’s entirely disconnected from his image from when he left this morning. Astonishment and the farcical sight of him have Duan Ling laughing as though he’s been dosed with a laughing drug, collapsing onto the table with laughter.
Wu Du can’t help but laugh as well. "I didn’t get it all off?’ And as he says this, he wipes his hand over his face again.
“Hahaha—” Duan Ling is close to having a seizure from laughing. They laugh face to face for a bit before Duan Ling says to him while still gasping, “How did you manage to end up looking like that?”
Wu Du wants to make Duan Ling laugh some more, and so he says, “I was walking along and a breeze blew a sheet of paper over onto my face, and the ink hasn’t dried yet. The ink just dripped all the way down.”
This explanation makes Duan Ling break out in a second round of laughter, he just finds it so silly. He struggles to crawl over to the kettle as he laughs so he can boil some water for Wu Du to wash his face with.
The more Wu Du thinks about it the more funny it seems; when he looks at Duan Ling he can’t help wanting to make him laugh more. If this hit he’s taken can manage to make him laugh for so long, then it’s totally worth it.
“How come it’s inside your clothes too?” Duan Ling says, surprised, “it’s soaked right through!”
Wu Du strips himself down to the waist, and grabs some soap locust so he can scrub himself down outside. Duan Ling takes his outer robe and the cape, and when he notices everything is covered in ink, he takes the clothes out to the back courtyard for laundering.
“What on earth happened? Were you hit by an ink stone?”
Wu Du is about to answer him when a servant comes to the door summoning him to a meeting with Chancellor Mu. Duan Ling runs out after him, but Wu Du signals that he should wait at home. He grabs the one clean robe nearest at hand and walks quickly out of the house to see Mu Kuangda.
Mu Kuangda has been so busy lately that he can barely spare any time for his own son, but now he’s sent everyone else away to meet with Wu Du. Even Chang Liujun isn’t present.
Mu Kuangda steeps a pot of tea for himself, pouring Wu Du a cup.
“To have the gall to refuse even a position like Junior Guardian to the Heir Apparent,” Mu Kuangda says deliberately, “What on earth could you be so scrupulous about? Master Chang Pin did say that you don’t care about anyone in this estate, that in your eyes there is no one but Wang Shan. It’s only since his arrival that you’ve gained a sense of propriety, and started doing something with your life.”
Wu Du doesn’t answer him. He picks up the teacup and takes a sip of tea.
“I remember that, when I led you out of the Celestial Prison,” Mu Kuangda says casually, as though that wasn’t a big deal at all, “this is not what you promised me. If you’ve anything you want to say, go ahead and tell me.”
Wu Du gives this some thought. “The imperial court’s filled with all kinds of people, good and bad. I don’t want to be there.”
“Is that the real reason? It clearly isn’t.”
“Things are rather good the way they are.”
“What’s rather good?”
Wu Du finishes his tea and says to Mu Kuangda, “Worldly affairs can change in an instant, and the hearts of men are hard to predict. Sometimes what changes isn’t the political situation but one’s own heart, and what one worries about isn’t other people, but one’s own self. I just want to stay here in the estate and remain at Shan’er’s side. You can call me unambitious if you’d like, or perhaps say that I don’t know how to take the initiative to advance my career, but I’m satisfied with the life I’m leading now.”
The study falls suddenly quiet. Of course Mu Kuangda understands what Wu Du means; with those words he’s managed to close off every last shred of reasoning — for the only variable is Wu Du himself. Can he guarantee that he’ll remain loyal to Mu Kuangda forever once he’s joined the Eastern Palace? Would he still stay true to his promise to the Mus even if Mu Kuangda opposes the crown prince?
Can money buy a person’s devotion? If a thousand taels of silver isn’t enough, what about ten thousand? Maybe he’ll walk farther and farther from the Mus, and that’s not something Mu Kuangda wants to see happen either.
“You may be satisfied, but Wang Shan may not necessarily be satisfied. Wu Du, you have to think this through. You won’t marry, but if Wang Shan joins the imperial court and becomes an official, he will get married. What are you going to do with yourself then?”
“With one’s time on earth, even if happiness only lasts an instant, it is still a good thing to have. What he does, what he chooses — that has nothing to do with my decision.”
Mu Kuangda lets out a sigh. “Never mind. I should have known that this is the kind of person you are. I thought you have changed a lot recently, but I never could have imagined that ever since the day you arrived, you’ve never changed at all.”
And so Wu Du puts a hand in his fist, salutes to Mu Kuangda, and withdraws from the room.
By the time he gets back to the courtyard house, Duan Ling is already hanging up their freshly laundered clothes. He turns to look at Wu Du. “Back so soon?”
Wu Du stares at Duan Ling, and smiles at him without a word.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing at all.” Wu Du walks over and sits down in the room, his eyes not leaving Duan Ling the whole time.
Duan Ling keeps feeling that something is up with Wu Du today. He asks probingly, “Did you get the handwritten imperial order?”
Wu Du thinks for a moment. “I have it, we can mobilise the Shadow Guard, but we’re not in a hurry. Let’s wait until you finish with the metropolitan exams first.”
Duan Ling nods, but he can’t help but keep looking at Wu Du. At this very moment, he’s feeling extremely uneasy; these are the last three days before his years of school life come to an end, and it’ll be where the next portion of his life begins. Once the metropolitan exams are over, if he isn’t on the list of passing examinees, his only option is to join the Mu estate and become an on-demand adviser.
He’ll be just like Chang Pin. His compensation may be decent, but he’ll accomplish nothing in his own name, and nearly all of his life will be spent abroad.
Outside, Wu Du starts playing a song on his flute, and Duan Ling’s heart gradually settles again.
“If I pass the exams,” Duan Ling says suddenly, “can you promise me one thing?”
Wu Du sets his flute down and glances into the room.
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you when the time comes.”
And so Wu Du gives him a nod, and Duan Ling feels as though he’s been given a promise.
If he brings up his request that he wants to do … that with Wu Du, will Wu Du agree to it?
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Omg first of all you wrote enemy of my enemy??? I loved it so much omggg!!! Second of all, if you're still taking prompts i would love an au where marlas didnt happen and damen is officially courting laurent so they always need chaperons but they always escape them to be alone and aleron and theomedes are NOT happy about this
Technically still writing The Enemy of My Enemy but thank you, always enjoy being appreciated :)
Writing this with that “shy bookish boy” in mind where Laurent has wonderfully not had to face the book tragedies.
Damen saw the large willow tree that matched the description he’d been given and swung off the horse to land in knee high grass next to the river bank. He dropped the reins, allowing the horse to freely graze. Inside the natural tent of the willow branches was a private space. The shade was a relief, but the summer day was still too hot to be fully clothed. Fumbling with the excessive lacing, Damen loosened the sweat dampened shirt. The servant assigned to help him dress had been scandalized when Damen rejected the undershirt. One was already excessive.
Somewhat freed of the oppressive garment he proceeded to remove his boots and collapsed into the grass. It was a relief to be outside of the palace, away from the over-attentive servants and curious nobility. Arles felt stuffy and confining, unlike Ios that was open to the outside with balconies and outdoor walkways. This excursion to the outdoors was needed almost more than Damen had realized.
A patch of wildflowers mingled in the grass next to him and he collected a handful to begin weaving the stems together. This part of the river was more sedated than the frothing white rapids where Damen had accidentally rescued the crown prince of Vere.
It had been several years but was still something Damen frequently thought on, back when the war between Vere and Akielos had seemed inevitable. While on a scouting trip, a fierce storm had arisen, separating Damen and Nikandros from the rest of their party and driven them into the forest for shelter. Somewhere during the midst of the violent tempest they unknowingly crossed the border into Vere. In the aftermath, they emerged on the Northern side, stumbling upon a raider camp next to the river. Realizing they had followed the river in the wrong direction the intent was to turn around without altercation but Damen had seen the raider’s blond prisoner.
Nikandros had protested vehemently but ultimately followed Damen on his rescue mission. They had the advantage of surprise but were greatly outnumbered. The fight could have gone badly, but once the blond prisoner was released and obtained a weapon the fight quickly shifted in their favor.
Once the battle was won, the prisoner revealed himself as Prince Auguste. Similarly, Damen candidly introduced himself despite Nikandros’ elbow in his ribs.
There was a moment of uncertainty as they faced each other with swords still drawn. Then, surprisingly, Auguste laughed and sheathed the weapon. The two sanguine princes recognized each other as kindred spirits and agreed that this was an opportunity. Auguste wanted to introduce Damen to King Aleron, perhaps forging the beginnings of an alliance or to at least assuage the impending war. The royal family was in Marlas and only half a day's ride away. Nikandros continued to speak his objections but followed Damen, preferring to die with him than because of him.
Once hearing of the rescue and how close he had been to losing Auguste, King Aleron accepted Damen almost too graciously. Eager to offer him a reward for saving his eldest son.
“I would offer you Auguste’s hand if he weren’t already betrothed and needed to continue the line,” Aleron said.
“I don’t need a reward,” Damen said uncomfortably. It wasn’t his reason for meeting the king and Auguste was perhaps equally surprised how well the enemy Akielon prince had been received.
“I have a younger son,” Aleron said.
“Father.” Auguste objected, obviously disagreeing with this idea.
Damen’s side was going to be bruised from Nikandros’ elbow. This time he agreed with him and was looking for a polite way to escape.
“That’s really alright—” Damen began.
“Someone fetch Laurent,” Aleron ordered, and servants hurried to do his bidding.
“You’re bruising me,” Damen whispered. That insistent elbow still poking his side.
“We need to leave before you’re engaged,” Nikandros hissed.
“I’m trying,” Damen said under his breath. It would be impossible to explain the arrangement to his father.
“Ah, here he is,” Aleron gestured when the doors to the court were opened.
Damen turned as he heard Nikandros say, “Oh no.”
Hoofbeats pulled Damen from the recollection. He sat up only to be knocked back down by a body colliding with his.
“You know,” Damen said when he caught his breath, “your brother thinks I’m the one corrupting his shy little brother.”
“Auguste still sees me as a child.” Laurent unwrapped his arms from Damen’s neck and pulled back to see his face. “Hi,” he blushed.
“Hi,” Damen smiled.
“May I?” he asked. Damen looked into the blue eyes, so unbearably close, and nodded.
This was his third visit to Arles to see his fiance. Laurent had been barely thirteen when he was suddenly and unwillfully promised to the former enemy. Understandably, he had been unhappy. When Damen returned to Ios, he wrote several letters hoping to learn more about him. It was several months before he received a short response answering questions in a brusque dismissive fashion that impressively relayed little information. Damen suspected Auguste or someone else had forced Laurent to respond. Despite the discouraging reply Damen persisted.
During the first visit, Laurent had been predictably detached, and Damen spent most of his time with Auguste. But because Laurent was Auguste’s second shadow, they consequently spent time together. He typically opted out of any sport or game that Damen and Auguste would partake in but always stood as witness. Damen hadn’t expected much interaction from Laurent, he was still young, and unfairly betrothed. However, by the end of that stay Laurent was noticeably less callous.
The next visit Laurent had altered from the suspicious aloofness to a timid interest now trailing Damen, even without Auguste’s presence. With a hesitant eagerness Laurent shared his favorite scrolls, his thoughts on the recent philosophy debates, and introduced Damen to his horse. The shy sincerity was incredibly endearing and Damen suspected there weren’t many people Laurent was comfortable sharing his thoughts with. He loved that Laurent was slowly opening up to him and Damen hoped he did nothing to dissuade him.
Written communication increased significantly. The letters used to be a burden, something Damen forced himself to do. When Laurent began to open up, the conversation surpassed interesting to exciting. Damen was almost intimidated by the intelligent penpal and his fascinating perspective.
This was the first visit since Laurent had turned eighteen. As if to demonstrate this Laurent had physically matured and it was impossible not to notice. The guard detail had been instructed to be in constant attendance. The two princes were not allowed to be alone together. Because of this, they had not even kissed. The building anticipation had become nearly suffocating. To Damen, even holding hands had become an illicit act. Laurent sliding closer on benches or couches until their knees touched had nearly driven Damen mad. And it was Laurent initiating most contact, exasperating his guards when they had to find a way to respectfully peel the prince off the Akielon visitor.
This was the moment, and Damen felt it with an ache through his entire body. He slipped a hand into the blond hair, holding the beautiful face. Shyly, Laurent leaned in, eyelashes dipping. Damen pressed forward, carefully, restraining himself against rushing Laurent. Lips met tentatively, just a ticklish brush. It wasn’t enough, but Laurent had drifted back, eyes still closed.
“Laurent,” Damen whispered, and felt Laurent’s breath against his cheek. He resisted the desire to pull him in and take his mouth. The quiet hesitation evoked one of Damen’s fears that after all of this Laurent wouldn’t find him appealing. Being forced to sit still and endure the silence was torture.
Having Vere’s beloved younger prince in a compromising position above him made Damen equally excited and nervous. The peace between their countries was tentative and they were constantly observed so there was no slight or breach in protocol. What had been an expression of gratitude had turned political and restrictive. Theomedes saw the engagement as another war to be won and constantly warned Damen against any affection. This attitude had bled over into Vere and Aleron had become of a similar mindset. It may have even been his initial mindset when proposing the engagement. Having his offspring rulers of two seperate countries was a good tactical maneuver. Meanwhile, Theomedes searched for candidates that would produce an heir. This hung over Damen’s head, he wanted to tell Laurent, but it was a private matter, not something he wanted to share with the Veretian and Akielon guards. They could be bigger gossips than kitchen maids.
That thought was silenced when Laurent’s eyes opened, the blue so bright it was almost startling, then miraculously, he smiled and Damen stopped breathing.
