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Out of Kansas: Revisiting The Wizard of Oz by Salman Rushdie

New York Magazine - May 4, 1992

Photograph from Everett

I wrote my first story in Bombay at the age of ten; its title was “Over the Rainbow.” It amounted to a dozen or so pages, dutifully typed up by my father’s secretary on flimsy paper, and eventually it was lost somewhere on my family’s mazy journeyings between India, England, and Pakistan. Shortly before my father’s death, in 1987, he claimed to have found a copy moldering in an old file, but, despite my pleadings, he never produced it, and nobody else ever laid eyes on the thing. I’ve often wondered about this incident. Maybe he didn’t really find the story, in which case he had succumbed to the lure of fantasy, and this was the last of the many fairy tales he told me; or else he did find it, and hugged it to himself as a talisman and a reminder of simpler times, thinking of it as his treasure, not mine—his pot of nostalgic parental gold.

I don’t remember much about the story. It was about a ten-year-old Bombay boy who one day happens upon a rainbow’s beginning, a place as elusive as any pot-of-gold end zone, and as rich in promises. The rainbow is broad, as wide as the sidewalk, and is constructed like a grand staircase. The boy, naturally, begins to climb. I have forgotten almost everything about his adventures, except for an encounter with a talking pianola, whose personality is an improbable hybrid of Judy Garland, Elvis Presley, and the “playback singers” of Hindi movies, many of which made “The Wizard of Oz” look like kitchen-sink realism. My bad memory—what my mother would call a “forgettery”—is probably just as well. I remember what matters. I remember that “The Wizard of Oz”—the film, not the book, which I didn’t read as a child—was my very first literary influence. More than that: I remember that when the possibility of my going to school in England was mentioned it felt as exciting as any voyage beyond the rainbow. It may be hard to believe, but England seemed as wonderful a prospect as Oz.

The Wizard, however, was right there in Bombay. My father, Anis Ahmed Rushdie, was a magical parent of young children, but he was prone to explosions, thunderous rages, bolts of emotional lightning, puffs of dragon smoke, and other menaces of the type also practiced by Oz, the Great and Powerful, the first Wizard De-luxe. And when the curtain fell away and his growing offspring discovered, like Dorothy, the truth about adult humbug, it was easy for me to think, as she did, that my Wizard must be a very bad man indeed. It took me half a lifetime to work out that the Great Oz’s apologia pro vita sua fitted my father equally well—that he, too, was a good man but a very bad Wizard.

I have begun with these personal reminiscences because “The Wizard of Oz” is a film whose driving force is the inadequacy of adults, even of good adults; a film that shows us how the weakness of grownups forces children to take control of their own destinies, and so, ironically, grow up themselves. The journey from Kansas to Oz is a rite of passage from a world in which Dorothy’s parent substitutes, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry, are powerless to help her save her dog, Toto, from the marauding Miss Gulch into a world where the people are her own size and she is never, ever treated as a child but as a heroine. She gains this status by accident, it’s true, having played no part in her house’s decision to squash the Wicked Witch of the East; but, by her adventure’s end, she has certainly grown to fill those shoes—or, rather, those ruby slippers. “Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness,” laments the Wicked Witch of the West as she melts—an adult becoming smaller than, and giving way to, a child. As the Wicked Witch of the West “grows down,” so Dorothy is seen to have grown up. This, in my view, is a much more satisfactory reason for her newfound power over the ruby slippers than the sentimental reasons offered by the ineffably loopy Good Witch Glinda, and then by Dorothy herself, in a cloying ending that seems to me fundamentally untrue to the film’s anarchic spirit.

The weakness of Auntie Em and Uncle Henry in the face of Miss Gulch’s desire to annihilate Toto leads Dorothy to think, childishly, of running away from home—of escape. And that’s why, when the tornado hits, she isn’t with the others in the storm shelter and, as a result, is whirled away to an escape beyond her wildest dreams. Later, however, when she is confronted by the weakness of the Wizard of Oz, she doesn’t run away but goes into battle—first against the Wicked Witch and then against the Wizard himself. The Wizard’s ineffectuality is one of the film’s many symmetries, rhyming with the feebleness of Dorothy’s folks; but the different way Dorothy reacts is the point.

The ten-year-old who watched “The Wizard of Oz” at Bombay’s Metro Cinema knew very little about foreign parts, and even less about growing up. He did, however, know a great deal more about the cinema of the fantastic than any Western child of the same age. In the West, the film was an oddball, an attempt to make a sort of live-action version of a Disney cartoon feature despite the industry’s received wisdom that fantasy movies usually flopped. (Indeed, the movie never really made money until it became a television standard, years after its original theatrical release; it should be said in mitigation, though, that coming out two weeks before the start of the Second World War can’t have helped its chances.) In India, however, it fitted into what was then, and remains today, one of the mainstreams of production in the place that Indians, conflating Bombay and Tinseltown, affectionately call Bollywood.

It’s easy to satirize the Hindi movies. In James Ivory’s film “Bombay Talkie,” a novelist (the touching Jennifer Kendal, who died in 1984) visits a studio soundstage and watches an amazing dance number featuring scantily clad nautch girls prancing on the keys of a giant typewriter. The director explains that the keys of the typewriter represent “the Keys of Life,” and we are all dancing out “the story of our Fate upon that great machine.” “It’s very symbolic,” Kendal suggests. The director, simpering, replies, “Thank you.” Typewriters of Life, sex goddesses in wet saris (the Indian equivalent of wet T-shirts), gods descending from the heavens to meddle in human affairs, superheroes, demonic villains, and so on, have always been the staple diet of the Indian filmgoer. Blond Glinda arriving at Munchkinland in her magic bubble might cause Dorothy to comment on the high speed and oddity of the local transport operating in Oz, but to an Indian audience Glinda was arriving exactly as a god should arrive: ex machina, out of her own machine. The Wicked Witch of the West’s orange smoke puffs were equally appropriate to her super-bad status.

It is clear, however, that despite all the similarities, there were important differences between the Bombay cinema and a film like “The Wizard of Oz.” Good fairies and bad witches might superficially resemble the deities and demons of the Hindu pantheon, but in reality one of the most striking aspects of the world view of “The Wizard of Oz” is its joyful and almost total secularism. Religion is mentioned only once in the film: Auntie Em, spluttering with anger at gruesome Miss Gulch, declares that she’s waited years to tell her what she thinks of her, “and now, well, being a Christian woman, I can’t say it.” Apart from this moment in which Christian charity prevents some good old-fashioned plain speaking, the film is breezily godless. There’s not a trace of religion in Oz itself—bad witches are feared and good ones liked, but none are sanctified—and, while the Wizard of Oz is thought to be something very close to all-powerful, nobody thinks to worship him. This absence of higher values greatly increases the film’s charm, and is an important aspect of its success in creating a world in which nothing is deemed more important than the loves, cares, and needs of human beings (and, of course, tin beings, straw beings, lions, and dogs).

The other major difference is harder to define, because it is finally a matter of quality. Most Hindi movies were then and are now what can only be called trashy. The pleasure to be had from such films (and some of them are extremely enjoyable) is something like the fun of eating junk food. The classic Bombay talkie uses a script of appalling corniness, looks by turns tawdry and vulgar, or else both at once, and relies on the mass appeal of its stars and its musical numbers to provide a little zing. “The Wizard of Oz” has stars and musical numbers, but it is also very definitely a Good Film. It takes the fantasy of Bombay and adds high production values and something more—something not often found in any cinema. Call it imaginative truth. Call it (reach for your revolvers now) art.

But if “The Wizard of Oz” is a work of art it’s extremely difficult to say who the artist was. The birth of Oz itself has already passed into legend: the author, L. Frank Baum, named his magic world after the letters “O-Z” on the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. His original book, “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” published in 1900, contains many of the ingredients of the magic potion: just about all the major characters and events are there, and so are the most important locations—the Yellow Brick Road, the Deadly Poppy Field, the Emerald City. But the filming of “The Wizard of Oz” is a rare instance of a film improving on a good book. One of the changes is the expansion of the Kansas section, which in the novel takes up precisely two pages at the beginning, before the tornado arrives, and just nine lines at the end; and another is a certain simplification of the story line in the Oz section: all subplots were jettisoned, such as the visits to the Fighting Trees, the Dainty China Country, and the Country of the Quadlings, which come into the novel just after the dramatic high point of the Witch’s destruction and fritter away the book’s narrative drive. And there are two even more important alterations. Frank Baum’s Emerald City was green only because everyone in it had to wear emerald-tinted glasses, but in the movie it really is a futuristic chlorophyll green—except, that is, for the Horse of a Different Color You’ve Heard Tell About. The Horse of a Different Color changes color in each successive shot—a change that was brought about by covering six different horses with a variety of shades of powdered Jell-O. (For this and other anecdotes of the film’s production I’m indebted to Aljean Harmetz’s definitive book “The Making of The Wizard of Oz.”) Last, and most important of all, are the ruby slippers. Frank Baum did not invent the ruby slippers; he had silver shoes instead. Noel Langley, the first of the film’s three credited writers, originally followed Baum’s idea. But in his fourth script, the script of May 14, 1938, known as the DO NOT MAKE CHANGES script, the clunky metallic and non-mythic silver footwear has been jettisoned, and the immortal jewel shoes are introduced. (In Shot 114, “the ruby shoes appear on Dorothy’s feet, glittering and sparkling in the sun.”)

Other writers contributed important details to the finished screenplay. Florence Ryerson and Edgar Allan Woolf were probably responsible for “There’s no place like home,” which, to me, is the least convincing idea in the film. (It’s one thing for Dorothy to want to get home, quite another that she can do so only by eulogizing the ideal state that Kansas so obviously is not.) But there’s some dispute about this, too; a studio memo implies that it could have been the assistant producer, Arthur Freed, who first came up with the cutesy slogan. And, after much quarrelling between Langley and the Ryerson-Woolf team, it was the film’s lyricist, Yip Harburg, who pulled together the final script: he added the crucial scene in which the Wizard, unable to give the companions what they demand, hands out emblems instead, and, to our “satiric and cynical” (the adjectives are Harburg’s own) satisfaction, they do the job. The name of the rose turns out to be the rose, after all.