“Again?” Laurent asked. It took Damen a moment to realize he was asking for another kiss.
“You want to?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
Damen’s heart sang as he grinned, “You don’t have to ask with me.”
In response, Laurent’s arms slid around his neck and this kiss was the one Damen had needed. Deeper and longer. Laurent opened his mouth, hands sliding into Damen’s hair. He moved closer bodies now pressed together. Damen held him, arms around his waist.
“Was that— alright?” Laurent asked once they had separated and he had caught his breath.
Damen held Laurent’s face between his hands, “Yes, it was more than alright.” He kissed Laurent’s forehead, the timid innocence was so endearing he thought his heart would burst.
“You were also— adequate,” Laurent said with a blush.
Damen laughed, “Thanks.”
“I brought my favorite poetry scroll,” Laurent said scrambling up to retrieve the scroll from his horse’s saddlebag.
While Laurent read lounging in the grass, Damen continued the flower crown and when finished placed it on top of the golden head. The blue and white flowers remained in his hair through another interlude of kissing.
After some persuasion Damen recited Akielon poems and epics in his native tongue. Laurent settled in next to him, head on his shoulder to look up at the sun filtering through the twisted branching. The flowers still in his hair.
“Are they all about war and conquering?” he asked.
“The most popular ones are. Warriors are highly regarded.”
“Were you ever disappointed that our engagement averted a war?”
“No,” Damen said. “I would be nervous to fight Auguste in serious combat, he’s very skilled.”
“I initially comforted myself by realizing that the engagement would essentially end all wars between our countries. And with Auguste as king of Vere I was certain I could manipulate you and mediate some hundred year treaty.”
The confession made Damen laugh, “You wouldn’t have to manipulate me. Whatever archaic dispute that led our elders to war no longer applies to us.”
“Is that a promise?” Laurent asked sitting up to look down at Damen.
“A promise that while we’re alive there will be no war between our countries?” Damen asked.
“Yes.”
“I promise,” he said and was surprised when Laurent dropped down to cup his face and fervently kiss him.
In the thick heat of the summer afternoon, Laurent was persuaded to remove his boots and step into the river. Damen knew removing his clothes to bathe in the river would be an affliction on the tender Veretian sensibilities. As if to prove this Laurent had turned red when Damen removed his outer garment wearing only pants. Damen frequently caught him staring and would watch him blush and turn away. Not much coaxing was needed to bring Laurent into an embrace and kiss him while they stood waist-deep in the river. The cool pale hands traveled up his biceps to his shoulders almost reverently.
“Laurent.” Auguste’s voice was a baritone traveling forcefully over the water. They had been discovered.
Damen pulled on his boots as the brother’s argued. So far Damen had witnessed Laurent win every argument against anyone who dared oppose him, with the exception of Auguste who seemed to be more of a blind spot than a master debater. The two sets of guards were not far behind and with the older brother’s instruction the younger was whisked away.
Damen took his time as he dreaded redressing in the complicated jacket and lacing it by himself.
“I trust our agreement still stands.” Auguste sat next to Damen in the grass while he tried to reassemble his shirt.
“I haven’t fucked your brother.” The agreement to not sleep with Laurent until their wedding night had been easy to make when Laurent was thirteen.
“I don’t blame you for your efforts, I bedded my wife before our consummation. But he’s my little brother, I still feel— protective.”
This confession only further irritated Damen and he briefly imagined shattering the innocent image Auguste held of Laurent. It wasn’t Damen initiating physical contact and arranging secret dates.
“I won’t start anything,” Damen said. It was a little dishonest considering Auguste was blind to his younger brother’s burgeoning sexuality.
“I appreciate it,” Auguste said, then reached over to help Damen with his laces.
Dinner that evening was uncomfortable. Laurent, with the flower crown still in his hair, was unremorseful and the two brothers had not reconciled. It was clear they had never been at odds before and the court was unsure how to react to the feuding siblings.
After retiring to his chambers, Damen was settling in for the night when a noise outside his balcony disturbed him. Laurent dropped down out of the night but the more surprising part was how he was dressed.
“Where did— where did you get that?”
“I had it made. Is it accurate?” Laurent did a little twirl to show off the chiton and the fabric lifted revealing even more thigh.
Damen had to sit down, he had never seen more than hands and feet. “Not bad. Did you have the sandals made also?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Damen asked, he was having trouble breathing. Not only was the flower crown still present on the blond head but the chiton was especially short and the knee-high sandals drew special attention to the bare thighs.
“Isn’t this the fashion in Ios?” Laurent asked. “Am I expected to dress strictly as a Veretian once we’re married?”
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Damen said, “We still have over a year.”
“I like to be prepared,” Laurent said and adjusted the white cloth. Damen looked away, there had been the slight glimpse of pink nipple. If he was going to uphold his promise to Auguste he would have to make Laurent leave. But he really didn’t want that, any of their time together was precious.
“What’s wrong?” Laurent asked.
“You can’t be here.” Damen had averted his eyes. “We aren’t supposed to be alone together.”
“That didn’t bother you this afternoon,” Laurent said and stood still observing Damen. “Did I do something?”
“No,” Damen said and reached out. Laurent accepted the offered hand and allowed Damen to pull him down into the seat next to him. The damn chiton was even shorter sitting down. “If we weren’t already engaged I would be on my knee in front of your father asking for your hand.”
Laurent’s blue eyes hadn’t softened, “Then what is it?”
Damen knew there shouldn’t be any secrets between them, “I made a promise to your brother that I would wait until our wedding night for— you know.”
With an exhale Laurent slid onto Damen’s lap. “My brother has no say or control over my body. If I decide I’m ready now isn’t that my decision?”
“Of course,” Damen nearly choked. His hands came up automatically to hold Laurent’s waist. “Unless you find me unappealing,” Laurent said.
“No one finds you unappealing,” Damen said and helplessly tugged Laurent closer.
“I realize now that your hesitation was trying to respect your promise. It’s an honorable trait.” Laurent smoothed a hand into Damen’s hair, the cool palm cupping his face. “However, any further decisions regarding my body are to be made by me.”
“Understood,” Damen grinned.
“My current decision is to allow you to take me to bed.” The coy smile almost physically hurt.
“Laurent,” Damen groaned. His head dropped onto the bare shoulder. “I want you so badly.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to risk offense. We’re not even supposed to be alone together. I can’t lose you.” Damen spoke against Laurent’s shoulder noticing how goosebumps blossomed across the pale skin.
Laurent was quiet briefly, stroking Damen’s hair, “The engagement was not my decision, but as the younger prince I expected it was my fate to be traded for some political or financial gain. The bids even began before I turned twelve.” Laurent watched Damen’s hair slip between his fingers. “I thought I was prepared, but I didn’t expect to be— happy. I don’t intend to lose you either.”
Damen’s heart swelled as he lifted his head to look into the beautiful face. “May I?” he asked, smiling.
“You don’t need to ask.” Laurent also smiled as he leaned in. It was still new, each kiss better than the last. This time Laurent took more control, his head above Damen’s and with both hands smoothing through his hair. Boldly Damen traced a hand up the bare thigh feeling Laurent’s reaction with his body so close.
“What is this?” Damen asked when his fingers ran into a slice of unknown fabric.
“I didn’t know what was typically worn beneath these so I fashioned something myself.” Laurent lifted the skirt revealing cloth crudely made to fit between his legs and around his hips. “Why are you laughing?”
Any other time Laurent’s unconscious reveal of so much flesh would have almost stopped Damen’s heart but the strange little modest piece of clothing was so ridiculous and unexpected
“There’s nothing worn beneath them?” Laurent asked, more fascinated than scandalized.
“No,” Damen said, he had barely managed to explain through the laughter.
“It must be very warm there.”
“Compared to here, yes. I can’t wait to show you,” Damen said using his mouth to find the pulse point in Laurent’s neck. The soft sigh reminded him where they had been going before Laurent’s reveal. The kissing continued softly, Laurent tenderly exploring the act with lips and tongue. He pressed closer, their bodies together. Damen detoured to the slender neck, recalling that initial reaction with that soft sound. He wasn’t disappointed, the reaction was innocent and genuine. The quiet moan of pleasure would have brought Damen to his knees. Unconsciously, Laurent’s head tipped back allowing Damen more access. His hands traveled beneath the chiton he held Laurent at the natural dip in his waist, the skin warm. This startled him and he flinched before exhaling with a nervous laugh.
“I suppose that is one advantage to wearing so little clothing.”
“Are you sure you’re ready?” Damen asked.
“Yes, I’ve just never— it’s my first time.”
“I’m a little more experienced than that,” Damen said, his thumbs stroking the smooth skin of his stomach.
“Yes, that is apparent,” Laurent said, his face had warmed slightly, responding to Damen’s touch.
“Really?” Damen asked, pleased. Laurent made a sound of affirmation before resuming the kiss. He unthinkingly reacted to the caress against his abdomen with a movement of his hips that ground against Damen. He was going to flip Laurent onto his back and escalate the encounter when the door to his chambers opened.
Damen was frustrated and horrified to find not only the prince’s guards invading his quarters but also Auguste and King Aleron. Laurent stood up with a sigh straightening the chiton with no self-consciousness or embarrassment. The blue eyes lifted towards the invaders, prepared for battle. He couldn’t have been more intimidating with a sword in hand.
“What are you wearing?” Aleron asked, looking over the exposed limbs of his son with disgust.
“Do you like it?” Laurent repeated his little twirl to show off the garment.
“This is not a game, Laurent,” Aleron said. “You have deliberately disobeyed me.”
“You have implemented nonsensical rules for only me,” Laurent stated.
“They’re to protect you,” Auguste stated.
“Protect me from what?” Laurent asked, turning his icy gaze towards his older brother.
Auguste glanced uncertainly at Damen where he stood off to the side. “Protect your innocence,” he said.
“No,” Laurent said, “The only thing you’ve been protecting is your idea of me. For years I’ve endured visiting dignitaries whisper in my ear of what they would like to do to me. The insipid and specific gossip of pets is impossible to ignore. Especially those that have involved my own brother who has taken numerous candidates to bed or an empty hallway, whichever is closer.”
“Laurent, stop talking.” Aleron’s face was red.
“There are also scrolls and illustrated manuscripts of any erotic position you might wish to master available in certain temples.”
“Laurent.” A vein bulged on Aleron’s forehead. “Escort the prince back to his chambers.” The red faced guards stepped forward to take Laurent by the arm.
“Auguste was hardly chaste even before being engaged and yet you impose these rules on me for what reason?” Laurent asked, still talking as he was led from the room.
“Damianos, I must request that you pack your belongings and be prepared to leave by morning,” Aleron said. “I will have a ship ready to depart for Ios at dawn.”
“Father, we should talk about this before acting, we don’t want to risk offending Theomedes.”
“You are not the king yet, Auguste. My orders are still to be obeyed. Perhaps you should go talk some sense into your brother.”
Auguste’s face had hardened and the resemblance between brothers was clear. “Yes, my king.” He said turning on his heel.
Aleron and Damen were alone. The king cleared his throat before speaking, “I recognize how Laurent can be a— temptation. So I’m not going to place the blame entirely on either of you. But I don’t like the brazen and reckless way my son behaves when you’re around.”
“If that’s the case, I’m proud my presence gives him the courage to speak his mind. I’ve enjoyed watching him grow into a confident young man,” Damen stated.
“I see,” Aleron said, his eyes traveled over Damen in consideration. “There will be a guard escort waiting to take you to your ship in the morning. The details of the engagement will be discussed when everything has settled down.” This final blow statement Damen and he failed to notice when Aleron left. The oblique political speak could be interpreted in a myriad of ways, but it made Damen worry. The night went by without sleep and the restless anxiety that his fear would come to fruition. A blue flower that had come free of the crown now rested on the couch where they had been. Damen tucked it into a fold of his robes.
The knock came before the sun was up. Damen did a head count of his guard escort and knew there weren’t enough, and that if he really wanted to, he could fight them off.
“I want to say goodbye to Laurent,” Damen said.
“Our orders are to take you directly to the docks.”
Damen could have taken them, fought his way to a goodbye but couldn’t further jeopardize the engagement and went peacefully. In the stables he searched for a blond head and any chance that Laurent would make it in time. On horseback with the little entourage surrounding him, Damen continued to look over his shoulder. Even on the ship while sailors continued last minute preparations Damen clung to the railing, staring over the sandy hill hoping for even just a messenger with a letter. Ropes were cast off and Damen’s heart sank as the anchor was raised.
He half turned to retire to his cabin when a horse crested the rise. Laurent rode onto the docks without slowing, the horse pushed into a merciless sprint. The coarse wood rattled beneath the hooves. Sailors shouted at him and the guards from Damen’s escort chased him down or attempted to startle the horse into stopping. The ship had pulled away from the dock. Damen didn’t know what Laurent intended to do as he charged towards the end.
His heart was in his throat when Laurent leapt from the back of the horse into empty air. Damen reached for him, catching him with an arm around his waist, and pulled him over the rail into the solid safety of the deck.
Laurent was laughing while Damen worried his heart had stopped.
“You’re insane,” Damen said breathing a relieved laugh. His brain becoming preoccupied with the realization Laurent was beneath him.
“You tried to leave without saying goodbye,” Laurent breathed.
“Sorry,” Damen said and unable to resist, kissed him, deep and heartfelt. Around them the ship had broken into chaos. The anchor dropped and the sailors tried to go backwards to the dock despite the tide ready to take them out to sea. Damen sat up pulling Laurent along with him. He knelt on the rough hardwood deck, still wearing the ridiculous chiton that caught in the salt breeze taking it, and his golden hair, in every direction. Damen pulled Laurent up off the rough deck, and arms circled his waist.
Laurent pressed a cold hand against Damen’s face. “This isn’t really goodbye. We’ll fix this.” He leaned in folding his arms around Damen’s neck in a loose embrace. With hands holding the slender waist, Damen pulled him back into a kiss, desperate to keep him close for a little longer. The blond hair blew into his face.
Laurent pulled back, “Quit distracting me, I can’t think and we have to plan.”
Damen had to tell him now. It wouldn’t feel right to do it in a letter. “I wanted to tell you in a better way, but now with everything happening I need you to know that my father has been looking for other candidates. Specifically, ones capable of producing an heir.”
“Is that what you want?” Laurent asked calmly.
“No,” Damen said, and took the cold hand from his face to hold between both of his, “It will only ever be you.”
Laurent’s expression was still carefully neutral, looking down at their clasped hands.
Damen took the flower from his pocket, “Since neither of us was given a choice. I’ll ask now.” Damen went to a knee and tied the flower around Laurent’s slim finger. “Will you marry me?”
Laurent nodded, expression solemn. “Yes,” he said, then made a small sound of surprise when Damen pulled him down for a desperate kiss holding the slender body as close as he could.
Laurent pulled away to breathe, petting Damen’s hair. “You’re behaving like we’ll never see each other again,” he said.
“I’m not sure we will.”
“We will,” Laurent said. “I spoke with Auguste through the night. We were able to reconcile. The current rulers can choose to keep us apart but their time is almost over and you will be better.”
Damen captured the wayward blond strands of hair and smoothed them out of Laurent’s face to see the bright eyes. “We will be better,” Damen told him. “But no matter what happens I will keep my promise.”
“Good.” Laurent smiled before Damen pulled him in for a final kiss.
#captive prince#captive prince fic#laurent#damen of akielos#am i capable of writing a simple prompt without some bitter sweet ending and hints to a larger undeveloped plot?#it doesnt seem like it#always make things more complicated than they need to be#anyway i dont think ive ever written anything with so much kissing#i hope its satisfactory and im sorry it took so long work has been a nightmare this month#writing prompt#captive prince writing prompt#thank you for the prompt tho i was excited to write it and hope its worth the wait#mywritingprompts
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Five times Alex surprised Forrest and one time he didn’t
Fourth Chapter! I can't believe it!
This chapter is all about Buffy. It took me longer because writing pet-human dynamic is just sooooo hard.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Sometimes Forrest thought he should just rename Buffy Long to Buffy Manes and call it a day. Other times he was convinced that Alex only stuck around for the dog. He hadn’t know it was possible to feel jealous for both parties while simultaneously feeling love towards them when he saw two people (in this case a person and a dog) together, but Alex had stirred up so many raw and new feelings in him that it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.
So there he was, stood in his doorway, coming home from an exhausting work meeting, and was entirely engulfed in this swamp of feelings in his chest he almost stopped breathing for a minute.
Alex, wearing a white sweater and some yoga pants that seemed to be made of the softest material in the whole world, hair a mess, face relaxed and lying down on his stomach; half under Alex’s body, being held loosely but securely by his right arm, was a soft snoring Buffy.
They were not even lying together on the sofa, but at the foot of the sofa, on the floor, Buffy’s favorite chew toy next to them. Like they had played together for a really long time, both so happy they hadn’t wanted to stop, until they were too tired to even get on the sofa, they had to just lie down right there and fall to sleep, while cuddling.
And to think: Alex never wanted to sleep anywhere other than in the bed because the bed would be nicer to his leg; and Buffy never wanted to sleep next to anyone other than Forrest because she was a PRINCESS like that.
Safe to say it was the most beautiful thing Forrest had ever seen in his whole life.
——————————
More often than not, Forrest woke up to some (one-sided) conversation like this one.
“No, Buffy, you can’t eat that.”
“Don’t give that look, girl. You know I’m just looking out for you. You need healthier diet.”
Forrest smiled. Alex was so gonna lose that battle, again.
“Stop it. I know it always works on your papa, but it’s not gonna work on me.”
Well that’s a lie.
A fond sigh.
“OK, you win. But you have to walk with me a LOT longer today if we’re gonna burn all the extra calories. And this is non-negotiable.”
Yeah, bring out the captain voice. It would do absolutely nothing to the dog except maybe receiving some halfhearted tail wiggling.
And also getting Forrest hot and bothered.
He walked out to the kitchen, stood behind Alex, threw a glance over his shoulder to Buffy, and yep, she was happily eating her treats and totally ignoring Alex’s pretend glares. He hid his smile in between Alex’s shoulder blades, hands reaching around to sneak under his shirt so he could roam his bare stomach, and said in a husky voice:
“Stop fat-shaming my dog and come back to bed. She’s already gotten her treats. Now it’s my turn.”
Alex turned around in his embrace, pulled him even closer so they were only a breath away and looking into each other’s eyes. Then, and only then he rolled his eyes, deliberately and dramatically, he even shook his head a little for extra effect: “Her puppy eyes, your cheeky lines. You both only have ONE move. It’s getting old real fast.”
Well, since Buffy and he both got their treats even before breakfast, he’d have to respectfully disagree.
———————————
One time he walked in on them, snuggled up in bed, and Alex was telling her about his Lizard while SHOWING HER SOME PICTURES too.
“I think you and Willow would have made great friends.” He said, a little wistful, but mostly happy, smile evident in his voice.
Buffy made a low grunting sound in her throat as if she agreed.
———————————
They went to the fair thing regularly now, like some old couple. Forrest secretly liked it. But the catch was, whenever they went there, Alex ended up buying Buffy way too many toys, clothes or little hats. It was getting ridiculous.
“Alex, this is like, the third chew bone in this month alone. She really doesn’t need it.” Forrest whined, knowing perfectly well he was fighting a losing battle.
To his surprise though, Alex dropped the bone (Buffy turned to Forrest to give him the stink eye but he ignored her like a champ), and picked a fluffy teddy instead, which, ok, slightly better, but SO NOT THE POINT.
But Alex showed it to Buffy, she gave a happy wiggling, and next thing he knew, Alex was already paying for it.
Forrest shook his head. “You don’t ever get to say I’m spoiling her again. You are like, the most doting dad ever.”
They both froze at that.
Then Alex looked down at Buffy, smiled softly, and said, “I just like seeing her happy”. He looked up again, still all soft, reached out and held Forrest’s hand. “If that makes me a doting dad, so be it.”
—————————
He changed his screensaver on his phone to a picture of Buffy hugging the teddy that night.
—————————
Alex’s ex (the ex from his military days, not the one still didn’t show up in Forrest’s presence) came to Roswell one day, he called Alex, so the three of them were having a slightly uncomfortable but overall pleasant get-together.
The ex (Bill or something) was charming, funny and friendly. He obviously didn’t hang up on Alex like some other ex so that was a plus, but he sometimes still had heat in his eyes when Alex was smiling beautifully so Forrest decided to dislike him just in principle.
The dislike quickly turned to annoyance when Bill (or something) brought up his dog.
“By the way, Charlie whined when I told him I was gonna see you and I couldn’t bring him along. I guess he still misses you.”
Alex smiled politely, “I miss him too.”
“Please”, the ex snorted, “You never really warmed up to him. You were nice to him, sure, he loved you for it. But you were just not that fond of him. I always assume maybe you’re not a dog person or something.”
OK so the ex was apparently a clueless douche. Alex was the definition of a dog person in Forrest’s opinion. He opened his mouth to just say that when a hand on his knee squeezed to stop him.
“Yeah, maybe.” Alex replied, polite smile firmly in place.
The topic didn’t come up again until B-something left.
“So you wanna explain yourself, Mr Clearly-You-Are-A-Dog-Person?”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Can’t you just accept that Buffy is an exception to my not-loving-dogs rule?”
Forrest pretended to consider for a second.
“Though it is a fact that Buffy is the cutest girl on earth and she can pretty much win anybody over, I know it’s not the case. So spill. Was Charlie like, secretly hating you but pretended to like you in front of his dad?”
Alex choked on his milkshake. “What terrible world do you live in? With this level of dog conspiracy?”
It was a deflecting move if he’d ever seen one. So he just waited.
After a minute, Alex caved.
“It was not Charlie. It was Blake.” OK, not Bill then.
“Me and Blake, we had this on and off relationship. At first it was just some fun, blowing off steam, some actions in the shadow, that kind of things. But it got somewhat more serious as the time passed. He was local based, so when we had leaves, we would sometimes go to his house to spend time together.”
“Charlie was usually with his sister, but Blake would bring him home during his leaves. So whenever I spent time there, Charlie was always with us.”
He paused, a fond smile for the dog, and continued, “He liked me instantly, and I liked him too. Like you said, I am a dog person, I like dogs, dogs like me.”
Forrest was confused. “So why...?”
Alex sighed. “I liked Charlie, but I couldn’t let myself get attached to him. Because I didn’t see myself stay in the relationship with Blake for a long time. So if I got too attached, and the breakup inevitably happened, it would be too hard for me to handle.”
OK, that was understandable. But meanwhile, that would mean...
The realization hit Forrest like a train he was totally dumbstruck.
Alex seemed to sense his surprise, and blushed. But he didn’t stop talking.
“I opened myself completely to Buffy, because I feel completely safe and steady when I’m with you. I don’t worry about losing her, because I don’t worry about losing you.”
Forrest swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, kissed Alex, and touched their forehead together.
“Do you think we should just rename her to Buffy Long-Manes?”
Alex laughed. “That is such a terrible name.”
He kissed back. “But I like it.”
#the scene I described (selfishly) in this chapter about Alex cuddling with Buffy#is from the insta pic Tyler once posted#where he cuddled with Dylan#it's the cutest thing#forlex#forlex fic#5+1 things#my fic
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A Knight’s Honor
Ch 1 - Hold a Star
Masterlist
Summary: You are a female squire, who is not willing to give up your dreams of Knighthood to become a slave to society to save face.
Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader
SLOWBURN
A/N: Here is the first chapter! It’s like 2am but I couldn’t get it out of my head so I started writing and realized the direction I want this to go is going to cause it to be a bit lengthy. SO I’m not sure if this will really count as a full on slow burn but I’m going to try my best! Thanks for reading!
The sky was a hushed dark, the only present source of light was the wisps of the sunbeams that peaked out from over the hills towards the east. Allowing light orange and pink tones to spread and fade into the midnight blues. The stars were also taking it upon themselves to disappear, leaving a blank canvas that was ready to painted on. You knew it wouldn’t be long before the new brilliant baby blue and feathery whites of clouds took over and spread out as far as the eye could see. It was always a breathtaking sight to see the dawn of a new day, a gentle reminder of knowing you were alive and living your dream.
“Keep movin’ lassie, ‘therwise yoo’ll be missin’ yer breakfest an’ ye dinnae want ‘at.”
Well, almost living your dream.
“Yes Sir.”
You continued to scoop the horse dung, going almost nose blind to the smell as you have been at it for a good 20 minuets already. It was thankfully the last chore of your morning duties for today and you could go straight to breakfast after this. Lazily you look back towards the sky, a small sigh escaping your lips as you continued with you work.
It was, and would always be, a dreadful chore to complete before you were able to partake in breakfast. Even though you only had to worry about it once per week, it was still disgusting to have to do when all you wanted was the smell of bread in your nose, not the smell of dung.
Yet you managed, quickly growing used to the idea and trying not to let it both you as you scarfed down whatever the lovely kitchen hands whipped up. You could not afford to to be hungry for the rest of the day, breakfast was always too early and lunch so far afterwards. If you could call it lunch. It was mostly a quick snack you were able to have for a few moments before being pulled into even more duties your Knight deemed of needing completion, duties that were a must to get done before you could even think about dinner.
Being a Knight’s Squire was all around exhausting and not what you once thought it was when you were a child. Sure, you were able to do extraordinary tasks that you only once dreamed about, such as overnight ventures to different kingdoms and quests galore. However, with your great Kingdom at peace, there were plenty of thrilling tasks that weren’t needed, like following your Knight onto the battlefield and helping to protect your home. Yes, you were greatly blessed to be born into these peaceful times, not have the displeasure of the blood and sacrifice of war, so you often scolded yourself when you found your thoughts drifting to battles and missions alike.
No, instead of dealing with disastrous enemies of front lines, you found your action of the practice field, and Lord knows you’ve seen that all too many times.
You often times loved the feeling training provided you, yet you were always disgruntled when you were frowned upon due to your gender. Not by many, in fact there were many more who believed you had every right to be here, but others tended to disagree. It was hard to force someone out of their backwater ways, and it wasn’t even just the elders who held onto this ideal, it was from your own peers as well. One peer in particular really, and it hurt you to a point to think someone you have known for most of your life could come to loath you so.
To this day you still had no idea as to why.
As a child, you had always pictured yourself as a Knight. Dreaming of the day you were able to attend wild adventures and the freedoms it would bring. Your mother, who had wanted nothing more than to groom you into the finer life, was always displeased at your father who gave you the encouragement to follow your heart. He was a giant of a man, towering over most, feared and respected among his peers. Yet he was always so loving and kind to you, and threw memories of him always stayed no matter how much time as passed since he has moved on from this world. He wanted you to understand the importance of knowing when to rely on someone, and when to rely on yourself. Your mother thought it absurd for you to know such things, saying how once you became of age, old enough to wed, you would be tethered to a man who could protect you better than you could ever protect yourself.
Which was completely and utterly injudicious.
You were most definitely able to take care of yourself, and you found no need for a man to constrain you into a submissive lifestyle that would no doubt lead you to dread the mornings you were so fond of. All because that would mean if you were awake, you would still be in the nightmare of a domesticated life.
You wanted an eternity of freedom, not a lifetime in a prison cell disguised as your home.