Who, then, is the auteur of “The Wizard of Oz”? No single writer can claim that honor, not even the author of the original book. Mervyn LeRoy and Arthur Freed, the producers, both have their champions. At least four directors worked on the picture, most notably Victor Fleming, who left before shooting ended, however, so that he could make “Gone with the Wind” which, ironically, was the movie that dominated the Academy Awards in 1940, while “The Wizard of Oz” won just three: Best Song (“Over the Rainbow”), Best Original Score, and a Special Award for Judy Garland. The truth is that this great movie, in which the quarrels, firings, and near-bungles of all concerned produced what seems like pure, effortless, and somehow inevitable felicity, is as near as you can get to that will-o’-the-wisp of modern critical theory: the authorless text.

The Kansas described by Frank Baum is a depressing place. Everything in it is gray as far as the eye can see: the prairie is gray, and so is the house in which Dorothy lives. As for Auntie Em, “The sun and wind . . . had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now.” And “Uncle Henry never laughed. . . . He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots.” The sky? It was “even grayer than usual.” Toto, fortunately, was spared grayness. He “saved [Dorothy] from growing as gray as her other surroundings.” He was not exactly colorful, though his eyes did twinkle and his hair was silky. Toto was black.

Out of this grayness—the gathering, cumulative grayness of that bleak world—calamity comes. The tornado is the grayness gathered together and whirled about and unleashed, so to speak, against itself. And to all this the film is astonishingly faithful, shooting the Kansas scenes in what we call black-and-white but what is in reality a multiplicity of shades of gray, and darkening its images until the whirlwind sucks them up and rips them to pieces.

There is, however, another way of understanding the tornado. Dorothy has a surname: Gale. And in many ways Dorothy is the gale blowing through this little corner of nowhere, demanding justice for her little dog while the adults give in meekly to the powerful Miss Gulch; Dorothy, who is prepared to break the gray inevitability of her life by running away, and who, because she is so tenderhearted, runs back when Professor Marvel tells her Auntie Em is distraught that she has fled. Dorothy is the life force of Kansas, just as Miss Gulch is the force of death; and perhaps it is Dorothy’s feelings, or the cyclone of feelings unleashed between Dorothy and Miss Gulch, that are made actual in the great dark snake of cloud that wriggles across the prairie, eating the world.

The Kansas of the film is a little less unremittingly bleak than the Kansas of the book, if only because of the introduction of the three farmhands and of Professor Marvel—four characters who will find their “rhymes,” or counterparts, in the Three Companions of Oz and the Wizard himself. Then again, the film’s Kansas is also more terrifying than the book’s, because it adds a presence of real evil: the angular Miss Gulch, with a profile that could carve a joint, riding stiffly on her bicycle with a hat on her head like a plum pudding, or a bomb, and claiming the protection of the Law for her crusade against Toto. Thanks to Miss Gulch, the movie’s Kansas is informed not only by the sadness of dirt-poverty but also by the badness of would-be dog murderers.

And this is the home that “there’s no place like”? This is the lost Eden that we are asked to prefer (as Dorothy does) to Oz?

I remember, or I imagine I remember, that when I first saw the film Dorothy’s place struck me as a dump. Of course, if I’d been whisked off to Oz, I reasoned, I’d naturally want to get home again, because I had plenty to come home for. But Dorothy? Maybe we should invite her over to stay; anywhere looks better than that.

I thought one other thought, which gave me a sneaking regard for the Wicked Witch: I couldn’t stand Toto! I still can’t. As Gollum said of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins in another great fantasy, “Baggins: we hates it to pieces.” Toto: that little yapping hairpiece of a creature, that meddlesome rug! Frank Baum, excellent fellow, gave a distinctly minor role to the dog: it kept Dorothy happy, and when she wasn’t it had a tendency to “whine dismally”—not an endearing trait. The dog’s only really important contribution to Baum’s story came when it accidentally knocked over the screen behind which the Wizard stood concealed. The film Toto rather more deliberately pulls aside a curtain to reveal the Great Humbug, and, in spite of everything, I found this change an irritating piece of mischief-making. I was not surprised to learn that the canine actor playing Toto was possessed of a star’s temperament, and even, at one point in the shooting, brought things to a standstill by staging a nervous breakdown. That Toto should be the film’s one true object of love has always rankled.

The film begins. We are in the monochrome, “real” world of Kansas. A girl and her dog run down a country lane. “She isn’t coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you? She tried to, didn’t she?” A real girl, a real dog, and the beginning, with the very first line of dialogue, of real drama. Kansas, however, is not real—no more real than Oz. Kansas is a pastel. Dorothy and Toto have been running down a short stretch of “road” in the M-G-M studios, and this shot has been matted into a picture of emptiness. “Real” emptiness would probably not be empty enough. This Kansas is as close as makes no difference to the universal gray of Frank Baum’s story, the void broken only by a couple of fences and the vertical lines of telegraph poles. If Oz is nowhere, then the studio setting of the Kansas scenes suggests that so is Kansas. This is necessary. A realistic depiction of the extreme poverty of Dorothy Gale’s circumstances would have created a burden, a heaviness, that would have rendered impossible the imaginative leap into Storyland, the soaring flight into Oz. The Grimms’ fairy tales, it’s true, were often brutally realistic. In “The Fisherman and His Wife,” the eponymous couple live, until they meet the magic flounder, in what is tersely described as “a pisspot.” But in many children’s versions of Grimm the pisspot is bowdlerized into a “hovel” or some even gentler word. Hollywood’s vision has always been of this soft-focus variety. Dorothy looks extremely well fed, and she is not really but unreally poor.

She arrives at the farmyard, and here (freezing the frame) we see the beginning of what will be a recurring visual motif. In the scene we have frozen, Dorothy and Toto are in the background, heading for a gate. To the left of the screen is a tree trunk, a vertical line echoing the telegraph poles of the previous scene. Hanging from an approximately horizontal branch are a triangle (for calling farmhands to dinner) and a circle (actually a rubber tire). In midshot are further geometric elements: the parallel lines of the wooden fence, the bisecting diagonal wooden bar at the gate. Later, when we see the house, the theme of simple geometry is present again: everything is right angles and triangles. The world of Kansas, that great void, is defined as “home” by the use of simple, uncomplicated shapes—none of your citified complexity here. Throughout “The Wizard of Oz,” home and safety are represented by such geometrical simplicity, whereas danger and evil are invariably twisty, irregular, and misshapen. The tornado is just such an untrustworthy, sinuous, shifting shape. Random, unfixed, it wrecks the plain shapes of that no-frills life.

Curiously, the Kansas sequence invokes not only geometry but arithmetic, too, for when Dorothy, like the chaotic force she is, bursts in upon Auntie Em and Uncle Henry with her fears about Toto, what are they doing? Why do they shoo her away? “We’re trying to count,” they admonish her as they take a census of chicks—their metaphorical chickens, their small hopes of income—which the tornado will shortly blow away. So, with simple shapes and numbers, Dorothy’s family erects its defenses against the immense and maddening emptiness; and these defenses are useless, of course.

Leaping ahead to Oz, it becomes obvious that this opposition between the geometric and the twisty is no accident. Look at the beginning of the Yellow Brick Road: it is a perfect spiral. Look at Glinda’s carriage, that perfect, luminous sphere. Look at the regimented routines of the Munchkins as they greet Dorothy and thank her for the death of the Wicked Witch of the East. Move on to the Emerald City: see it in the distance, its straight lines soaring into the sky! And now, by contrast, observe the Wicked Witch of the West: her crouching figure, her misshapen hat. How does she arrive and depart? In a puff of shapeless smoke. “Only bad witches are ugly,” Glinda tells Dorothy, a remark of high Political Incorrectness which emphasizes the film’s animosity toward whatever is tangled, claw-crooked, and weird. Woods are invariably frightening—the gnarled branches of trees are capable of coming to menacing life—and the one moment when the Yellow Brick Road itself bewilders Dorothy is the moment when it ceases to be geometric (first spiral, then rectilinear), and splits and forks every which way.

Back in Kansas, Auntie Em is delivering the scolding that is the prelude to one of the cinema’s immortal moments.

“You always get yourself into a fret over nothing. . . . Find yourself a place where you won’t get into any trouble!”

“Some place where there isn’t any trouble. Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto? There must be.”

Anybody who has swallowed the scriptwriters’ notion that this is a film about the superiority of “home” over “away, that the “moral” of “The Wizard of Oz” is as sentimental as an embroidered sampler—“East, West, Home’s Best”—would do well to listen to the yearning in Judy Garland’s voice as her face tilts up toward the skies. What she expresses here, what she embodies with the purity of an archetype, is the human dream of leaving—a dream at least as powerful as its countervailing dream of roots. At the heart of “The Wizard of Oz” is a great tension between these two dreams; but, as the music swells and that big, clean voice flies into the anguished longings of the song, can anyone doubt which message is the stronger? In its most potent emotional moment, this is inarguably a film about the joys of going away, of leaving the grayness and entering the color, of making a new life in the “place where you won’t get into any trouble.” “Over the Rainbow” is, or ought to be, the anthem of all the world’s migrants, all those who go in search of the place where “the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.” It is a celebration of Escape, a grand paean to the Uprooted Self, a hymn—the hymn—to Elsewhere.

One of the leading actors in the cast complained that “there was no acting” in the movie, and in the usual sense this was correct. But Garland singing “Over the Rainbow” did something extraordinary: in that moment she gave the film its heart, and the force of her rendition is strong and sweet and deep enough to carry us through all the tomfoolery that follows, even to bestow upon it a touching quality, a vulnerable charm, that is matched only by Bert Lahr’s equally extraordinary creation of the role of the Cowardly Lion.