“Thenk ye again lassie, ye wark strong. Jist need tae quit starin’ at th’ sky.” The man chuckled, patting your head roughly with his large hand.
This man, Sir Campbell, was a Knight you helped during this particular morning chore. He was one of few to come and serve the Kingdom from a foreign land, causing his differences in tongue and spirit. While this was and always will be you’re home, the feeling of some kind of sturdy connection was formed.
He was different from his peers as were you.
It was the similarities of the differences you carried that had brought you together, you thought of him family as he did you.
“The sky is an endless adventure, Sir. Can you imagine if we were able to explore the noble skies as we did the rolling plains of foreign lands?”
He grinned at your words, an own thoughtful expression pulling on his thinned lips as he held his bearded chin in mock thought.
“Lass, ye hink tae much. ‘en again that’s whit makes ye sae sharp-witted isnae it?”
You smiled back, eyes shining with mirth at knowing you once again thought of something your elder had not.
“I’d like to think so Sir, although I get my wonder from you, as you do not think of such things on your own.”
He barked out a laugh, horses whining at the sudden noise that had caught them off guard, and echoed around them.
“Ye will be th’ death ay me yit!”
“I hope that is a day that will never come to pass Sir, not until the stars have been held in our own bare hands.”
“Ah pray ‘at day come tae pass, lassie. noo rin alang, gang enjoy yer weel deserved breakfest. Duty will be ringin;’ shortly.”
“More like screaming.”
“Aye, ‘at Sir Hizashi surly can yeel i’s true. Rin alang noo!”
You bowed your head respectfully before taking your leave once you finished putting the shovel away in its rightful spot. His laughter still ringing in your ears, causing your mood to uplift as if following suit with the edges of your mouth.
You made your way to the water spicket that was as tall as your breasts, and lifted your arms to pump the bar till water flowed from the spout. Using it to rinse your hands and face clean of a hard morning, you then dried them on your tunic, which you wore over your chain mail.
You of course wore a protective layer under the chain mail. No matter how much heat you could withstand due to your ability, you were not immune to the burns and irritations it could leave if it was placed directly on unclothed skin. You wore somewhat lose trousers, but it was only baggy enough to not be mistaken for tight undergarments, as your tunic fell down to your mid thighs. A belt holding your sword was wrapped securely around your waste, the simple leather having immense strength to hold up not only you sheath and blade, but other necessities you found yourself carrying in pouches which were also strapped on.
A simple look, but the look of a squire indeed. Not one of a high Lady of the Court.
Your feet carried you to one of your most favorite spots, the place by the kitchens. It’s were the meals were held, meals of those who lived in the castle walls yet were unable to sit at the table that was intended for those of higher status. It was an austere little place, but that did not mean it wasn’t full of life. Few rows of benches were pushed together right near a door that led into the kitchens themselves, lanterns placed along the wall behind them. It was a place that was never overcrowded, but quaint enough to be able to sit together and laugh and talk about the hardship of the days like it wasn’t a problem at all.
You spotted a man you knew very well already sitting at the only available table, and gladly quicken your pace to reach your destination faster than your fatigued body would have liked. You snatched a roll from his plate once your were close enough, taking a bite from the delicious bread as you sat to his right. He barley glanced your way before reaching out to grab another roll from the basket to his left, letting out a sigh while he did.
“Tis too early to be dealing with you.”
“Ah, you flatter me kindly Shinsou.” You laughed.
“Anything but I assure you, (l/n).” Even with his exasperated tone seeping into his guttural voice, he threw you a small smile in welcome.
He enjoyed your presence and often did seek you out for it, ignoring the few who once scolded him for it years prior. He did not care you were a woman, woman or not you could kick anyone’s behind if you saw fit. You were here, just like everyone else, training to become a Knight. While many would complain, he knew you had the most reason to. Yet you never once spoke of the hardships of training. You bared through it, proving time and time again that you wanted to be here and you deserved to be as well.
“I say, you become Sir Aizawa more and more with every passing day, tis almost disturbingly so how you two are alike in manners.” You shook your head, grinning as you grab a bowl and began to fill it with warm porridge that was present on your right. That was one of the perks of finishing earlier than expected, besides having more down time, the food was still warm.
“If I am becoming my mentor than you must know you are surely becoming yours.”
“I am not as boisterous as you believe, Sir Hizashi is a man whose energy knows no bounds. No one can thinking of beating him in such a game.” You rolled your eyes, already picturing the assault your ears were to be faced with today as soon as you went to report. Sir Hizashi was a pleasant Knight and wondrous mentor, with many talents and a vast knowledge no one gave him enough credit for. Yet, he was always so terribly loud, often forgetting his surroundings and letting loose with wild battle cries and deafening laughs that stayed echoing through the valleys for months.
“You cannot play me for a fool, (l/n). I see it grow in you each day.”
“If you see me as Sir Hizashi then you must realize you will never be able to rid yourself of me.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow, a wooden cup up to his parted lips to drink the lukewarm liquid, “what is it that makes you believe such a tale?”
“Our mentors are both kindred spirits of course, they have known one another since childhood and they continue to be in each other’s life to this very day.” You beamed, a such intense look of happiness on your face Shinsou could not find it in him to pull away from it.
“How joyous,” his hand came to pinch the bridge of his nose as your dazzling look became devilish with the smug smile that taunted him so, “ you will only serve to deepen my scars of sleepless nights.”
“Oh Shinsou, I am afraid my presence can do nothing more to what is already permanently etched into your skin. Not even help it I’m afraid.”
“You may bet right.” He chuckled, looking down at you and plucking the apple from your hand that you had just picked up not a second prior.
“Oi-” He cut you off with a loud crunch of a now ruined apple, his chewing only serving to fuel your anger.
“You sly fox what was that for?”
“You always pick the most juiciest apples from the bunch, tis only natural I may want a taste for myself.” He used the red fruit to hide the twitch of his lips at your bewildered expression.
Your reactions were always the best to witness, always making an exaggerated face for no reason other than you could, or perhaps it was just because you never realized how much emotion you actually shown to others.
“I pick the tastiest apples for myself, not to share! You gluttonous cutpurse!”
The sound of loud footsteps heading in your direction caused the pair of you to halt your conversation and glance up, seeing a pair of Squires making their way to your table. You sent out a quick huff of breath, unsure if you were willing to deal with his attitude so early in the morning. Shinosu kept his mouth shut, unwilling to express his distaste as verbally as you, but still felt it nonetheless.
“Ah Shinsou! (l/n)! Tis good to see you both in high health this fine morning!” One smiled, taking a seat in front of you while the other boy took a spot to the left of him, diagonally from you.
“Kirishima.” Shinsou let out a curt nod, having no will ill towards this gentleman at all. Only confusion, if not pity, for how he has to put up with the child next to him.
“Good to see you in such high spirits as always Kirishima.” You gave a polite smile, quickly snatching your apple back from Shinsou’s unsuspecting hand.
You innocently smiled at the red head in front of you as if you did nothing wrong, ignore the glaring and grumbling from the boy beside you.
“You two are the ones in high spirits it seems!” Kirishima laughed as the exchange, seeing your pleased expression and Shinsou’s exasperated one.
“Tch.”
The noise caused a flutter of irritation to pass through you, but you ignored it and glanced at the blond who had not spoke a word yet. Focusing on filling his bowl with breakfast instead of pleasantries. He bit harshly into a roll, setting the ladled down once he finished scooping the now cooling porridge.
“Good morning Bakugou.” You spoke shortly, not wanting to be rude to the other member of the table.
“Shove off.”
You clicked your tongue, not knowing why you bothered in the first place as you knew that would be his response. Kirishima gave you an apologetic smile, changing the subject to ask about future events the current day will hold for the lot of you. He was always able to lift the mood so easily, no matter the circumstances.
It was an enjoyable breakfast while it lasted, save for the brooding boy who only chimed in with insults or annoyed grunts of disagreement.
“As lovely as this has been, I must be off now. I am assisting Sir Aizawa in his visit of a neighboring kingdom. We are simple escorts of the Chamberlain and his youngest brother. “ Shinsou sighed.
The sun was more visible in the changing sky, almost fully so. Only a sliver of it hidden from view as the sky lightened because of it, allowing the dim lanterns to be shut off and replaced by a brighter source.
“Oh,” You frowned, “I assume you will be gone for a few days then?”
“Three at most, if it can be helped.” He mirrored your reaction.
He never liked leaving you alone. He never has doubted your ability to take care of yourself, that wasn’t the issue. More so it had to do with the glaring boy sitting a few feet away, sharp crimson glaring daggers into warm violet. Bakugou was by no means the kindest man to his peers around him, but he seemed to have an extra special case of bitter anger for you that exceeded his normal gruffness by tenfold. Shinsou knew it weighed heavily on you, once friend turned foe all because of a dream. Yet you always pushed through, it was one of your most admirable traits in his opinion.
Your unwavering ability to overcome anything.
“Worried your protection will not be around to save you, (y/n)?” Bakugou sneered, his gaze never leaving Shinsou’s.
“You assume false, Katsuki. I have no need for anyone’s protection but my own.” You spat back, hating how the bastard wouldn’t even look at you.
As if he seen you as something less than a person, something that didn’t even deserve his time of day.
“Come now you two, please no fighting so early! Let’s end this breakfast in good spirits and go on with our day.” Kirishima pleaded, always being the mediator, bless his soul.
“A day is only so lovely when the face of that wench is not in my sights.” Bakugou hissed, clenching his teeth as he felt the anger rise in him as Shinsou stood and grabbed your arm.
You were half tempted to lunge at the foul-mouth boy, but Shinsou’s strong hand on your upper arm held you back.
“Leave the man-child be, let us be on our way. I bid thee good day gentlemen.” Shinsou spoke, cold eyes turning away from Bakugou to address Kirishima, the only person his goodbye was intended for.
“Enjoy your day, may it go by swiftly for you,” You spoke to Kirishima who just gave a wavering grin, uneasy at the tension that had grown. You faced Bakugou who finally had the decency to look at you, and you could see the vexation boiling in his eyes, “you hog-hearted knave.”
You left your farewell at that, ignoring the shouts he threw as you and Shinsou as you grabbed your dishes, bringing them over to be rinsed and then set inside the kitchens for proper cleaning from the kitchen hands later.
You glanced back at the table to see them both barley rising to follow what you two have just done, before turning back to your friend with a displeased frown.
“I wish you were not my voice of reason.”
“You would be damned if I were not.” He pointed out, turning to walk away.
“You are right, of course. Yet that does not mean I like it.” Your frown lifted into a tender smile as you reached out to stop him from walking off, knowing you going to have to bid your best friend farewell.
“Like it or not, I will always be.” He turned back to face you, saying those words on purpose. Understanding the weight of them. While the kingdom was at peace, that did not mean all danger was vanquished.
It was simply hidden better.
“Aw, so you do agree that we are kindred spirits? Shinsou you sappy sack of flour!”
“Hush your tongue, wretched girl,” He grinned, “You best behave while I am gone, understand?”
“Yes yes, I am able to to take care of myself and be without problems for a measly two days.” You rolled your eyes, mischief all over your face though the words you spoken were intended for innocence.
“I am serious.” He deadpanned, noticing the look that only grew at his words.
“And so am I.”
“I do not believe it.”
“You are right to do so.”
He groaned as you laughed, shaking his head at you in mock disappointment. His look then hardened and he took your hand in his, as if he were about to shake it.
“In three days.” Seriousness in his eyes as he whispered.
This was an unspoken tradition between the both of you. A silent promise to return, return alive, in the allotted time given.
“In three days.” You repeated, your grip on his hand tightening before releasing altogether.
A smile crossed you both before you took off down separate paths, you glancing up at the sky wishing to see the stars once more without having to look back at the boy walking away. Because you knew, Shinsou was the closest thing you would get to accomplish your wild dream of holding a star. It may be silly, but if it would be anyone, it would be him: a shining star who had the world beneath his feat and the endless sky around him.
However, unknown to you, a different kind of star was staring into your back as you left. This star was as big and bright as millions of stars together and was known as the sun. And be damned if the sun was out shined by a measly twinkle in the sky he owned.
#bnha#bnha bakugou#bnha bakugo katsuki#bnha headcanons#bnha bakugou x reader#bnha bakugou katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugo#bakugou x reader#bakugou#katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugō#katsuki bakugo x reader#bnha katsuki bakugou#bnha au#bnha female knight au#a knights honor#ch1#mha#mha izuku midoriya#bnha izuku midoriya#bnha shouto todoroki#bnha shoto todoroki#bnha hitoshi#bnha hitoshi shinso#bnha mirio#bnha mirio togata#bnha eijiro kirishima#bnha medieval au#knights honor
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Catching up.
The interior of Gyr Kehim.
●Autgar Bloode made his way over towards his teacher without a word and plopped down before smiling over at the stone. "It's always a wonderful feeling sitting down here, anywhere really, any spot within Gyr Abania and being struck with the realization that it's ours again. That we were the generation where we got our home back."
Berrod Armstrong had been sitting and quietly contemplating something or other. Autgar's arrival pulled a small and fleeting smile from him. "It is, " He murmured, "There were moments I didn't think it'd happen in my lifetime, but here we are."
●Autgar Bloode: "I had my concerns... but I always had my faith that we'd be back here in our lifetime either making the fight or making our beds. I'm glad it's the latter. Though I could use a good fight. It's been awhile since I had one of those fights.. the one's where you're not quite sure if you're gonna make it and you can taste the blood in your mouth but it's also still the most energized you've ever been. You can feel it in your veins." He sighed. "I've been thinking about spending some time on the border to help maintain security and also get my fights in when I need them." He glanced over at Berrod. "OH, N'hara's doing it. He's finally separating his Astro-magicks from Rhalgr's gifts. I think he's finally taking on the understanding that being a monk is more about aetheric techniques."