What is left to say about Garland’s Dorothy? The conventional wisdom is that the performance gains in ironic force because its innocence contrasts so starkly with what we know of the actress’s difficult later life. I’m not sure this is right. It seems to me that Garland’s performance succeeds on its own terms, and on the film’s. She is required to pull off what sounds like an impossible trick. On the one hand, she is to be the film’s tabula rasa, the blank slate upon which the action of the story gradually writes itself—or, because it is a movie, the screen upon which the action plays. Armed only with a wide-eyed look, she must be the object of the film as much as its subject, must allow herself to be the empty vessel that the movie slowly fills. And yet, at the same time, she must (with a little help from the Cowardly Lion) carry the entire emotional weight, the whole cyclonic force, of the film. That she achieves both is due not only to the mature depth of her singing voice but also to the odd stockiness, the gaucheness, that endears her to us precisely because it is half unbeautiful, jolie-laide, instead of the posturing adorableness a Shirley Temple would have brought to the role—and Temple was seriously considered for the part. The scrubbed, ever so slightly lumpy unsexiness of Garland’s playing is what makes the movie work. One can imagine the disastrous flirtatiousness young Shirley would have employed, and be grateful that Twentieth Century Fox refused to loan her to M-G-M.

The tornado, swooping down on Dorothy’s home, creates the second genuinely mythic image of “The Wizard of Oz”: the archetypal myth, one might say, of moving house. In this, the transitional sequence of the movie, when the unreal reality of Kansas gives way to the realistic surreality of the world of wizardry, there is, as befits a threshold moment, much business involving windows and doors. First, the farmhands open up the doors of the storm shelter, and Uncle Henry, heroic as ever, persuades Auntie Em that they can’t afford to wait for Dorothy. Second, Dorothy, returning with Toto from her attempt at running away, opens the screen door of the main house, which is instantly ripped from its hinges and blown away. Third, we see the others closing the doors of the storm shelter. Fourth, Dorothy, inside the house, opens a door in her frantic search for Auntie Em. Fifth, Dorothy goes to the storm shelter, but its doors are already battened down. Sixth, Dorothy retreats back inside the main house, her cry for Auntie Em weak and fearful; whereupon a window, echoing the screen door, blows off its hinges and knocks her cold. She falls upon the bed, and from now on magic reigns. We have passed through the film’s most important gateway.

But this device—the knocking out of Dorothy—is the most radical and the worst change wrought in Frank Baum’s original conception. For in the book there is no question that Oz is real—that it is a place of the same order, though not of the same type, as Kansas. The film, like the TV soap opera “Dallas,” introduces an element of bad faith when it permits the possibility that everything that follows is a dream. This type of bad faith cost “Dallas” its audience and eventually killed it off. That “The Wizard of Oz” avoided the soap opera’s fate is a testament to the general integrity of the film, which enabled it to transcend this hoary, creaking cliché.

While the house flies through the air, looking like the tiny toy it is, Dorothy “awakes.” What she sees through the window is a sort of movie—the window acting as a cinema screen, a frame within the frame—which prepares her for the new sort of movie she is about to step into. The special-effects shots, sophisticated for their time, include a lady sitting knitting in her rocking chair as the tornado whirls her by, a cow placidly standing in the eye of the storm, two men rowing a boat through the twisting air, and, most important, the figure of Miss Gulch on her bicycle, which is transformed, as we watch it, into the figure of the Wicked Witch of the West on her broomstick, her cape flying behind her, and her huge, cackling laugh rising above the storm.

The house lands; Dorothy emerges from her bedroom with Toto in her arms. We have reached the moment of color. But the first color shot, in which Dorothy walks away from the camera toward the front door of the house, is deliberately dull, an attempt to match the preceding monochrome. Then, once the door is open, color floods the screen. In these color-glutted days, it’s hard for us to imagine ourselves back in a time when color was still relatively rare in the movies. Thinking back once again to my Bombay childhood, in the nineteen-fifties—a time when Hindi movies were all in black-and-white—I can recall the excitement of the advent of color in them. In an epic about the Grand Mughal, the Emperor Akbar, entitled “Mughal-e-Azam,” there was only one reel of color photography, featuring a dance at court by the fabled Anarkali. Yet this reel alone guaranteed the film’s success, drawing crowds by the million.

The makers of “The Wizard of Oz” clearly decided that they were going to make their color as colorful as possible, much as Michelangelo Antonioni did, years later, in his first color feature, “Red Desert.” In the Antonioni film, color is used to create heightened and often surrealistic effects. “The Wizard of Oz” likewise goes for bold, Expressionist splashes—the yellow of the Brick Road, the red of the Poppy Field, the green of the Emerald City and of the Witch’s skin. So striking were the film’s color effects that soon after seeing the film as a child I began to dream of green-skinned witches; and years afterward I gave these dreams to the narrator of my novel “Midnight’s Children,” having completely forgotten their source. “No colours except green and black the walls are green the sky is black . . . the stars are green the Widow is green but her hair is black as black”: so began the stream-of-consciousness dream sequence, in which the nightmare of Indira Gandhi is fused with the equally nightmarish figure of Margaret Hamilton—a coming together of the Wicked Witches of the East and of the West.

Dorothy, stepping into color, framed by exotic foliage, with a cluster of dwarfy cottages behind her, and looking like a blue-smocked Snow White, no princess but a good, demotic American gal, is clearly struck by the absence of her familiar homey gray. “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” she says, and that camp classic of a line has detached itself from the movie to become a great American catchphrase, endlessly recycled, and even turning up as one of the epigraphs to Thomas Pynchon’s mammoth paranoid fantasy of the Second World War, “Gravity’s Rainbow,” whose characters’ destiny lies not “behind the moon, beyond the rain” but “beyond the zero” of consciousness, in a land at least as bizarre as Oz.

But Dorothy has done more than step out of the gray into Technicolor. Her homelessness, her unhousing, is underlined by the fact that, after all the door play of the transitional sequence, and having now stepped out-of-doors, she will not be permitted to enter any interior at all until she reaches the Emerald City. From tornado to Wizard, Dorothy never has a roof over her head. Out there amid the giant hollyhocks, which bear blooms like old gramophone trumpets, there in the vulnerability of open space (albeit open space that isn’t at all like the Kansas prairie), Dorothy is about to outdo Snow White by a factor of nearly twenty. You can almost hear the M-G-M studio chiefs plotting to put the Disney hit in the shade—not simply by providing in live action almost as many miraculous effects as the Disney cartoonists created but also by surpassing Disney in the matter of the little people. If Snow White had seven dwarfs, then Dorothy Gale, from the star called Kansas, would have a hundred and twenty-four.

The Munchkins were made up and costumed exactly like 3-D cartoon figures. The Mayor of Munchkin City is quite implausibly rotund; the Coroner sings out the Witch of the East’s Certificate of Death (“And she’s not only merely dead, she’s really most sincerely dead”) while wearing a hat with an absurdly scroll-like brim; the quiffs of the Lollipop Kids, who appear to have arrived in Oz by way of Bash Street and Dead End, stand up more stiffly than Tintin’s. But what might have been a grotesque and unappetizing sequence in fact becomes the moment in which “The Wizard of Oz” captures its audience once and for all, by allying the natural charm of the story to brilliant M-G-M choreography (which alternates large-scale routines with neat little set pieces like the dance of the Lullaby League or the Sleepy Heads awaking mobcapped and be-nightied out of cracked blue eggshells set in a giant nest), and, above all, through Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg’s exceptionally witty “Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead.” Arlen was a little contemptuous of this song and the equally unforgettable “We’re Off to See the Wizard,” calling them his “lemon-drop songs,” and perhaps this is because the real inventiveness in both tunes lies in Harburg’s lyrics. In Dorothy’s intro to “Ding Dong!” Harburg embarked on a pyrotechnic display of a-a-a rhymes (“The wind began to switch/the house to pitch”; until, at length, we meet the “witch . . . thumbin’ for a hitch”; and “what happened then was rich”)—a series in which, as with a vaudeville barker’s alliterations, we cheer each new rhyme as a sort of gymnastic triumph. This type of verbal play continues to characterize both songs. In “Ding Dong!” Harburg begins to invent punning, concertinaed words:

Ding, dong, the witch is dead!

This technique found much fuller expression in “We’re Off to See the Wizard,” becoming the real “hook” of the song:

We’re off to see the Wizard,

The wonderful Wizzerdovoz

If everoever a Wizztherwozz

The Wizzerdovoz is one because . . .

And so on.

Amid all this Munchkining we are given two very different portraits of adults. The Good Witch Glinda is pretty in pink (well, prettyish, even if Dorothy is moved to call her “beautiful”). She has a high, cooing voice, and a smile that seems to have jammed. She has one excellent gag line, after Dorothy disclaims witchy status: pointing at Toto, Glinda inquires, “Well, is that the witch?” This joke apart, she spends the scene looking generally benevolent and loving and rather too heavily powdered. Interestingly, though she is the Good Witch, the goodness of Oz does not inhere in her. The people of Oz are naturally good, unless they are under the power of the Wicked Witch (as is shown by the improved behavior of her soldiers after she melts). In the moral universe of the film, then, evil is external, dwelling solely in the dual devil figure of Miss Gulch/Wicked Witch.

(A parenthetical worry about the presentation of Munchkinland: Is it not a mite too pretty, too kempt, too sweetly sweet for a place that was, until the moment of Dorothy’s arrival, under the absolute power of the evil and dictatorial Witch of the East? How is it that this squashed Witch had no castle? How could her despotism have left so little mark upon the land? Why are the Munchkins so relatively unafraid, hiding only briefly before they emerge, and giggling while they hide? A heretical thought occurs: Maybe the Witch of the East wasn’t as bad as all that—she certainly kept the streets clean, the houses painted and in good repair, and, no doubt, such trains as there might be running on time. Moreover—and, again, unlike her sister—she seems to have ruled without the aid of soldiers, policemen, or other regiments of repression. Why, then, was she so hated? I only ask.)

Glinda and the Witch of the West are the only two symbols of power in a film that is largely about the powerless, and it’s instructive to “unpack” them. They are both women, and a striking aspect of “The Wizard of Oz” is its lack of a male hero—because, for all their brains, heart, and courage, it is impossible to see the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion as classic Hollywood leading men. The power center of the film is a triangle at whose points are Glinda, Dorothy, and the Witch; the fourth point, at which the Wizard is thought for most of the film to stand, turns out to be an illusion. The power of men, it is suggested, is illusory; the power of women is real.