Berrod Armstrong: "It's about time," Berrod sighed, "I'm glad for 'im though. Anybody can be a fist fighter an' use special techniques --" For some reason he paused when he said that, and grimaced some, "-- but bein' a monk is so much more. As for fightin'..." Discomfort settled onto his features, "Ever since the first push I've come to appreciate peaceful moments more'n anything...I...don't got that hunger for fightin' I used to have, though I won't ever let that stop me from gettin' in there if I gotta. Funny you should mention border defenses though. I was thinkin' of tossin' my lot into the effort as well. I wanna make sure Gyr Abania -stays- free."
●Autgar Bloode: "Us lot being me and my students or us lot being the Ala Mhigo offices? Cause either way you know I'll be there. When it comes to the world, I'm content staying right here and making sure it stays ours."
Berrod Armstrong: "Oh, I meant me, really. I wouldn't ask it of anybody else after all the bloodshed everyone's been through recently."
●Autgar Bloode: "OH, your lot bein' you. I'd be happy to go out there with you. Watch your back. The Empire wouldn't know what hit them with the two of us on the field ensuring things remain secure."
Berrod Armstrong tried to hold back another grimace, but he only managed partway. A grunt and a nod were offered Autgar's way, and he looked ahead. "I was thinkin' maybe sabotage missions, light skirmishes. It'll all depend on what they actually -need- though."
●Autgar Bloode cocked a nonbrow. "You sure goin' up there to fight is what you're okay with? If you'd really rather not fight well I don't think your presence would really dissuade them. Sadly not enough of those troops knows what a man dressed like you is capable of. It'd likely come to blood, no matter what kind of mission you run. Sabotage though... been awhile since I did anything like that."
Berrod Armstrong: "I ain't capable of much more than the average soldier I'm afraid. But that ain't any reason to shy away from doin' what I can. If it's not on the front, then it's back here makin' sure the people stay safe amongst themselves."
●Autgar Bloode: "Not capable.. Bullshit. I've fought you more than enough to know that just ain't the truth. It's either you bein' too humble or something’s going on." He stared over at Berrod. "How you doin' since Roark attacked Levinfist?"
Berrod Armstrong huffed a breath through his nose, "Healthy," He began, "But...hm. Jus' gotta be a little careful from now on, I suppose."
●Autgar Bloode: "Is that why you're sayin' you're not capable of much more? Cause you can certainly take me down and I know I'm more than an average soldier thanks to all your training."
Berrod Armstrong: "Maybe I still can, who knows? I doubt it. I think the gap's a bit too far for me to bridge now. Well, -for- now."
●Autgar Bloode: "Gap? Please. The only reason I got you alst time is cause I've been busting my ass to learn all I can and surprise you with it. Now that I don't have the element of surprise, I'm sure you could take me. Though we'd wear ourselves ragged but that's pretty normal for us."
Berrod Armstrong: "No, I can't. I don't think I can come anywhere close."
●Autgar Bloode: "I respectfully disagree, but I won't push it. And even if you we're right, I'm only as far as I am because of you. You were a good teacher. You got me through thick and thin and made me all the better for it."
Berrod Armstrong 's smile was strained, "I hope I can keep doin' -that- bit, at least. I don't really need much more than heart an' soul to do that. I'm glad you think I was a good teacher. There were a lotta times when I didn't know for myself."
●Autgar Bloode: "You are a good teacher. You were then and you are now. Better than me too, I had a shaky start but I think I'm finding my stride... though my students scare me when I hear what they have going on. Lotta weight making sure they stay reasonably safe."
Berrod Armstrong nodded. "Mhm. It is. It's tough figurin' out what you can help 'em carry an' what you should leave 'em to handle on their own. I know you can do it though."
●Autgar Bloode: "Believe it or not Flora's my troublesome one lately... Martin's calmed down since his first opening. He's learning what he's capable and rather responsibly.. but Flora is.. a hot idealistic mess. She was uh keeping Roark."
Berrod Armstrong tilted his head and peered at Autgar. "That's...gross. Did you get 'im back an' bury 'im? More than he deserved, but every man deserves a grave, I suppose."
●Autgar Bloode: "We handed him over to the Resistance for trial. Flora gave him up easily. I wanted nothing more than to send her to Rhalgr myself but.. I'd dishonor my vows if I did that. In the love of honesty, I had wished he would've tried to attack someone there so I could've struck him down but he didn't. I think he's clipped. They won't let him live long."
Berrod Armstrong 's face went from slightly disgusted incredulity to something much more dire. "...wait. Alive? She was keepin' him -alive-?"
●Autgar Bloode nodded. "She was tryin' to get him repent and the like. It's where my concern came from. She shared a lot of his ideas and.. it scares me. First her taking the path of shadow and now this. I've known so many that became enemies that were shadow monks and had these dangerous ideas." He made a face. "I don't think I've met a shadow monk that didn't end up my enemy yet."
Berrod Armstrong rubbed along his jaw with the coarse report of scruff against leather. "I think all of us share some of his ideas to an extent, if I'm honest. Jus' not to the -extremes- he did, you know? What Flora did...I don't think it really has much to do with her bein' on the path of Shadow. Those paths are things of the past, an' we need to keep rememberin' that. Her sin's grave there though. She forsook her fellowship an' took matters into her own hands. That's not the way of a monk at all."
●Autgar Bloode nodded. "No, and I understood her wanting to try and have him repent and turn around. I think the one thing she hates above all else is seeing followers of Rhalgr get killed but he's an extremist. I agree with some of his points but he attacked monks, civillians, spectators, and then she took him and hid him." He sighed. "I don't know what the Resistance will do about that but.. I think we should talk to her about that no matter what."
Berrod Armstrong: "Whatever the consensus, it's something we ought to have come to -together-. For her to have refused us that ain't somethin' to be taken lightly." He sighed and tilted his head up somewhat, "There's a lesson to be learned for her here, probably for all of us. We'll get through it an' learn together, like always."
●Autgar Bloode nodded. "I'm hoping they let her off easy but that means we need to come down on her and make sure she knows why what she did is wrong. That way we can all learn the lesson together, like you said."
Berrod Armstrong nodded slowly. "Ayeah. That's uh. That's a bit of a shock, honestly. Disappointin', too, but everybody slips up sometimes. This jus' happened to be a pretty big one."
●Autgar Bloode: "Right? I figured if any of us were gonna mess up it'd be me or Martin or maybe N'hara.. I hadn't expected it form Flora but maybe that's the issue too. I hadn't had my eyes on her like I should've."
Berrod Armstrong: "Flora is devout, but she isn't perfect. She's young too -- ideals get in the way of reality often. It's somethin' that we're gonna have to have patience for."
●Autgar Bloode: "Did I ever scare you like that? Frighten you that I was gonna falter along the path or somethin'?"
Berrod Armstrong offered a bright, uncharacteristic smile. "You don't get to know that," He declined simply.
●Autgar Bloode chuckled softly. "Fair enough." He glanced forward. "Well why don't we change to a safe topic. I'd like to continue my training, like I mentioned back when we fought."
Berrod Armstrong bobbed his head in assent. "Ayeah -- I think you're ready to move on to what's next. Though, what do -you- think is next?"
●Autgar Bloode: "We talked about the rest of the riddles but also the possibility of beginning pursuit on the next chakra. Which is passion and heart if memory serves me right." He tapped at his chest. "Also linked to fire but.. I recall you saying it could be a bit risky."
Berrod Armstrong: "That's right. Funny we should get on that topic after what we jus' talked about, that was a prime example of how the heart and its passions can make things go awry. Add physical trainin' an' development for that, an' it becomes an explosive mix. Sometimes literally."
●Autgar Bloode: "Yeah for awhile when I was starting my monk training and I read all your writtings.. I had only thought that it meant positive passions but.. if I've learned anything these past few years it’s that passion isn't always good and left uncontrolled it's certainly a volatile and dangerous source of strength.. though explosive does ring some bells. Or some previous concussions. You've laid some explosions into me before."
Berrod Armstrong: "Controlled ones, ayeah. When I was trainin' it up the first time I'd get burned every damn day. It'd rip through my arms. Hurt like all hells. But...that's a problem for when it opens. Before that, you're trainin' is gonna involve what it does, an' how it works...an' how to prepare for the demands it's gonna place on your body."
●Autgar Bloode: "Emotional as well as physical training?"
Berrod Armstrong nodded once. "Ayep. It's a must."
●Autgar Bloode: "Well.. I've got a good handle on my emotions but more training to keep those in check is always welcome. Physical training is fun. I'm as eager as ever."
Berrod Armstrong: "I'll help as best as I can with that then. While we're at that, we can begin workin' on solvin' the Riddle of Fire too."
●Autgar Bloode: "Do they go hand in hand?"
Berrod Armstrong shook his head, "No, but it won't hurt to learn a powerful technique that utilizes the power you're tryin' to unlock."
●Autgar Bloode: "I'm eager to tackle both but you've advised not to undertake too much at once before in training. So hearing this is a bit of a surprise but also exciting."
●Autgar Bloode: "The riddles have always fascinated me.."
Berrod Armstrong chuckled quietly. "Don't get your hopes up. The reason we're startin' the riddle at the same time is because it's gonna take some time to work out."
●Autgar Bloode: "Good. I'm excited to have something to take some time. I feel like I've kept up with my training but the past few months has been refinement not anything new for me. It's all been about teaching Martin and Flora. Though, I have touched on my technique some, it isn't ready yet.. and I agree to help N'hara with his thing. That bit he blasted Martin with the other day. He wants some help refining it but that's his technique that he's setting aside his astro stuff to work on this one."
Berrod Armstrong 's smile was a bit sad for some reason, but he didn't address it. Instead he nodded in silent encouragement.
●Autgar Bloode: "Though I can set his aside and work on that separately than when I'm working on riddle and heart stuff."
Berrod Armstrong: "Why?"
●Autgar Bloode: "I don't think working on all of them at the same time would be the wisest idea. His technique is quite extensive and costly. Combining that with the training for the riddle and the chakra could prove even more volatile and dangerous than working on the chakra alone."
●Autgar Bloode: "His technique is.. kind of like the forbidden chakra mixed with the elixir field. In a quick explanation. It's a lot of energy and power, the kind of strength I don't think I'd want to be using while I begin training with those two new things. Someone could get hurt."
Berrod Armstrong smiled again, but this time it was -- smug? Proud? Perhaps a mix of the two. "I see."
●Autgar Bloode: "I've learned my lesson trying to work on too much at once.. especially when it comes to those hefty techniques. If someone didn't get hurt I'd run myself ragged and probably pass out in the middle of nowhere."
●Autgar Bloode: "OR, worst case scenario, that level of power invites someone who wants a taste. Enemy monk or corpse brigade or.. nefarious folk."
Berrod Armstrong: "Fair enough. I'm lookin' forward to your development, as always. S'always a pleasure seein' you grasp new techniques an' make 'em your own."
●Autgar Bloode: "I look forward to showing you just what a good teacher you are. You've taught me the most important lesson of all as a monk and a man. To work smarter.. you don't always need a strong show of force in anything when you can outsmart or outlast them."
Berrod Armstrong: "Heh! Exactly."
●Autgar Bloode: "I've been learnin'! Absorbin' as much wisdom as I can. So I know how and why I should use be able to use as much of myself and all that I've learned to keep all this and all of you safe."
Berrod Armstrong: "You're a good man, Autgar. And a good monk."
●Autgar Bloode: "I wouldn't be any of this, man or monk, without you Berrod. I love you brother. I truly do."
Berrod Armstrong 's mouth flattened into a thin line and he stared for a moment, simply trying to compute the statement and process a response. "Yeah," He began, already completely mucking it up. Fortunately, he sought a quick correction. "I love you too. It's a privilege."
●Autgar Bloode stared over at his friend who never was the best with displaying his emotions let alone affections. He'd certainly put his friend through the ringer tonight so he opted to lighten the mood. "Any more mushy and I'm gonna have to hug you Berry." He smirked. "As for the training, I know I've still got Ronsen's crystal but your guidance will be invaluable. Knowledge is grand but guidance accelerates the learning I think. Or at least the understanding."
●Autgar Bloode: "Though I'm not the best with the riddles.. I remember the last one was quite the journey."
Berrod Armstrong 's dumbfounded, struggling expression crumpled into his usual scowl. "Don't be gross. Don't touch me, I'll break your arms. Anyroad -- the riddles are always tough, that's what makes them worthwhile an' powerful in the end. We'll take the journey together."
●Autgar Bloode let out a honk of laughter before clasping a hand over his mouth and nodding slowly. "Yes- yes it'll be a journey I'll be happy to take brother." He continued to smirk at the usual responses to affection.
Berrod Armstrong: "Well, most of it. There'll be a point where you'll have to walk ahead. I can only do so much now."
●Autgar Bloode: "Long as I've got you behind me, I'll make it."
Berrod Armstrong: "You will. I have faith in you."
●Autgar Bloode bowed his head. "Tell me where or how to start. I'll hit the books on it tonight and start it all in the morning, bright and early."
Berrod Armstrong: "Meditate on the things that rouse your heart -- your passions and your enthusiasm. Think on them, list them in your mind. Meditate on love, and how fiercely it can through -everything- out of balance for a single-minded pursuit. That's where the emotional training begins. Physically...er. Begin with practicin' to maintain your earth aspected protections through stress an' assault. You'll need 'em."
●Autgar Bloode: "Love... now that's been awhile.. the heart rousing kind not the brotherly kind." He rubbed at his chin. "Lotta memories in tonight's meditations. As for earth? Always welcome. We're practically family at this point. I use to think Flora was crazy for sleeping on stone slabs and broken tile but now I've gotten so comfortable with it, I can see the appeal. In meditation anyway. I don't plan on giving up my bed unless Oda stops by or I get another caller and I gotta take the couch."