Of the two Witches, good and bad, can there be anyone who’d choose to spend five minutes with Glinda? Of course, Glinda is “good” and the Wicked Witch “bad”; but Glinda is a silly pain in the neck, and the Wicked Witch is lean and mean. Check out their clothes: frilly pink versus slim line black. No contest. Consider their attitudes toward their fellow-women: Glinda simpers upon being called beautiful, and denigrates her unbeautiful sisters, whereas the Wicked Witch is in a rage because of the death of her sister, demonstrating, one might say, a commendable sense of solidarity. We may hiss at her, and she may terrify us as children, but at least she doesn’t embarrass us the way Glinda does. It’s true that Glinda exudes a sort of raddled motherly safeness while the Witch of the West looks—in this scene, anyhow—curiously frail and impotent, obliged to mouth empty threats (“I’ll bide my time. . . . But just try to stay out of my way”). Yet just as feminism has sought to rehabilitate pejorative old words such as “hag,” “crone,” and “witch,” so the Wicked Witch of the West can be said to represent the more positive of the two images of powerful womanhood on offer here. Glinda and the Wicked Witch clash most fiercely over the ruby slippers, which Glinda magics off the feet of the dead Witch of the East and onto Dorothy’s feet, and which the Wicked Witch seemingly has no power to remove. But Glinda’s instructions to Dorothy are oddly enigmatic, even contradictory. She first tells Dorothy, “Their magic must be very powerful or she wouldn’t want them so badly,” and later she says, “Never let those ruby slippers off your feet for a moment or you will be at the mercy of the Wicked Witch of the West.” Now, Statement No. 1 suggests that Glinda is unclear about the nature of the ruby slippers, whereas Statement No. 2 suggests that she knows all about their protective power. Neither statement hints at the ruby slippers’ later role in helping to get Dorothy back to Kansas. It seems probable that this confusion is a hangover from the long, dissension-riddled scripting process, in which the function of the slippers was the subject of considerable dispute. But one can also see Glinda’s obliquities as proof that a good fairy or a good witch, when she sets out to be of assistance, never gives you everything. Glinda, after all, is not so unlike her description of the Wizard of Oz: “Oh, very good, but very mysterious.”

“Just follow the Yellow Brick Road,” says Glinda, and bubbles off into the blue hills in the distance; and Dorothy—geometrically influenced, as who would not be after a childhood among triangles, circles, and squares—begins her journey at the very point from which the Road spirals outward. And as she does so, and while both she and the Munchkins are echoing Glinda’s instructions in tones both raucously high and gutturally low, something begins to happen to her feet: their motion acquires a syncopation, which by beautifully slow stages grows more and more noticeable until at last, as the ensemble bursts for the first time into the film’s theme song, we see, fully developed, the clever, shuffling little skip that will be the leitmotif of the entire journey:

You’re off to see the Wizard,

The wonderful Wizzerdovoz.

You’ll find he is a Wizzovawizz

If ever a Wizztherwozz. . . .

In this way, s-skipping along, Dorothy Gale, who is already a National Heroine of Munchkinland, who is already (as the Munchkins have assured her) History, who “will be a Bust in the Hall of Fame,” steps out along the road of destiny, and heads, as Americans must, into the West: toward the sunset, the Emerald City, and the Witch.

I have always found off-camera anecdotes about a film’s production simultaneously delicious and disappointing, especially when the film concerned has lodged as deep down inside as “The Wizard of Oz” has. It was a little sad to learn about the Wizard’s drinking problem, and to discover that Frank Morgan was only the third choice for the part, behind W. C. Fields and Ed Wynn. (What contemptuous wildness Fields might have brought to the role!) The first choice for his female more-than-opposite number, the Witch, was Gale Sondergaard, not only a great beauty but, prospectively, another Gale to set alongside Dorothy and the tornado. Then I found myself staring at an old color photograph of the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and Dorothy, posing in a forest set, surrounded by autumn leaves, and realized that what I was looking at was not the stars at all but their stunt doubles, their stand-ins. It was an unremarkable studio still, but it took my breath away; for it, too, was both melancholy and mesmeric. In my mind, it came to be the very epitome of the doubleness of my responses.

There they stand, Nathanael West’s locusts, the ultimate wannabes. Garland’s shadow, Bobbie Koshay, with her hands clasped behind her back and a white bow in her hair, is doing her brave best to smile, but she knows she’s a counterfeit, all right: there are no ruby slippers on her feet. The mock-Scarecrow looks glum, too, even though he has avoided the full-scale burlap-sack makeup that was Ray Bolger’s daily fate. If it were not for the clump of straw poking out of his right sleeve, you’d think he was some kind of hobo. Between them, in full metallic drag, stands the Tin Man’s tinnier echo, looking as miserable as hell. Stand-ins know their fate: they know we don’t want to admit their existence, even though our rational minds tell us that when we watch the figure in this or that difficult shot—watch the Wicked Witch fly, or the Cowardly Lion dive through a glass window—we aren’t watching the stars. The part of us that has suspended disbelief insists on seeing the stars, and not their doubles. Thus, the stand-ins are rendered invisible even when they are in full view. They remain off camera even when they are onscreen.

However, this is not the reason for the curious fascination of the photograph; that arises from the fact that, in the case of a beloved film, we are all the stars’ doubles. Our imaginations put us in the Lion’s skin, fit the sparkling slippers on our feet, send us cackling through the air on a broomstick. To look at this photograph is to look into a mirror; in it we see ourselves. The world of “The Wizard of Oz” has possessed us. We have become the stand-ins. A pair of ruby slippers found in a bin in a basement at M-G-M was sold at auction in May, 1970, for the amazing sum of fifteen thousand dollars. The purchaser was, and has remained, anonymous. Who was it who wished so profoundly to possess—perhaps even to wear—Dorothy’s magic shoes?

On being asked to pick a single defining image of “The Wizard of Oz,” most of us would, I suspect, come up with the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, and Dorothy s-skipping down the Yellow Brick Road. (In point of fact, the skip continues to grow throughout the journey, and becomes a full-fledged h-hop.) How strange that the most famous passage of this very filmic film—a film packed with technical ingenuity and effects—should be the least cinematic, the most “stagy,” part of the whole! Or perhaps not so strange, for this is primarily a passage of surreal comedy, and we recall that the equally inspired clowning of the Marx Brothers was no less stagily filmed; the zany mayhem of the playing made any but the simplest camera techniques impossible.

The Scarecrow and the Tin Man are pure products of the burlesque theatre, specializing in pantomime exaggerations of voice and body movements, pratfalls (the Scarecrow descending from his post), improbable leanings beyond the center of gravity (the Tin Man during his little dance), and, of course, the smart-ass backchat of the crosstalk act:

TIN MAN (rusted solid): (Squawks)

DOROTHY: He said “Oil can”!

At the pinnacle of all this clowning is that fully realized comic masterpiece of a creation, Bert Lahr’s Cowardly Lion, all elongated vowel sounds (“Put ‘em uuuuuuuup”), ridiculous rhymes (“rhinoceros” and “imposserous”), transparent bravado, and huge, operatic, tail-tugging, blubbering terror. All three—Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion—are, in T. S. Eliot’s phrase, hollow men. The Scarecrow, of course, actually does have a “headpiece filled with straw, alas,” but the Tin Man, the ancestor of C-3PO in “Star Wars,” is completely empty—he bangs on his chest to prove that his innards are missing, because “the Tinsmith,” his shadowy maker, forgot to provide a heart—and the Lion lacks the most leonine of qualities, lamenting:

What makes the Hottentot so hot?

What puts the ape in apricot?

What have they got that I ain’t got?

Perhaps it is because they are all hollow that our imaginations can enter them and fill them up so easily. That is to say, it is their anti-heroism, their apparent lack of Great Qualities, that makes them our size, or even smaller, so that we can stand among them as equals, like Dorothy among the Munchkins. Gradually, however, we discover that, along with their “straight man,” Dorothy (she occupies in this sequence the role of the unfunny Marx Brother, the one who could sing and look hunky and do little else), they embody one of the film’s “messages”—that we already possess what we seek most fervently. The Scarecrow regularly comes up with bright ideas, which he offers with self-deprecating disclaimers. The Tin Man can weep with grief long before the Wizard gives him a heart. And Dorothy’s capture by the Witch brings out the Lion’s courage, even though he pleads with his friends to “talk me out of it.” For this message to have its full impact, however, it is necessary that we learn the futility of looking for solutions outside. We must learn about one more hollow man: the Wizard of Oz himself. Just as the Tinsmith was a flawed maker of tin men—just as, in this secular movie, the Tin Man’s god is dead—so too must our belief in wizards perish, so that we may believe in ourselves. We must survive the Deadly Poppy Field, helped by a mysterious snowfall (why does snow overcome the poppies’ poison?), and so arrive, accompanied by heavenly choirs, at the city gates.

Here the film changes convention once again, becoming a portrait of hicks from the sticks arriving in the metropolis—one of the classic themes of American films, with echoes in “Mr. Deeds Goes to Town,” and even in Clark Kent’s arrival at the Daily Planet in “Superman.” Dorothy is a country hick, “Dorothy the small and meek”; her companions are backwoods buffoons. Yet—and this, too, is a familiar Hollywood trope—it is the out-of-towners, the country mice, who will save the day.

There was never a metropolis quite like Emerald City, however. It looks from the outside like a fairy tale of New York, a thicket of skyscraping green towers. On the inside, though, it’s the very essence of quaintness. Even more startling is the discovery that the citizens—many of them played by Frank Morgan, who adds the parts of the gatekeeper, the driver of the horse-drawn buggy, and the palace guard to those of Professor Marvel and the Wizard—speak with what Hollywood actors like to call an English accent. “Tyke yer anyplace in the city, we does,” says the driver, adding, “I’ll tyke yer to a little place where you can tidy up a bit, what?” Other members of the citizenry are dressed like Grand Hotel bellhops and glitzy nuns, and they say—or, rather, sing—things like “Jolly good fun!” Dorothy catches on quickly. At the Wash & Brush Up Co., a tribute to urban technological genius with none of the dark doubts of a “Modern Times” or a “City Lights,” our heroine gets a little Englished herself:

DOROTHY (sings): Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown?

Most of the citizenry are cheerfully friendly, and those who appear not to be—the gatekeeper, the palace guard—are soon won over. (In this respect, once again, they are untypical city folk.) Our four friends finally gain entry to the Wizard’s palace because Dorothy’s tears of frustration undam a quite alarming reservoir of liquid in the guard. His face is quickly sodden with tears, and, watching this extreme performance, you are struck by the sheer number of occasions on which people cry in this film. Besides Dorothy and the guard, there is the Cowardly Lion, who bawls when Dorothy bops him on the nose; the Tin Man, who almost rusts up again from weeping; and Dorothy again, while she is in the clutches of the Witch It occurs to you that if the hydrophobic Witch could only have been closer at hand on one of these occasions the movie might have been much shorter.

Into the palace we go, down an arched corridor that looks like an elongated version of the Looney Tunes logo, and at last we confront a Wizard whose tricks—giant heads and flashes of fire—conceal his basic kinship with Dorothy. He, too, is an immigrant; indeed, as he will later reveal, he is a Kansas man himself. (In the novel, he came from Omaha.) These two immigrants have adopted opposite strategies of survival in a new and strange land. Dorothy has been unfailingly polite, careful, courteously “small and meek,” whereas the Wizard has been fire and smoke, bravado and bombast, and has hustled his way to the top—floated there, so to speak, on a cloud of his own hot air. But Dorothy learns that meekness isn’t enough, and the Wizard finds (as his balloon gets the better of him for a second time) that his command of hot air isn’t all it should be. (It is hard for a migrant like me not to see in these shifting destinies a parable of the migrant condition.)

The Wizard’s stipulation that he will grant no wishes until the four friends have brought him the Witch’s broomstick ushers in the penultimate, and least challenging (though most action-packed and “exciting”), movement of the film, which is in this phase at once a buddy movie, a straightforward adventure yarn, and, after Dorothy’s capture, a more or less conventional princess-rescue story. The film, having arrived at the great dramatic climax of the confrontation with the Wizard of Oz, sags for a while, and doesn’t really regain momentum until the equally climactic final struggle with the Wicked Witch, which ends with her melting, her “growing down” into nothingness.

Fast forward. The Witch is gone. The Wizard has been unmasked, and in the moment of his unveiling has succeeded in performing a spot of true magic, giving Dorothy’s companions the gifts they did not believe until that moment that they possessed. The Wizard is gone, too, and without Dorothy, their plans having been fouled up by (who else but) Toto. And here is Glinda, telling Dorothy she has to learn the meaning of the ruby slippers for herself.

TIN MAN: What have you learned, Dorothy?

DOROTHY: . . . If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own back yard; because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with. Is that right?

GLINDA: That’s all it is. . . . Now those magic slippers will take you home in two seconds. . . . Close your eyes and tap your heels together three times . . . and think to yourself . . . there’s no place like . . .

Hold it.

How does it come about that at the close of this radical and enabling film—which teaches us in the least didactic way possible to build on what we have, to make the best of ourselves—we are given this conservative little homily? Are we to think that Dorothy has learned no more on her journey than that she didn’t need to make such a journey in the first place? Must we believe that she now accepts the limitations of her home life, and agrees that the things she doesn’t have there are no loss to her? “Is that right?” Well, excuse me, Glinda, but it is not.

Home again, in black-and-white, with Auntie Em and Uncle Henry and the rude mechanicals clustered around her bed, Dorothy begins her second revolt, fighting not only against the patronizing dismissals by her own folk but also against the scriptwriters and the sentimental moralizing of the entire Hollywood studio system. “It wasn’t a dream, it was a place!” she cries piteously. “A real, truly live place! . . . Doesn’t anyone believe me?”

Many, many people did believe her. Frank Baum’s readers believed her, and their belief in Oz led him to write thirteen further Oz books, admittedly of diminishing quality; the series was continued, even more feebly, by other hands after his death. Dorothy, ignoring the “lessons” of the ruby slippers, goes back to Oz, in spite of the efforts of Kansas folk, including Auntie Em and Uncle Henry, to have her dreams brainwashed out of her (see the terrifying electro-convulsive-therapy sequence in the recent Disney film “Return to Oz”); and, in the sixth book of the series, she sends for Auntie Em and Uncle Henry, and they all settle down in Oz, where Dorothy becomes a Princess.

So Oz finally becomes home. The imagined world becomes the actual world, as it does for us all, because the truth is that, once we leave our childhood places and start to make up our lives, armed only with what we know and who we are, we come to understand that the real secret of the ruby slippers is not that “there’s no place like home” but, rather, that there is no longer any such place ashome—except, of course, for the homes we make, or the homes that are made for us, in Oz. Which is anywhere—and everywhere—except the place from which we began.

In the place from which I began, after all, I watched the film from the child’s—Dorothy’s—point of view. I experienced, with her, the frustration of being brushed aside by Uncle Henry and Auntie Em, busy with their dull grownup counting. Like all adults, they couldn’t focus on what was really important: namely, the threat to Toto. I ran away with her and then ran back. Even the shock of discovering that the Wizard was a humbug was a shock I felt as a child, a shock to the child’s faith in adults. Perhaps, too, I felt something deeper, something I couldn’t then articulate; perhaps some half-formed suspicion about grownups was being confirmed.

Now, as I look at the movie again, I have become the fallible adult. Now I am a member of the tribe of imperfect parents who cannot listen to their children’s voices. I, who no longer have a father, have become a father instead. Now it is my fate to be unable to satisfy the longings of a child. And this is the last and most terrible lesson of the film: that there is one final, unexpected rite of passage. In the end, ceasing to be children, we all become magicians without magic, exposed conjurers, with only our simple humanity to get us through.

We are the humbugs now. ♦

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constellationink · 7 months

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Fourth Wing - Rebecca Yarros

⭒ Genre: Fantasy, Romance

⭒ My rating: 1/5 (dnfed)

So. I’ve let my feelings settle since I’ve read this book so I can give a clearer review because I felt quite strongly about this book after I ‘finished’ it, aka asked a friend who loved it to just spoil the rest so I didn’t have to keep struggling through it from the 50% point. If you love this book and cannot bear to hear criticism, do not read past this point as I unfortunately have little to say in the likes department.

⭑ Summary: Violet Sorrengail has trained her entire life to be scribe, but has just been thrown into becoming a rider by the general: her mother. Riders bond with fearsome dragons after undergoing intense tests, many of them dying in the process just for the chance of making it to Threshing, the day where dragons choose their riders. Violet survives the initial test, only to run into Dain, a childhood friend of hers, and Xander, the son of a traitor who was killed by Violet’s mother.

I’ll stop here. I love dragons, I love fantasy, and I was so excited for this book, but there were a number of things that I tried to tolerate until I was sighing every page and finally decided I needed to put the book down. Let’s go through them.

⭑ Writing

This book has a bad habit of telling rather than showing to the point that I found what I was being told unbelievable. It’s crystal clear about everything. At some points for some reason, Violet doesn’t understand something obvious that happens (I’ll get to this), but someone else always comes in and explains it to her. My main issue with this is that I wasn’t seeing the same things I was being told I should see. Violet’s close relationship with Dain for example is more written as a thought in Violet’s head rather than much of their bond showing through. This combined with more immature writing (this book should not have been advertised as NA) made this book very hard to read for me.

It’s written like YA, featuring a middle schooler talking about how hot her crush is, and it’s just plain cringy considering she’s not 13. She tries to be witty and for some reason people around her like it? I just don’t think I meshed well with the attitude or humor of this book, and it just felt much more immature than I usually like to read. Also, including world information through Violet talking to herself to keep herself calm not once but twice has to be lazy writing. Come on.

⭑ Characterization

Most of the characters are shallow or inconsistent, or barely present, so I found myself struggling to connect with them. Violet is smart yet sometimes fails to understand obvious things until someone explains it to her. The book starts out with her love for being a scribe but she doesn’t really seem to care all that much and it’s basically swept under the rug to focus on her sudden desire to be a rider. She talks about how weak/short she is constantly but gets upset when Dain points out the same things.

Dain himself only seems to be there to complete a love triangle that doesn’t even really exist (Xander is the hottest man Violet has ever seen from the start), and his main function is to discourage Violet from becoming a rider because he’s worried about her safety. He wants to help her go back to being a scribe, which, as you may recall, is what Violet has wanted for her entire life. Instead, she gets upset that he doesn’t believe she can do something that she has said she’s at a disadvantage (small and weak) against and with only six months of training under her belt as opposed to most people with a lifetime of training. I just felt more confused about who Violet was supposed to be and what motivated her besides proving herself (?).

The dragons. I was very excited to meet them after hearing how fearsome and powerful they were. Yet Violet got sassy at the first meeting and well. The dragons liked that? The fear factor goes away pretty fast when you can hear what they’re saying. Before we meet them, I had the impression that they were wise and mysterious, dangerous, terrifying, beings that transcended humans. The reality is that they’re pretty much just the same as humans except they can breathe fire. This is partially on me, because I love when creatures are creature! But also I feel the element that makes dragons dragons wasn’t quite there.

⭑ World-building

Yes I need to talk about it a second time: Violet keeping herself calm in dangerous situations through reciting memorized information. Aka info dumping world information for the reader. Once, I excused. Twice? The world building is shaky already, but then we find out essential things about the world through an info dump in the middle of a tense scene. This is the telling not showing in action, and I suppose yes it is easy to follow, but it was also enough to completely take me out of the book.

I understand leaving the readers somewhat in the dark to reveal things later, but it felt like there were a lot of hanging pieces that were important but barely touched on because the book was so centered around Violet. I’d understand it if she didn’t know anything either, as it’s from her pov, but the lack of knowledge as a reader just felt like an excuse for plot twists because Violet does know a lot about her world as a former training scribe. What ended up happening is I didn’t really care much about the war, so this ended up reading as much more of a romance than a fantasy book.