Berrod Armstrong drummed his fingers on the dusty stone, "I actually prefer the floor. Years of sleepin' on the street gave me a feel for it. But -- it's not jus'...romantic love. Brotherly love an' familial love count too. It's such a powerful, shockin' thing that can make the power you're tryin' to harness spin outta control so -easily-."
●Autgar Bloode: "Could think of my family.. that's always been a go to for my emotional training.. cause of the torrent of feelings all those memories cause. I think that'd work. As well as those who I'm close to now."
Berrod Armstrong nodded once. "Ayeah, that'll work."
●Autgar Bloode: "As for earth.. will it help against any uh... explosions from within?"
Berrod Armstrong nodded again, though this time it was with an almost apologetic grin. "For the most part. Chances are you're gonna spend a lotta time bandaged up an' covered in ointment."
●Autgar Bloode: "Sounds like I should give Oda a call then.. or at the very least get a healer or somethin' on retainer to keep me stock with alchemical remedies."
Berrod Armstrong: "That you should -- though that's all only gonna apply once you -open- it anyroad, so you've got time."
●Autgar Bloode: "Could call Reks but.. he's not the kinda healer I'd be wanting.."
●Autgar Bloode: "Damn we need a healer at the Ala Mhigo office now that I think about it."
Berrod Armstrong lifted an eyebrow, "Like a dedicated one? Maybe..."
●Autgar Bloode: "Yeah a dedicated one. Folks get hurt all the time."
●Autgar Bloode: "And it's me and Martin..."
Berrod Armstrong laughed, then grew solemn in the blink of an eye, "You're not makin' me pay for this are you?"
●Autgar Bloode: "The Ala Mhigo office or the healer?"
Berrod Armstrong: "The healer."
●Autgar Bloode: "Eh, nah I'll cover the healer for now. Cause I'm probably gonna be the only one to need them for awhile. But when the office gets some more meat on it's bones we may need to talk about allotting some company resources for it."
Berrod Armstrong hummed softly, but nodded. "Fair enough. Y'all better get the work to earn it!"
●Autgar Bloode: "Gotten a few jobs for us now.. but I'll find more. Might be able to find some that are jobs and good training oppurtunities for all of us."
Berrod Armstrong: "Ayeah -- though, don't get too picky lookin' for jobs like that. We need all we can get."
●Autgar Bloode: "Really? I thought we were pretty set after that whole clan thing. We did pretty well but then again I don't know our finances at all.." Nor did he understand finnances to begin with.
Berrod Armstrong: "Oh, not jus' for the coin, we're comfy there. For the recognition so people know who to come to..."
●Autgar Bloode: "I hadn't thought about that with the name change.. I'll be sure to get us some jobs. Hopefully some of us being monks and working out here helps to. Notoriety though, that I do understand. I'll see what I can drum up when I'm uh bandaged and oiled up."
Berrod Armstrong grinned again. "Sounds about right. Though on that topic I should probably be headin' off soon. Had some stuff to figure out. I think I got a good handle out that though."
●Autgar Bloode: "If you ever need a confidant, lemme know. I'd be happy to repay you with advice after you've given me so much over the years."
Berrod Armstrong hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "There's somethin' I gotta make absolutely sure of first -- then I'll come talk to you about it."
●Autgar Bloode nodded. "I'm always happy to help. We're family. But uh, go on home. Give Sarij my best. Miss that man. I'll go home and get some stuff together for my trainin' tomorrow."
Berrod Armstrong got to his feet. "Sounds like a plan then."
●Autgar Bloode pushed himself up and offered the other monk a smile before extending his forearm. "May His comet continue to guide us, as it always has."
Berrod Armstrong took the forearm in a strong grip and brought the other hand to his own heart. "And may He smite our foes."
●Autgar Bloode mimicked the motion and nodded firmly. "He always does." He released the grip and smiled. "Travel well and rest well."
Berrod Armstrong pulled away and clapped Autgar on the shoulder as he walked by to exit the structure.
#FFXIV#Crystal#Balmung#RP#RP Log#Autgar Bloode#Berrod Armstrong#Monk RP#Gyr Kehim#N'hara Tia#Martin Adler#Roark Staunton#Flora Valerian#Gyr Abania
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“Garrosh’s Little Shop of Horrors.” [6]
Quest Objective: Babyproof Pandaria (and tattle on a corrupted warchief).
“How did I not see this coming? Toddlers put everything in their mouths!”
“Eona–”
“No, I'm not ignoring this. I should’ve baby proofed the entire continent.”
“Eon.” Andy stared at me sternly from across the table.
“He swallowed the Heart of the Thunder King.” I gagged at the recent memory. My alliance with Wrathion had gone south (big surprise) and ended with him acting his age. I had found nothing to aid my plight against Garrosh, nor to ease Anduin’s painful condition. Simply put, things were not going as well as I’d hoped.
Why does my family always do things like this? Grandma swallowed an entire orc, my mom bit somebody’s face off–what big leap is my diet going to make in the future…? I hate keeping secrets from Anduin, but it might be in his best interest to keep these instances hidden.
“You’re the one that gave it to him! What did you think he would do with it?” Andy asked.
“I don't know...put it on his shelf or something? Anything but devour it like me with a bag of chocolate…” I thought back on what I said. “Which I definitely have not done.”
Andy’s lips spread in a small smile, but it didn't linger long. “Why give it to him? Light, why even join him on his schemes? Family or not, I wouldn't trust him.”
“Neither do I,” I said, scooting my chair closer to his. The Stormwind guards around the stairs tensed and had no clue I’d been even closer than this. “I thought I could find a solution with Garrosh...and something to help you.”
“Me?” Anduin was dumbfounded. His tone was a softer like velvet, “That's sweet, but you shouldn't have to worry. Velen and the mistweavers said I would recover.”
I shot him a doubtful glance, but didn't argue. Andy kept his eagerness to walk around and talk to others, but I still noticed a huge difference. I had known him long enough before to see the changes: the slightly arched brow that hid a vein of pain, the posture more strained. Small changes, but huge in their implication. I couldn't imagine what agony he was really in.
Andy’s fingers slid across the table and entwined with mine. It seemed like a loving, harmless gesture, but inside it had me reeling. Is he insane? The guards just at the foot of the stairs, the innkeeper running to and fro–a simple glance upstairs! Does the Prince of Stormwind really want to hold hands with an immigrant that glows in the dark?
I sat there and gazed at our knot of fingers and hands, set atop the wooden table for everyone to see. I'm not ashamed of him–how could I? He's smart, he's kind, he's charming–he’s perfect. But how is this relationship going to work for us, out of the night and into the light?
“How are you holding up with Garrosh?” Anduin asked, breaking my inquisitive silence.
“Not well.” I admitted. “He hasn't found me yet, but I know plenty of what he's hiding. He's not going to let me get away with that.”
“What did you see?”
I tilted my head to the side, my hair brushing my cheek. “I don't want to drag you deeper into this mess with me.”
“I already met Garrosh and I walked away fine,” Anduin replied, a grin growing on his face as I squinted at him for the comment.
“That's not funny, daredevil. I was worried about you–I still am,” I said as Andy gently squeezed my fingers. “Besides, it's not just what I saw. It's what I do now that I'm stumped on.”
“Depends on what you saw.” Andy replied. He gave me a sincere look, a familiar sign of reassurance that I had witnessed multiple times on our journey. Anduin had a sense of maturity in him that rivaled creatures centuries old–and a seemingly judgeless nature. I didn't want to introduce him to Garrosh’s Phantom lair beneath the stage, but my list of trustworthy allies had grown thin.
I sighed and looked over my shoulder at the near-empty inn. “Fine, I’ll talk. But we’re doing this my way–we can’t risk eavesdroppers on this.”
I retrieved my hand from Anduin’s grasp and dug into the pockets of my green coat. I pulled out a shard of pale pink quartz, dimly glowing in the dark aroma of the inn, and caressed the sides with my fingers.
“What is that?” Andy asked as he peered at the colored stone curiously.
“A crystal,” I explained as the grooves that I traced with my fingers glared a light yellow. “Using them is common on Outland. My father used to have a bunch...I used to record music with them to listen to.”
I set it on the table when I was done and it emitted a low hum.
“What's it doing now?” Anduin asked.
“If anyone hears us talking, I wish them good luck on translating ancient Darnassian.” I replied and looked away from the crystal. “I’ll start from the beginning.”
Andy nodded. I sucked in one last breath, feeling the oxygen fill my lungs. I knew that once it left, one of the most dangerous secrets I ever had to keep would escape with it.
I told him. I told him everything–from the machines designed for death to the peculiar cries in the dark caverns. I recalled the fires licking hot iron rods, eager to consume more. I told him every disgusting detail that haunted my nights until I was finally finished.
“Okay…” The shake of my voice had worn off and returned to its usual scratchiness. “What’s your take on that?”
Andy fingers were steepled together and eyes wide after my tale. I feared I had broken him until he asked, “...Is eavesdropping a habit of yours?”
“That's it? That's the first question that comes to mind?” I said, leaning an arm on the table as I blew my bangs out of my face. I was relieved that he wasn't too alarmed from my recount, but I wasn't expecting this.
“Well, recalling how we met, you were spying on General Nazgrim–”
“I wasn't snooping! I was hiding for my life and falling on my ass–two of my greatest specialties.” I remarked. Many memories of my life included running, hiding, and falling–not necessarily in that order.
“I respectfully disagree–I always considered your talents to be your effortless gracefulness and enthralling humor.” Anduin replied with a heart-stopping smile. It was one of the few times that he had succeeded in flirting with me without it become a quick–or stuttering–mess. Both left me blushing with my insides askew like I had done a row of flips.
I adore him to pieces. Inside I silently reassured myself on masking our conversation. I shook my head, trying to dismiss my crimson cheeks, “My nosy profession aside–what do you think I should do?”
“Hmm,” Anduin’s expression twisted as he contemplated his thoughts, “This is grave news, Eona. I must tell my father about this. Would you join me to speak with him and inform him about Orgrimmar’s state?”
My chest tightened. I actually favored his previous reaction over this one. I wrung my hands as I found the right words, “I...I agree that Varian should know. However, I would probably be killed on the spot, and I think the Horde should be told about this first.”
I sat up straighter in my chair, “If we tell the Alliance, there’s a chance that they’ll blame the entire Horde for this–and not every member is responsible for Garrosh’s...little shop of horrors. I can't do anything to stop Garrosh myself, that would be suicide. I need a loophole…”
We sat together in silence for a minute. Anduin’s hand returned to mine like water to a beach, brushing my knuckles with his thumb in wavelike movements.
“You know of Jaina? Of Theramore–? Well, what was Theramore,” Andy said in an apologetic tone. “I grew up with her, and she was acquainted with High Chieftain Baine. If any of the Horde leaders would listen to you, he would be one of them.”
My eyes narrowed, and my gaze traveled to the balcony. I stood before the railing and peered over the heads of customers, searching for one I knew. A deeper voice and glowing armor plates confirmed my thoughts.
Dezco.
I turned to look back at Andy. “Have you spoken with Sunwalker Dezco recently?”
Anduin shrugged. “A few days ago. He came to speak with me of the light.”
On Baine’s behalf my pink ass. I returned to our table and shut down the crystal. “If you don't mind, I may speak with him.”
“What are you going to say?” Andy asked.
~*~
“Hi.”
Dezco groaned, a loud sound like thunder given his size and his mane shook as he looked over at me. I sat cross legged on a barstool nearby with an innocent look on my face.
“I assume you’ve already spoken with Prince Anduin on Baine’s behalf.” I noted, throwing the lie back at him as the pandaren bartender listened in across the counter.
“What–? Oh, I have,” Sunwalker Dezco confirmed as his gaze returned to his drink. Given the Horde’s high regard of honor, I was shocked he even told the lie. Perhaps it was just a defense mechanism. “And I assume you have done the same.”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “He speaks very highly of you. Nice pauldrons.”
The Sunwalker stiffened as I noted his glowing shoulderpads. He recovered quickly, “I’ll admit, I’m surprised that you are wearing the same thing since I saw you last.”
I glanced down at my outfit, a mesh of greens and browns. I had worn it for most of my journey across Pandaria and it had kept me alive–wearing flashy clothing in my profession was suicide. All that mattered was that I was warm (which was almost always) and could move with ease.
“I value my life, not my wardrobe.” I said.
“Not very many share your opinion.” Dezco didn't clarify whom, but I knew what he meant.
Most of my people are haughty jerks–I can't blame him for loathing me on the spot. I like to think that I’m different; maybe not as rude but definitely irritating. I can't judge myself fairly, but neither can he.
The bar was quiet given Wrathion’s constant presence and the watchful gaze of the Stormwind guards. No matter how low I willed my voice to go, I knew Dezco could hear me. I turned my body towards him and leaned on the side of the bar, “Forgive me, but you don't seem like one to judge a book by it's cover–especially when you traveled here to speak with a human priest.”
There was a noticeable change in the tauren’s chestnut eyes. “The forgiveness is mine, it seems.”
The silent aroma of the inn invaded our conversation. I knew where our exchange of words had to end up, but to get there was a mental maze. Dezco certainly did not give me any time to decode it when he spoke again, “You sought out my company, is there something you need?”
The bartender had left his post behind the bar and ventured out to the tables to refill drinks. There was no need for secrecy.
“I would like to seek council with your High Chieftain.” I admitted.
“Last we spoke, you thought I was a spy of Garrosh’s, so I gather that won't be easy.”
“No, afraid not.”
I was starting to hear how naive and hopeful I sounded. My fingers wanted to tapdance across the counter but I kept them still.