To put it lightly, I really did not like this book. I think it could be a fun read for some people, but had so many glaring holes for me that I couldn’t even finish it. It doesn’t really offer substance and that’s what I usually read for, and the high rating on Goodreads is definitely overblown considering everything. However, if you’ve read this review and still want to try I’d say:

Read this book if you want an easy to understand, cheesy, YA with spice, romance book. It’s full of thrilling scenes, it’s much more romance with a tinge of fantasy, and has a female protagonist who really prevails against all odds.

#fourth wing #book review #wolf reviews

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whileiamdying · 1 year

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Out of Kansas: Revisiting “The Wizard of Oz.”

By Salman Rushdie May 4, 1992

But if “The Wizard of Oz” is a work of art it’s extremely difficult to say who the artist was. The birth of Oz itself has already passed into legend: the author, L. Frank Baum, named his magic world after the letters “O-Z” on the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. His original book, “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” published in 1900, contains many of the ingredients of the magic potion: just about all the major characters and events are there, and so are the most important locations—the Yellow Brick Road, the Deadly Poppy Field, the Emerald City. But the filming of “The Wizard of Oz” is a rare instance of a film improving on a good book. One of the changes is the expansion of the Kansas section, which in the novel takes up precisely two pages at the beginning, before the tornado arrives, and just nine lines at the end; and another is a certain simplification of the story line in the Oz section: all subplots were jettisoned, such as the visits to the Fighting Trees, the Dainty China Country, and the Country of the Quadlings, which come into the novel just after the dramatic high point of the Witch’s destruction and fritter away the book’s narrative drive. And there are two even more important alterations. Frank Baum’s Emerald City was green only because everyone in it had to wear emerald-tinted glasses, but in the movie it really is a futuristic chlorophyll green—except, that is, for the Horse of a Different Color You’ve Heard Tell About. The Horse of a Different Color changes color in each successive shot—a change that was brought about by covering six different horses with a variety of shades of powdered Jell-O. (For this and other anecdotes of the film’s production I’m indebted to Aljean Harmetz’s definitive book “The Making of The Wizard of Oz.”) Last, and most important of all, are the ruby slippers. Frank Baum did not invent the ruby slippers; he had silver shoes instead. Noel Langley, the first of the film’s three credited writers, originally followed Baum’s idea. But in his fourth script, the script of May 14, 1938, known as the do not make changes script, the clunky metallic and non-mythic silver footwear has been jettisoned, and the immortal jewel shoes are introduced. (In Shot 114, “the ruby shoes appear on Dorothy’s feet, glittering and sparkling in the sun.”)

And this is the home that “there’s no place like”? This is the lost Eden that we are asked to prefer (as Dorothy does) to Oz?

Back in Kansas, Auntie Em is delivering the scolding that is the prelude to one of the cinema’s immortal moments.

“You always get yourself into a fret over nothing. . . . Find yourself a place where you won’t get into any trouble!”

“Some place where there isn’t any trouble. Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto? There must be.”

Ding, dong, the witch is dead! Whicholwitch? —The wicked witch!

This technique found much fuller expression in “We’re Off to See the Wizard,” becoming the real “hook” of the song:

We’re off to see the Wizard, The wonderful Wizzerdovoz We hear he is A Wizzovawizz, If ever a Wizztherwozz. If everoever a Wizztherwozz The Wizzerdovoz is one because . . .

And so on.

You’re off to see the Wizard, (s-skip) The wonderful Wizzerdovoz. (s-skip) You’ll find he is a Wizzovawizz If ever a Wizztherwozz. . . .

Tin Man (rusted solid): (Squawks) Dorothy: He said “Oil can”! Scarecrow: Oil can what?

What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the ape in apricot? What have they got that I ain’t got? Courage!

Dorothy (sings): Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown? Attendant: Uh-huh! Dorothy: Jolly old town!

Tin Man: What have you learned, Dorothy? Dorothy: ... If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own back yard; because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with. Is that right? Glinda: That’s all it is. ... Now those magic slippers will take you home in two seconds. ... Close your eyes and tap your heels together three times ... and think to yourself ... there’s no place like ...

Hold it.

So Oz finally becomes home. The imagined world becomes the actual world, as it does for us all, because the truth is that, once we leave our childhood places and start to make up our lives, armed only with what we know and who we are, we come to understand that the real secret of the ruby slippers is not that “there’s no place like home” but, rather, that there is no longer any such place as home—except, of course, for the homes we make, or the homes that are made for us, in Oz. Which is anywhere—and everywhere—except the place from which we began.

We are the humbugs now. ♦

Published in the print edition of the May 11, 1992, issue. Salman Rushdie has written fifteen novels, including “Victory City.”

#wizard of oz #salman rushdie #the new yorker

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offbeatmusicuk · 1 year

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Albums Of 2022: 50-26

Welcome to another year, another countdown. My music listening time has shrunk once again, but there’s still plenty of great releases that have got multiple listens.

I’ve noticed a trend that releases are getting shorter, and people are still calling them albums when they are an EP or mini-album. So my criteria is this. If it is 9 or more tracks, it is an album. If it is 8 tracks or less and 30 mins or longer, it is an album. Any less than that, it is an EP or a mini-album and not eligible for this list.

Honourable mentions to some artists whose albums very nearly made the list but just missed out:

Eye Of Melian, Andy Gardner of Plump DJs, The Birthday Massacre, Chase & Status, Let’s Eat Grandma, Mall Grab, xPropaganda, Riya Sawayama, Yumi & The Weather, HALIENE, The Hunna, White Lung, Witch Fever, Taylor Swift, Arcade Fire, The Anix and Röyksopp with the second volume of their “Profound Mysteries” trilogy.

Let the countdown begin.

50.

The Barnum Meserve "Designs"

3rd album of cinematic alt-rock from the Nottingham band, mellow songs building to string laden crescendos.

49.

Nova Twins "Supernova"

The self described 'Urban punk' duo, of whom Tom Morello is a big fan, deliver their 2nd album, and it's a blend of punk, hip-hop and electronics mixed up to deliver a huge amount of energy.

48.

Volturian "Red Dragon"

The Italians deliver another album of symphonic, melodic and easily accessible metal. Though there are other genres too, "Torn Asunder", for example, is completely electronic, inspired by trance and house.

47.

Tinlicker "In Another Lifetime"

A blend of deep house, progressive house and trance, on the 2nd album from the Utrecht based duo, which is hypnotic and a times beautiful.

46.

Bis "Systems Music For Home Defence"

The Glasgow indie-popsters return, with cheeky lyrics, catchy hooks and danceable beats. It's not quite up to their "Social Dancing" - "Return To Central" peak, but it's a big improvement on everything else released since then.

45.

Confidence Man "Tilt"

90s dance influenced pop bangers are the order of the day here, with tongue firmly in cheek but with a clear love for the era and the tunes from it. As a comment on one of their videos on YouTube (written by an Andy Brennan) put it "They ride that line between sincerity and parody SO WELL".

44.

Silversun Pickups "Physical Thrills"

6th album from the LA alt-rockers. Always reliably good, this might be a more varied and inventive collection than normal, and it works a treat.

43.

Sick Joy "We're All Gonna F***ing Die"

I like the band's own bio... "Cutting together malign heaviness with acidic melody then tying into place with the reigns of contagious pop." It's a good description, for this band that mix a bit of grunge, a bit of punk and a whole lot of hooks, that wouldn't have felt entirely out of place in the 90s, without being a retro throwback.

42.

Ciaran McAuley "Permission To Exhale"

Debut album from this rising star of the trance scene. The first half is a bit more mellow, seemingly taking inspiration from Solarstone's pure trance sound, the second half a bit more euphoric and club leaning (but only slightly). A few excellent guest vocalists on here too, such as Audrey Gallagher and Lisa Gerrard.

41.

Fonzerelli "Silent Dreams & Misguided Stories"

Lovely mid-tempo trance and house (and a splash of breaks), beautiful synths and pianos and some great guest vocals.

40.

Bloods "Together, Baby!"

3rd album from Sydney's Bloods who are on fine form with their punk-pop-meets-riot-grrrl tunes. Big melodies, bouncy riffy fun.

39.

Cold Kingdom "Life // Love"

Powerful, big chorused hard rock from the Minneapolis band. Fans of strong female vocals mixed with big riffs should check them out.

38.

Daxson "Face The Future"

Trance producer and DJ Dan Dobson releases his debut artist album. And it suffers from the same thing a lot of modern trance artist albums suffer from... too many tracks which are consequently too short (in order to fit them on the equivalent of a single CD). This means the tracks don't get to breathe, and some just get lost while you are listening. But regardless, there is some quality uplifting trance on here, so it's well worth an effort.

37.

Röyksopp "Profound Mysteries III"

Their third album release of the year and the final part of their Profound Mysteries trilogy, they finish the project strong. Some cracking tunes on here.

36.

Pale Waves "Unwanted"

Starting off as a goth-synth-indie-pop-rock band (is that a thing?), they changed their sound for album 2 and became an average Avril Lavigne soundalike. Tweaking that slightly here for album 3, they are now a very good Avril Lavigne soundalike. Songs filled with big choruses, singalong hooks, some joyous, some heartfelt, every track worth your time.

35.

Kasabian "The Alchemist's Euphoria"

Kasabian's first album with Serge Pizzorno stepping up to the frontman role, and it is an interesting beast. He does a good job as vocalist, and musically the album has influences of rock, hip-hop, dance, even Pink Floyd-esque moments.

34.

Bush "The Art Of Survival"

Only Gavin Rossdale remains from the original line up, but the rebooted Bush has been putting out passable albums since 2011. Their last album, 2020's 'The Kingdom' was suprisingly good, and this one is even better. Full of big choruses and chunky riffs, and though it doesn't sound exactly like 90s Bush, it feels like listening to Bush of the old days.

33.

The Crystal Method "The Trip Out"

Kicking off with an electro-rock stomper, you'd wonder if TCM have radically changed direction, but don't worry, there are plenty of breakbeat and electro stompers with various guest vocalists on this short but varied album.

32.

Muse "Will Of The People"

Ah, Muse. I loved Muse. 4 brilliant albums, one of the best live bands on the planet... then it started going a bit pear-shaped. Yes, there was still the occasional great song, but they started veering into either being too bland, or far too theatrical Queen pastiche. And then came the entirely misjudged 'Simulation Theory', essentially an electro pop album, still with the Queen influences. It was lacking in punch, credibility and tunes. So, while flawed, 'Will Of The People' is a very pleasant surprise. Yes, it still contains some strong glam rock and Queen influences, giving it a sense of spoof, but it also has some of the best songs they've done in years. 'Won't Stand Down' and 'Kill Or Be Killed' are monsters that will go down very well live, 'Ghosts' and 'Verona' are actually rather pretty, overall it's the strongest Muse album since 'Black Holes & Revelations', so there's some hope for another classic yet.

31.

Mass Sky Raid "Calm In Chaos"

Epic, melodic alt-rock from this Aussie band. Rock enough to not be middle of the road, mellow and radio friendly enough to be huge if given the right exposure.

30.

Blood Command "Praise Armageddonism"

Blood Command's 4th album and first with vocalist Nikki Brumen. There are less electronic influences this time round, but still huge energy, chunky riffs, powerhouse drumming, screams and almost poppy melodic hooks.

29.

Charlotte Wessels "Tales From Six Feet Under Vol. II"

The former Delain singer continues her solo career, full of all sorts of styles, from the symphonic metal she's known for, to rock to art-pop. This collection might not be quite as strong as Vol 1, but it still further proves we have a very special artist here.

28.

Subjective "The Start Of No Regret"

Goldie & James Davidson bring us their 2nd Subjective album, and it's a winner. Beats that range from drum & bass to trip hop via breakbeat and house, deep bass and soulful vocals, it's a fabulous listen and is arguably Goldie's best album output since 'Timeless'.

27.

Avril Lavigne "Love Sux"

Avril goes pop-punk for her best album in over a decade. Punchy, upbeat, and catchy as hell. I don't know whether it would necessarily win any pop-punk fans over if they weren't Avril fans to begin with, but it should work a treat on people like me who were Avril fans but were unimpressed by the last couple of albums.

26.

Giuseppe Ottaviani "Horizons (Part 1)"

The trance legend releases a 2 part (well, 3 if you count the remixes) album for 2022, and this first part is full of lush, mid-tempo trance that mixes in elements of deep house and almost Jean-Michel Jarre like synths. It's warm, it's uplifting, you could certainly dance to it but it also feels perfect for chilling to on the beach or by a pool on a sunny day.

--------------------------------------------------

For the first time, Tumblr didn't allow me to add everything I wanted to to a single post (by refusing to save my changes) so this year's list is split in two.

Part 2 (numbers 25-1) including links to Spotify and YouTube playlists for the Top 50 is here:

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Text

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 28 - ao3 -

The answer, it turned out, was paint.

It wasn’t an answer that Lan Qiren would have anticipated in any way, shape, or form. He had been under the impression, as had Lao Nie, that Wen Ruohan had stopped painting long ago. After some teasing by Lao Nie, the man had even off-handedly confirmed it at a private dinner they’d shared at a discussion conference – there had been more than usual planned in this past year, accounting for the fact that all of the Great Sect sect leaders (except Wen Ruohan) were unusually young, and therefore active. And although no one acknowledged it as a reason, everyone knew that it was also meant to help calm the concerns of the smaller sects regarding the chaos in their Great Sect leaders’ personal lives, between Jiang Fengmian losing his servant to his beloved or possibly the other way around, Lao Nie’s extremely bizarre marriage situation, and Lan Qiren stepping up unexpectedly to the position of sect leader on account of his brother’s retreat from the world.

According to Wen Ruohan, it hadn’t been anything in particular that had made him stop painting, only a lack of time and then of interest; there had been a severe crisis some time ago, long before either of them were born, and he had been obligated to devote himself exclusively to those affairs for an extended period of time. When he had finally resurfaced, years later, he had returned and found an old painting sitting there half-finished, and staring at it, realized that he was no longer the same man who had begun it.

He had never painted again.

Lan Qiren was unsure if this was a real story or not – Wen Ruohan, he had learned, seemed to consider the truth about his past to be little more than a gentleman’s agreement between friends – as it seemed to be an especially pointed reminder aimed at Lan Qiren’s situation in particular.

Lao Nie had certainly taken it as such, throwing in his own concerns about Lan Qiren’s work schedule, and when even Cangse Sanren had joined the growing mob of all the rest of his friends, Lan Qiren had finally, if reluctantly, agreed to defer to their concern. He’d finally taken a step back and reorganized his duties as sect leader, standing his ground against the elders and insisting on having more time to devote to his own interests, including those outside of his work as a teacher – music, study, quiet contemplation, even maintaining his training with the sword, despite the fact that he would never match his brother as a sword cultivator.

It had, in fact, made him a better sect leader, less prone to working until he burned out, and he was grateful to his friends for their wisdom and steadfastness in the face of his stubborn grief.

At any rate, though, Wen Ruohan was no longer the painter he had been in his youth, and the hints of burning that marked all such paintings that Lan Qiren had seen suggested that the transition had been an unpleasant one for him. It was a surprise, therefore, to receive, as a gift from the Nightless City, a painting in that immediately recognizable hand which was so freshly made that Lan Qiren imagined he could still smell the grinding ink.

The painting depicted a dragon amidst a misty bamboo forest, its massive coils interwoven throughout the bamboo until it appeared almost part of the earth from which they sprung, or alternatively that speared through from above by a rain of spears; in its claw it held a beauteous dragon pearl, shining bright against the dark haze that surrounded the rest of the painting, and its eyes were fixed upon it as if it had forgotten all else.

The pearl, Lan Qiren presumed, was himself, given Wen Ruohan’s fondness for comparing him to one, which Lan Qiren still did not entirely understand – while he knew it was a sign of Wen Ruohan’s appreciation for him, and an indication that he treasured him, he thought that the particular choice in the type of precious stone was likely to be due to the fact Lan Qiren largely preferred white and grey and silver for his clothing.

(Privately, he had determined that one day, out of sheer spite, he would wear an outfit primarily composed of blue for no other reason than to give the other man a shock; he just hadn’t found a reason yet to justify the expense of having such clothing made when he would only use it the once.)

Similarly, the dragon was the symbol of imperial might, of overweening power and influence and even arrogance; naturally that would be Wen Ruohan himself. But as for the rest of it – the lonely but beautiful bamboo forest, often associated with moral integrity and loyalty, yet juxtaposed in this painting as piercing spears, penetrating the dragon’s hide as if attacking him – the dark mist that seemed to envelop the dragon, held at abeyance only through the light of its pearl –

Lan Qiren did not understand.

There were too many meanings possible, and he did not know how to differentiate between those that were there and those he only wanted to read into it. There was nothing for it, but that he would need to ask the artist himself what was meant.

When, as expected, an invitation came a few days later, requesting that Lan Qiren visit the Nightless City in his capacity as Wen Ruohan’s sworn brother, Lan Qiren accepted.

There were all the necessary pleasantries when he arrived, of course. No longer could he just slip in through the back door, a younger brother come to leech off some resources from an elder; he was the Lan sect leader, and that came with certain obligations even on a casual visit. There were a few formal procedures, and then dinner with Wen Ruohan and his wives, with whom his dynamics had completely reversed – Madame Wen had thawed towards Lan Qiren on account of his new position as sect leader, which guaranteed that he would never be able to move to the Nightless City and thereby obstruct her personal power, while the new concubine, former maid, seemed to think that his involvement in her ascension to the position she now held was a matter of embarrassment, resulting in her wanting to snub him whenever possible.

Wen Ruohan largely ignored their antics, his eyes fixed on Lan Qiren throughout their meal, and afterwards, he had finally dismissed them all and taken Lan Qiren back to the small study he preferred to use for their time together.

“The painting you sent was lovely,” Lan Qiren said, playing a little with the cup of tea that was warm and aromatic in his hands. “You have lost none of your skill.”

“I rebuilt it,” Wen Ruohan corrected, looking amused. “You ought to have seen the first few efforts; I think I wasted enough paper to feed a small family for a year.”

Lan Qiren smiled at the thought. He could scarcely imagine Wen Ruohan struggling the way he described, making an effort and finding his ability wanting; still less could he have once imagined Wen Ruohan having admitted to that fact in front of another.

It was a little like what Lao Nie had said, that between the two of them they were excavating the residual humanity left in Wen Ruohan, slowly and methodically moving aside stone and dirt in order to find the treasures lurking beneath.

“I like it even more, then,” he said, and decided to be a little bit bold. “I like knowing that you thought of me for as long as it took you to make it.”

Wen Ruohan’s eyes curved in delight. “You need not be concerned on that score,” he said, his voice still calm and unhurried as always. “You are not so easily expelled from my thoughts, now that you have entered them…ah, little Lan, little Lan, you make me impatient! I had made plans on how to broach the subject with you, and yet now that you are here, I find myself rushing forward, intent to get to the point like some savage Nie.”

A savage Nie of whom he was exceedingly fond, he did not say, and Lan Qiren managed not to roll his eyes at him.

Instead, Lan Qiren put down his cup and folded his hands in his lap. “Don’t hesitate on my behalf,” he said, then added, a little dryly, “I’ve had enough indirect statements to last a lifetime.”

“Welcome to politics,” Wen Ruohan responded, just as dry, but his smile faded and his expression grew more intense; he stood and came closer to Lan Qiren, looking down at him for a long moment before taking a seat beside him. “Qiren, why are you here?”

Lan Qiren blinked, a little confused by the question, but before he could put together an answer, Wen Ruohan continued. “You are sincere and true to yourself; you follow your sect’s rules because you believe in them whole-heartedly and wish to live up to their strictures. Yet do they not say Do not associate with evil?”

“I don’t think you’re evil,” Lan Qiren said. “I think we disagree on what actions constitute evil, on what divides good from evil, and that you are more comfortable walking closely along that line than I. I think that there will be many times in the future where we disagree once again on what is or is not the straight path, and what is the crooked, but – fundamentally, I don’t think you’re evil.”