If I can't get off this continent, I'm cornered here until Garrosh finds me. I could pass on my message to Anduin and he could inform the Alliance–but what violence would they unleash upon the rest of the Horde?
I was about to cut off our failed chat when a fist slammed the bar space between us. Dezco flinched and I looked up at Wrathion.
Ever since eating the Thunder King’s Heart, he had been receiving visions (and waves of nausea) and had retired to the shadows of the inn. Now he arose from his stealthy slumber and stared down the tauren with deadshot eyes.
As Wrathion withdrew his hand from the counter, I noticed gashes in the wood from his talons. The bartender would be furious, but I doubted he would ask Wrath to pay reparations.
“We have not met,” Dezco replied, baffled at Wrath’s theatrical nature.
“It does not matter,” Wrath’s tone was as elegant and refined as satin, but a subtle ferocity was sewn in. His white turban perched atop his head, slightly bouncing with every slight move like the fabric was nodding along with it's master’s intentions.
“You will fill any request this woman gives you with class and respect.” Wrathion’s last words were more of a hiss. “If she needs to leave this island, you will help her do so in any way necessary. Have I made myself clear?”
I felt sympathy for Dezco after just connecting with him. Even if the tauren’s sitting form still towered high above Wrathion, Dezco stared down at him like the most dangerous snake in the world.
The Sunwalker rose to his hooves and bowed his large head in my direction. “My apologies. I will speak with my escort and see what we may conjure to return to Thunder Bluff.”
Dezco stomped out of the inn like a bull provoked. Wrathion slid onto the barstool next to mine and summoned the barkeep back with a simple gesture. The poor pandaren hurried over and set two full cups on the counter.
“What was that all about?” I said, thanking the frazzled bartender with his fur standing on end as I took my drink. The liquid reeked of lime, and when I finally raised it to my lips I identified it as a mojito. I would’ve told him no alcohol since he was underage, but I held my tongue.
“You were kind enough to help me with my plans, even if that meant sneaking around your royal school boy upstairs.” Wrath remarked, and claimed the other mojito as he took a sip. I couldn't help the glare that formed when he did so, but I knew better than to complain.
“Besides, we did not find what you wanted the first time. Consider this a profitable loss,” Wrath added.
“Thank you.” I truly meant it when I said it. Ever since I had met Wrathion he was sort of...apathetic at times. It was nice to see him care about other living beings–for a short time, anyway.
“Only for my sister,” Wrath knocked his mug against mine as he stood. Before he moved to leave, he bent down close to my ear.
“But I take what I want. And I will steal your delicious blond boyfriend upstairs while you’re gone and...salten him a little.”
I gawked at him as he stood upright and cleared his throat. “Enjoy your trip. I suddenly have the urge to walk the path of enlightenment.”
The bartender gave me a pitiful look and a free refill as I heard Wrathion climb the stairs behind me. “Oh Anduin! I’d like to show you how I put the ‘stud’ in Bible study!”
This family has a sick way of saying ‘I love you.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Continue the journey to the next chapter here!
Not sure where you are? Check the Caverns of Time for more chapters!
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Infernum | 7: Gluttony
The sickly sweet smell of baked bread and gravy was quick to my nose, making my stomach churn and rumble- my mind quick to forget about how unwilling I was to actually eat moments ago. The hallway ahead of us seemed to lengthen as my hunger grew, Mamrie's touch quick to find my shoulder as she almost held me back from running.
"Grace," she warned "patience. I can assure you that nothing on that table will be of any benefit to you or I."
I knit my eyebrows together, ultimately confused by the red heads statement until we reached the long dining room that she spoke of, the scent of food wafting over to me in a thick wave as I began to grow nauseous, knowing that the hunger was in my mind. Everything seemed to be of a lucid day dream lately, and this mouthwatering feast that lay ahead of us was no different.
The dining room seemed to match the heat of the bedroom upstairs, a fire unnecessarily burning off to the side, the crackle of the flames matching with the time of loud forks scraping against porcelain plates. The mahogany table seemed to stretch for miles- each square inch containing a different dish filled with steaming vegetables, meats and grains. The same faceless ghouls that I had encountered earlier on in the trip sat at either side, scarfing food into now visible mouths- black teeth gnawing through bone as grease dribbled down their chins and onto the white table cloth.
My eyes traced the table until they meant the head; I stopped quickly on the stunning woman who kept white knuckling the edge of the table, her blue gaze on the presence that gobbled up most of the food she seemingly prepared. Black soot traced her sharp jawline, her black shirt coated in odds and ends of flour and other lighter powders that I could only assume to be ash. Her gaze carried the only icy thing in hell.
"Mamrie!" She stood quickly, her chair legs scarping against the floor in an undeniably annoying screech. "I was wondering when you two would wake up, please, sit sit."
Mamrie shoved me forward quickly, our movement not phasing those feasting as Mamrie plopped down next to one of the demons, dragging me down onto the bench next to her- the one closest to the woman with the golden hair and bloodied gnash on the edge of her forehead.
"How are you?" she asked the red head next to me, Mamrie cocking her head to the side at the pleasantries "Kian informed me of your little trek. I assumed you'd be hungry by the time you reached my little circle."
"Which is?" I mumbled the question, earning a sharp elbow to my side as I quickly silenced myself under Mamrie's green glare.
"That's very thoughtful, Justine." Mamrie gave her a tight smile "But we have a long journey ahead of us, and Grace isn't very hungry I'm afraid."
"By the way her eyes lit up when she walked in here, I respectfully disagree."
"Your disagreement is disrespectful enough." Mamrie spit, it was my turn to shove my elbow into her chest, the girl letting out a small breath of air as sweat began to form on her chest.
I had never seen her so worked up before. The girl was all into life lessons, even if this wasn't exactly life for me. I could tell that she was on enough edge about me trying this food to actually intervene. By the look on Justine's face, it was out of character for the both of them to fight about something. A guide and an deity fighting it out over a few slices of pumpkin pie and some turkey- which all make my stomach rumble even more.
While the two of them fought, I listened to their words halfheartedly, my real focus on the mounds of food that was being shoveled into the demons mouths, their bellies quick to extend as they forgot about the use of forks all together and used fingers scraping into the mashed potatoes and slurring the gravy. If they had eyes- they would be begging for release.
"Grace, wouldn't you just try one roll?" I was getting a woven basket shoved into my grasp, the yeasty smell tickling my taste buds and pulling at my stomach. I glanced over at Mamrie, who was letting out an exasperated sigh as her forehead rested in the palm of her hand, her jaw clenched.
I swallowed, looking up at the hopeful Justine, her eyes looking like a grandmother who wanted you to taste a new cookie recipe. My gaze moved back down to the bread, butter dripping across the glistening surface- soaking into the cloth that it perched in like eggs in a nest.
"Hansel and Gretel." I said quickly, placing the basket down in front of me, a confused expression crossing the woman's face as she cocked her head to the side, her smile still mechanical and menacing all at once.
"Grace, story time is over." Mamrie warned quietly once more.
"No," I shook my head, "I'm afraid it's not."
"See, Mamrie, your companion is delirious from the lack of food." She turned her attention annoyingly back to me "eat something, Grace."
"Hansel and Gretel." I responded, my voice nothing more than a low growl as I shoved the basket further away. Mamrie's expression read nothing but confusion, but Justine's slowly morphed and contorted into one of pure anger.
"I said," Justine's voice met the chill of her crystal eyes, her irises slowly beginning to bleed a dark red- almost black as she hissed her last word "Eat."
A loud crunch filled the room as a sharp undeniable pain hit the tendons in my hand, scarlet quickly pooling around the sterling silver blade of the butter knife that was thrust into my hand, almost attaching my palm to the table.
I let out a small grunt, clenching my eyes shut as a dull ache passed through my palm and pulsed towards my elbow as my eyes met the rough eyes of the golden haired demon- who looked more her part now than anything.
"Or explain yourself," Mamrie mumbled, earning a rough growl from Justine as we both turned our heads her way, she looked more bored than anything. "Personally I'd love to hear your connection between some Brother's Grimm fable and a demon with a bad attitude and bags under her eyes."
I swallowed roughly, my eyes glancing at the blade that held my hand in place. I obviously wasn't going anywhere soon- my whole existence had been halted by one single kitchen utensil. My free hand gripped my wrist tightly, forming more pain to distract me from the more prominent one. Mamrie was being more of a hindrance, than a guide- but the girl had done no interference with the fighting thus far.
"The story," I growled, trying to regulate my breathing "is about gluttony,"
"Hm," Justine sat forward, sweeping the bread back my way, my eyes tracing the food as my stomach burned in an acid like way. "Go on, I haven't heard this tale in a while. Not since the original father came through here... right from the devils mouth."
I ignored her comment, focusing on my words as Mamrie kept her hand on my knee, squeezing it slightly as the coolness of her hand soaked through the fabric of my jeans. She was trying to keep me calm as I distracted the demon from her efforts.
"The man, the father," I swallowed, "he left his children for none other than self indulgence. He wanted to eat. So he left his children with bread, that could have sustained them in the first place."
Justine cocked an eyebrow, listening intently as I began to edge my fingers ever so slightly towards the source of the blade that almost pulsed in the heat.
"But the father was hungry,"
"So were the children," I snapped back at her hasty objection "the father feeding himself ultimately doomed his own kin. The children left to fend for themselves- so you could imagine their surprise when they stumble across a house made of icing and ginger."
"A well-constructed house, so I'm told. The plan full proof. The children get a meal, and the witch gets hers too. No harm, no fowl." Justine leaned back in her seat, proud of her deduction as I neared closer to the gushing wound, blood now dripping across my fingertips.
"There is no happy ending in hell, Grace" Justine sneered moving her gaze back towards the basket of steaming bread, my hand wrapping subtly around the gold handle of the blade, the heat of the surroundings made it almost sizzle against my flesh.
"You seem to have forgotten yourself, Justine." Mamrie chuckled softly, shaking her head as a look of confusion replaced the calm and confident one that Justine dawned. Her terror filled eyes glancing down at my now weapon dawning hand.
"The witch always dies at the end." I hissed, in one fluid motion ripping the blade from my flesh with an equally loud grunt as the gasp that escaped the demons lips. Pain erupted through me, but none of that mattered in the moment. I needed to time this right- all of this needed to be right in order for me to escape this.
My hand whipped carefully across the air- cutting through the air as easily as the tip of the blade slicing through the thin flesh on her neck- crimson sliding across her pale chin as her shaking fingers raised to the slowly spilling wound.
"Maybe that'll finally shut her up." Mamrie snarled as I finally let the knife fall to the ground.
"Ah," I shook my hand out "ow ow, fuck me." I pressed my other hand to the gushing one, my eyes leaving the dying deity in front of me. I had no interest watching her perish, not again. Even if they were the undead... even if I was the undead... they looked human.
"Put some ice on it." Mamrie shook her head as I cradled my wounded palm, watching as the girl dragged me along, past the line of ravenous beings that still ate their meals hungrily, despite the chef meeting her bloody end.
I didn't' want to be around when they ran out of food.
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Watching the Royal Wedding as a Black Woman Married to a White Man
https://fashion-trendin.com/watching-the-royal-wedding-as-a-black-woman-married-to-a-white-man/
Watching the Royal Wedding as a Black Woman Married to a White Man
It has only been six days since 29 million viewers around the world witnessed the royal wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. When the wedding date was announced a few months ago, I dutifully saved the date to my Google Calendar. My mom always made special occasions out of royal goings-on, and I planned to follow suit.
The night before the big event, my sister stayed over so that we could wake up the next morning at an ungodly hour to eat an English breakfast and sip mimosas in front of the TV. Even though I’d watched Harry & Meghan: A Royal Romance, the surprisingly illuminating Lifetime recreation of their love story, a few nights before the wedding, I didn’t expect to be as moved by the ceremony as I was, and I certainly didn’t expect to see myself in it at all.
Six years ago, 45 years after the legalization of interracial marriage in the United States, I was married in an Austin courthouse by a judge who spent half of the time bad-mouthing Houston even though my half of our wedding party were Houstonians. There were no horse-drawn carriages at my wedding, but I was very proud of the Chevy Tahoe I’d recently purchased. Stella McCartney did not make my wedding dress, but I picked the most pleasant-looking white dress I could find in Anthropologie a few days before. I was excited about marrying the love of my life, but I could never bring myself to get excited about my own ceremonies. I found cotillions exhausting and thought prom was overrated. And by the time my soon-to-be husband and I were ready to tie the knot, we just wanted to get it over with.
But all the similarities in the world will never outrun the difference of our races, and the world has made sure we understand this.
My partner is a white man whose Texas-sized gait and general presence always convince me he’s much taller than the 6 feet 2 inches he is. We graduated at the same time with the same degree. We were born on the same day, just a few hours apart. We share the same sarcastic sense of humor and both favor silence over small talk. But all the similarities in the world will never outrun the difference of our races, and the world has made sure we understand this.
Not long after we’d started dating, before we were old enough to rent a car, I remember asking a senior engineer at work about his experience with interracial dating. “I learned my lesson,” he said. “I don’t keep any pictures of her up at work.” He was a tall gentle giant with menacing features. His wife was black, and after too many stares and rude comments from his colleagues over the years, he’d decided displaying her picture wasn’t worth the trouble. After hearing this sad cautionary tale, I walked back to my cubicle and took note of the picture I’d chosen for my own desk: a bird I’d seen at the zoo my partner and I had visited one weekend. Before, I’d told myself that displaying this colorful bird instead of a picture of my partner was just part of my quirky personality, but now my stomach knotted as I admitted the obvious: Toucan Sam was easier to explain than a white partner.
Not long after Prince Harry and Meghan Markle started dating, the British press began printing racially charged stories about Meghan, inspiring Prince Harry to release an official statement calling for this “wave of abuse” with “racial undertones” to end. Such an honest and pointed gesture was unprecedented from the royal family. If Lifetime’s reenactment is to be believed, Prince Harry’s family was flabbergasted and Meghan felt infantilized. In my experience, this scene was a surprisingly accurate depiction of the moment two people realize that love alone won’t be enough. Suddenly, the white man accustomed to white privilege sees firsthand what it’s like to be a black woman. Their two worlds crash into each other like a high-speed, head-on collision.
I met my in-laws as the sun set on George W. Bush’s presidency. By the time Obama had been sworn in and had his beer summit, I was part of the family. They took me to all sorts of small town spots I’d never have ventured to on my own, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was always the only black person in the room. One fourth of July, we went camping out on the lake and I didn’t see one person of color the entire time. Though I had no cell phone signal, I never felt particularly unsafe or unspoken for around his family.
And then Trayvon Martin was killed.
I’d always been aware of racism and prejudice, and by the time George Zimmerman posted bail, I had been in the adult world long enough to see racism up close and personal, no longer from behind the shirttails of my parents. I was already writing about the endless microaggressions I experienced at work, at the mall or anywhere outside my home, but the killing of Trayvon Martin awakened me to a new depth of horror in surviving in America as a black person.
I couldn’t understand how they could accept me into their family with open arms but refuse to acknowledge the injustice black Americans experience every day.
As more black people turned up dead at the hands of law enforcement, I wrote more and more about my frustrations and dizzying disbelief that this is the racist society I’m expected to live in. My partner’s family respectfully but sternly disagreed with me, dissenting in comments and direct messages. I couldn’t understand how they could accept me into their family with open arms but refuse to acknowledge the injustice black Americans experience every day. Since my partner had an up-close understanding of my black experience, he tried to translate it in a way that his family might understand, but to no avail. The more outspoken I became, the more I felt like an adversary in the eyes of my partner’s family. And once again, my partner, a child of divorce, was stuck in the middle.
I don’t think anyone was expecting the kind of royal wedding we witnessed Saturday. There was Reverend Michael Curry, the first black bishop presiding over the Episcopal church. There was Sheku Kanneh-Mason, the black teenage cellist phenom who is part of an entire family of accomplished black classical musicians. Not to mention the black gospel choir and famous black entertainers in attendance, including Serena Williams and Oprah Winfrey. My sister and I momentarily forgot about our mimosas. I watched Meghan Markle watch her own ceremony. I recognized that specific determination in her eyes to transform the head-on collision of opposing worlds into a beautiful dance.
In 2015, just before our fourth wedding anniversary, my partner and I separated. I stayed in New York, where we’d moved together less than a year before, and he headed back to Texas. As any couple dealing with separation or divorce can attest, there’s rarely a single reason for two people to change their minds about “forever.” But if our separation is a pie, I’d say the race slice is a pretty hefty one. When word of our separation began to spread, one of my family members offered this catch-all advice: “Next time, find you a brotha instead.”
After watching the royal wedding unfold on TV and then the reactions unfold online, I found that my family member’s sentiment is in great company on Black Twitter. Why are we making a big deal about a sista marrying a colonizer? This same commentary was deployed when Serena Williams made her relationship with Alexis Ohanian public, or when Michelle Williams of Destiny’s Child announced her relationship with Chad Johnson. Questioning interracial dating choices runs parallel to another Black Twitter debate that erupted after Childish Gambino released “This Is America.” The interracial marriage skeptics of Black Twitter posited: Can we support a brotha who claims to be woke but is married to a white woman? This happened after Jordan Peele accepted his Oscar for Get Out. It was as if Black Twitter had to do the mental math on whether it could truly celebrate a black person if he or she married a non-black person.
It’s easy to think of interracial relationships as proof that we’re making progress. It’s easy to assume that because interracial unions account for over 15 percent of all new marriages, we’re stamping out racism one interracial marriage at a time. Or as Pastor Curry might say, we like to believe that there’s power in love.
Interracial marriage isn’t a panacea, and the fight against racism is far from over.
Regardless of the state of my own interracial marriage, I do believe there’s power in love. but you must be able to fight for it. Interracial marriage isn’t a panacea, and the fight against racism is far from over. I was reminded of this when I was scrolling through GoFugYourself’s thoroughly entertaining and informative coverage of the royal wedding and landed upon a still of the two sharing a kiss in their horse-drawn carriage. There Meghan Markle was, the child of an interracial union just like mine. For a moment, I was overjoyed. And then I clicked over to Twitter to find that a German bakery was forced to apologize for sharing a photo featuring Meghan Markle as a chocolate-covered marshmallow.
There’s a poignant scene in Harry & Meghan: A Royal Romance when Queen Elizabeth walks Meghan Markle over to the royal portraits and shows her Queen Sophie Charlotte, arguably the most well-known biracial royal family member. In the movie, Queen Elizabeth points out that artists have purposefully whitened her features over the years and that the portrait in the palace is the only one that shows her black features. At that moment, for the first time in my life, I cried (a little!) while watching a Lifetime movie. It was painful to be reminded of how long this struggle between love, race and identity has endured. It was exhausting, too, to think that long before the creation of Adobe Creative Suite, artists were photoshopping any features associated with blackness. But I also cried tears of joy, because Queen Elizabeth’s acceptance in that moment — fictionalized or not — reminded me of the acceptance my partner and I experienced with our own grandmothers. Oftentimes, we errantly assume that older adults cling to the racist and prejudice beliefs of their times, and yet our grandmothers — two women who lived on opposite sides of “For Colored Only” signs — were some of the biggest supporters of our interracial relationship from the very beginning. Perhaps they were already firm believers in the power in love.
It’s been six days since Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex, were officially married. And this week, as reports trickle in of them taking their first newlywed steps into the public light, all aglow, so do reports of white people continuing to call the cops on black people for simply existing. The world celebrating Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s love may have signaled a change in the wind, but to truly change this world’s racist tide, we’re going to need a lot more than a royal wedding.
Jennifer Epperson is a proud Texan living in New York. She has written for Lenny Letter, Estia Collective, and Blavity and writes sketch comedy for Magnet Theater. You can follow her on Twitter @comeonjennfoo.
Feature photo by Ben STANSALL – WPA Pool/Getty Images.
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Hyperallergic: Elizabeth Murray, Force of Nature
Elizabeth Murray, “Dust Tracks” (1993), oil on canvas on painted wood, 68 x 46 x 10 inches (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic)
Life-affirming: a descriptor redolent of Panglossian naiveté that I’d ordinarily avoid at all costs. But it’s the one that won’t go away as I attempt to form my thoughts about Elizabeth Murray’s show of more than 50 drawings and a single painting at CANADA on the Lower East Side.
Maybe it’s foremost in my mind because, in the context of the exhibition, “life-affirming” is double-edged. Murray’s images are so alive they leap off the wall — dozens of drawings quivering with kick-ass impulsiveness — but they can’t dispel the cloud of her untimely death in 2007, taken by lung cancer a month shy of her 67th birthday.
And so bittersweet might be the better term, but it falls short. “Dust Tracks” (1993), the sole painting in the show, reaches out and grabs you in a lurching embrace; a raucous concoction of swells, swirls, and cutaway voids, it’s more sculpture than painting, a human-scaled riposte to Frank Stella’s steamrolling Moby-Dicks (1986-88) from the decade before.
There is nothing bitter or sweet about this antsy, unnamable biomorph; refusing to stay put in its own painterly space, it reels like a drunk into ours — willfully rude and buoyantly playful, a jolt of unalloyed energy.
And the dozens of drawings that make up the rest of the show are no less fractious, in their content or in their making. Cups shatter, clouds gather, and humanoid limbs stretch like elastic bands. Murray can squeeze ink out of a nib like juice from a lemon, dilating the paper with quick jabs of carbon and water, the building blocks of life, until it bulges and breathes.
Like her Chicago Imagist cohort (Gladys Nilsson, Jim Nutt, Roger Brown, Barbara Rossi, Karl Wirsum, and Ed Paschke), Murray never sanctified her surface with flatness or opticality, but instead adulterated it into a theater of saucy grotesques — a space she would eventually blow up and reconfigure into a character in itself, a golem molded from the painting’s ground. Her shaped canvases gallop across the wall, but their elaborate stretchers clue us in to the extensive planning and absolute precision that their construction demanded.
In contrast, her work on paper is utterly free-form, a launchpad for a gamut of choices that rush from points A to Z with head-snapping speed. Even a relatively formal piece like “For ‘Dream of Life’” (1988) — a large pastel composed primarily of a yellow mass evoking a bifurcated tuba framed by an irregular red rectangle, a riven spirit on a flying carpet — feels immediately more improvisational than “Dust Tracks” on the facing wall, the only other occupant of the gallery’s front room.
Elizabeth Murray, “For ‘Dream of Life’” (1988), pastel on paper, 28.25 x 50.375 inches
Paper shapes are cut out and laid atop one another, with smaller pieces looping around the upper half like dancing bones. The cutouts are simultaneously images and objects: the composition is as much arranged and pasted as it is drawn and colored. Although “For ‘Dream of Life’” remains relatively flat in its shadowbox frame, its scale and presence makes it a match for “Dust Tracks,” ping-ponging your eye between their opposing walls.
The second, larger room is filled with smaller but no less vital drawings and sketches, many with collage elements. There are also two vitrines extending like shelves from the walls on either side of the entranceway, which hold an array of unframed sheets, some torn from notebooks and spattered with paint and coffee stains. Many of them are obviously working drawings, jottings for larger projects, but the fluidity of ideas coursing throughout the show, which was curated by Carroll Dunham and Dan Nadel with an eye toward the rhythms unspooling from multiple motifs, materials, and states of finish, in essence turns everything on display into a working drawing of one kind or another. In fact, in her New York Times review of this exhibition, Roberta Smith quotes Murray as stating, “Everything comes from drawing out my ideas.”
Elizabeth Murray, Drawing from “Things Fall Apart” (1995), watercolor and ink on paper, 13.5 x 10 inches
Nothing feels settled; everything is in flux. This is especially true of “Things Fall Apart” (1995), a set of three drawings in crayon, watercolor, and ink depicting the fragments of blasted cup. The resulting shards, however, mysteriously retain the cup’s original shape, as if suspended in a force field. Each drawing presents a slightly different kind of vessel: one has a pedestal base; another seems to include an equally fragmented saucer; while the third is more pitcher than cup. The shards are practically sculpted out of the black hatch marks that fill the negative space, ice floes floating on a black sea. While these three drawings don’t reveal themselves as self-evident variations or progressions (as we find in the work of Henri Matisse or Pablo Picasso, moving the same subject from figuration to abstraction), there is a sense of oneness about them, that Murray had an idea, played it out, and moved on.
Perhaps it’s the speed and restlessness of these works, compounded by a profound infatuation with the act of drawing, that make them so affecting. They are a testament to Murray as a force of nature, never hesitating, never stopping, always on the go. And so it was a little puzzling to read Roberta Smith’s lament that Murray, by dying at 66, “was a great painter who didn’t have a great late phase.”
“Late phase” is not easy to define in terms of age, given that Rembrandt, who had one of the greatest late phases in the history of Western art, died when he was 63. Maybe Smith feels that Murray’s art, unlike Rembrandt’s or Goya’s or Rothko’s, never attained a sense of the tragic, but I would respectfully disagree.
Elizabeth Murray, “Untitled” (1990), gouache and ink on paper with collage, 10.5 x 8.25 inches
Among the drawings in this show, whose dates range from 1985 to 2004, we find darkly rendered, twisting, fragmented forms in two untitled works, one in gouache and ink with collage, and the other in India ink and gouache, from 1990; the anarchy and disintegration of the brightly colored “Swoop” (2004), in felt-tipped pen; and the somberly rendered, absurdly distorted figure comprising “Whozat #2 (Drawing for Whazzat #1 Print)” (1995), in pastel and charcoal on shaped paper.
There are also two drawings in an array of blacks and grays of a figure in a bed, both from 1994: “Bed,” in India ink, gouache, colored pencil, and printed paper on spiral-edge paper; and ”Bed + Note,” in India ink, silkscreen ink, gouache, and collage. In both drawings, the ant-like figure, who appears to be naked except for a pair of Guston-y shoes, is attempting some kind of engagement with the viewer. In “Bed,” he raises an enormous, cartoonish hand in greeting, and in “Bed + Note,” a speech balloon emerges from his mouth, but instead of words, it contains a few musical notes unmoored from a staff, as if he were whistling a feeble tune at the edge of his demise.
Elizabeth Murray, “Bed + Note” (1994), India ink, silkscreen ink, and gouache on paper with collage, 10.5 x 9 inches
The tragic in Murray is deeply felt but never pure, a Beckettian tragicomedy that hits you when you aren’t looking. The beauty of Murray’s art is that it is never one thing or another. It can be giddy and ponderous, sweet and scathing, very often in the same picture. The installation recognizes Murray’s heterogeneity by decidedly de-emphasizing the serialism in her work. Her oft-repeated cups are not grouped together, nor are the several “Whozat” drawings. The exhibition skips along, from one frame of mind to another, yet the force of Murray’s personality persuades us to accept it as a whole. The tragic is there, and then it’s gone, and then it’s back again, a 24-hour news cycle of bleakness and burlesque, and a mottled affirmation of life as we now know it.
Elizabeth Murray curated by Carroll Dunham and Dan Nadel continues at CANADA (333 Broome Street, Lower East Side, Manhattan) through January 29. (Please note: CANADA will be closed on Friday, January 20.)
The post Elizabeth Murray, Force of Nature appeared first on Hyperallergic.
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