He considered the question for another moment longer, then added: “And if you were, what is there to do about it? You’re still my sworn brother, bound by oath and blood, and that makes you my responsibility whether I like it or not. Even if you were evil, the only thing that would be left for me to do would be to try my best to lead you out of the dark and back to the light.”

Wen Ruohan was watching him again. His red eyes were narrowed a little, his gaze as intense as it had been when Lan Qiren had been little more than a child, although experience had made it a little less overwhelming.

“You know that I see you as a pearl in the palm of my hand,” Wen Ruohan finally said. His voice was low and intimate, and Lan Qiren shivered to hear it. “A treasure I never expected to find, a gem of such surpassing purity that I fear it will burn me to dare profane it with my touch. Time is eternal; the pearl flows, the jade turns, and yet I remain, walking my crooked path and you your straight broad bridge, shining with righteousness. I see you and yearn for you both day and night, and even in my dreams…”

He reached out and put his hand on Lan Qiren’s. “I would have you be mine, if you would have the same.”

No hollowed-out puppets soon to be discarded here, Lan Qiren thought nonsensically, and swallowed.

“I am yours,” he said carefully, pronouncing each syllable at a time. He had to get this right, he thought, and he would only ever have this one singular chance to do so, or else he’d lose something as bright and shining as the pearl Wen Ruohan was always comparing him to. “I am your sworn brother, as you are mine; I will always be yours.”

“I know,” Wen Ruohan said, and it seemed for once that Lan Qiren had expressed himself clearly rather than muddling it up: he hadn’t misunderstood him into thinking that what Lan Qiren had said was a rejection. “If I were not one of those evil men that your rules warn you against, I would find it in myself to be content with that. But I am, and I am not.”

Lan Qiren wet his lips with his tongue. “You know what I told you,” he reminded him. “About how I – I could compromise myself if I had to, if it made you happy, but I don’t want to have to. That is not who I am, what I am. I don’t want to have to bend and yield. I don’t want to break under the weight of love the way my brother did.”

Wen Ruohan was watching him, patient and waiting.

“I’m not comfortable with that type of intimacy, the type shared between lovers since the start of time,” Lan Qiren finally said. “I don’t want it intrinsically, and I don’t think I want it logically, either. More than that, I don’t think, having never wanted it before and not wanting it now, that I will ever want it. My brother once compared me to a block of ice or a mountain lake frozen over in winter, frigid, and there was something true to what he said. There is no heat that will make me melt as others do…and yet.”

“And yet?”

“And yet you are not the only one who wishes to possess.” He met Wen Ruohan’s eyes. “I, too, would have you be mine.”

His stupid Lan sect heart, burning a hole in his chest; it should have been enough to make him forget his own wishes and be willing to give in, to want to give everything to his beloved no matter the cost to himself, but it wasn’t – he wasn’t. And yet, at the same time, he judged his own affections to be no less than his brother’s for all that they were quieter and less flamboyant, understated rather than loudly proclaimed

Wen Ruohan leaned forward, bringing their faces closer together. “Then why don’t you claim me?”

“Because I cannot offer you what I should,” Lan Qiren said truthfully. “What you would expect –”

“And when,” Wen Ruohan cut him off, “have I ever cared for the expectations set out by the rest of the world? Would I have done half the things I did if I cared for the world’s conventions and determined my aims through their lens?”

Lan Qiren had to admit that he had a point.

“I know what you are,” Wen Ruohan said. “To taint you would be to ruin my own pleasure, to force you would be to deny myself – and I never deny myself. I am greedy, little Lan; I am not content with what the world would have me want, not when I can have what I really want.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“Lao Nie told me that he told you about his wife,” Wen Ruohan said. “How he stayed and she went, and they were still happy…I want that, with you.”

Lan Qiren frowned, not understanding.

“I want you,” Wen Ruohan told him, and his long-fingered hand traced over Lan Qiren’s cheekbone. “I want to have you, to own you, to keep you. I want to possess you down to the marrow of your bones; I want every inch of you in every way that I can have you. I want you to be mine – and I don’t need to fuck you to have it.”

Lan Qiren stared at him.

Wen Ruohan smile was like his smirk, triumphant and arrogant, certain of his impending victory. “If I want sex, I have my wives or Lao Nie for that, don’t I? To my wives I have only promised power, which I have given them. As for Lao Nie, I know now that he cannot promise me his heart: he is too facile, too free, too easy with others – he is compelled to share not only his body, which I wouldn’t mind, but also his heart, and I find that I am as unwilling to share in matters of the heart as you are to share your body.”

He shifted closer yet again, until their eyes were level with each other and their breath intermingled in the air between them.

“You will not be like him,” he said, voice dark and certain. “You’re barely willing to divide your attention to things you consider less important than your particular interests. Your heart is your clan’s curse and its treasure, taking you to the heavens and casting you down to the hells – if you give me your heart, full and entire, it will be as if you have removed it from your chest and put it in my hand. No one else will have any part of it, not like this, not in this way. It will only be me.”

“That is true,” Lan Qiren said. “I love no less deeply than my brother. My heart is a placid lake with a surface as clear as glass – you can see everything therein. Within it, there are only my interests, my nephew, my few friends, and you.”

Wen Ruohan’s smile widened.

“What exactly are you thinking?” Lan Qiren asked. His heart was beating in his chest so fast that it hurt. “If you want the assurance, you have it already: I am yours, and you are mine, and it would shatter me to let you go now. Is that what you want?”

“It is.” Wen Ruohan laughed, and it was full of pleasure. “Ah, little Lan! It is, it is.”

“What does it change?” Lan Qiren asked. “How is it different from what we have already?”

“It changes everything,” Wen Ruohan said simply, and Lan Qiren thought about and felt that he was right. “Knowing that you are mine makes it easier to release you into the world, to watch you shine and others see it; let them all look and know that it will never be theirs. All good things in the world are mine, and you are the best among them.”

“Pretty words,” Lan Qiren said, aiming for dry but probably just coming off as short of breath. “I’m a little more interested in the practical.”

“I would have you share my pillow while you are here,” Wen Ruohan said. “I do not need you to share your body with me, but I would have your company as a husband has his wife’s…and there are things that can be done without involving your body, depending on your tolerance.”

“Oh? Like what?”

Wen Ruohan grinned. “As it happens, that’s a matter I’ve given some considerable thought to…”

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes, and felt the heat in his ears fade a little; he appreciated the small reprieve from the emotional intensity, the humor breaking the tenseness of the moment.

“You know I find you beautiful,” Wen Ruohan said, and this time his hand came to rest on Lan Qiren’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his lips, and as quickly as that the reprieve was gone. “Perhaps you would permit me to find my own pleasure beside you, gazing upon you, or even invite another to share the bed while you busy yourself with your work – you are never as beautiful as when you are focused, your soul and mind wholly absorbed in your passion for the subject. Perhaps I would invite you to read a spring book for me, spilling out dirty words in that cool tone of yours that you use regardless of the circumstance, so that I might torment myself with hearing you at any time and think of that…I have a thousand and one ideas, little Lan, and I would try them all to see which ones you like and which ones you don’t, to yield to your preference and glory in so yielding.”

None of that sounded like something Lan Qiren would dislike, he thought to himself; it really was only his own personal involvement in the act that he truly objected to. And if Wen Ruohan had Lan Qiren’s heart and Lao Nie’s body, and both their friendship besides, perhaps even he in his ceaseless ambition could find a way to be satisfied with what he had for a time.

“I would like that,” he said honestly.

“Then having gained a cun, I will take a chi,” Wen Ruohan said. “I would like to kiss you.”

Lan Qiren swallowed.

“…all right,” he said. “You may.”

And he did.

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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oumaheroes · 3 years

Text

hii its bougie <3 if you're still taking hc requests, i was wondering if you'd have thoughts on something that's been on my mind for a while. i was interested in the nuance to english culture due to regional differences. eg.,dinner being called "tea" in the north of england, rugby being more popular in the south, the difference in how scones with jam and cream are enjoyed in Devon and Cornwall?? or how certain english accents are perceived as... "less attractive" i guess (the black country accents are unpopular apparently?) -- you'd probably know more about these particularities than me ;u;

i was wondering how these cultural differences might map onto hws England's character, and how they might influence his attitudes and behaviours. because there's such a clearly defined stereotype of the english that i think shape people's expectations of what the english are like, i usually think that Arthur usually consciously acts according to what counts as positive interpretations of himself. however, i love nuanced and somewhat subversive interpretations of his character, and am very curious if you might have any ideas on how these kind of internal regional differences might shape him.

--------------------

Bougieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee <3

I’m not gonna lie this sent me down a RABBIT HOLE of thoughts, so hang on tight cos we're gonna get messy.

Accents:

Let’s start with my personal favourite, so excuse me whilst I geek out for a second. I’ve gone into this area already in this headcanon, but I personally see England being a very proud little dragon regarding English accents, those both native and non-native to the British Isles. Focusing just on accents within England for this post, the way Arthur himself sees them, (regarding class and general preference), comes a lot down to how I see him feeling about language and the unification of England in general.

England is a tiny country. It’s really teeny, compared to some, and yet holds an incredible number of regional accents and dialects (from digging about the internet for a good source, I keep finding numbers ranging from 37 to 43). There are a number of reasons for this, but the one that I love the most is that accents are influenced by the previous/ influential other languages spoken in a given area. Accents on the East of England are more influenced by Viking invaders, both phonologically and via the dialectal words used, and accents/ dialects in the West are more influenced by Welsh, for example.

Accents and dialects tell the history of a place, all who ever came there and influenced it to some degree. The map of English accents is a patchwork quilt of old cultures and people now lost to time, but their ways of speaking have been preserved in the modern tongue. The old English kingdoms might now be mere counties- Kent, Essex, Sussex, East Anglia, etc- they may not have their own influence or language these days as they used to, but their old ways have been imprinted on their people of today whether they know it or not and they carry pieces of the past in their words and how they speak them. Older speakers of the Northern English dialects liek the Yorkshire dialect still use ‘thou/thee’ where this has fallen out in other areas, the Midlands and parts of the South-East still keep the ‘-n’ ending for possessive pronouns (‘yourn’ instead of ‘yours’, ‘ourn’ instead of ‘ours’), and there’s even some linguistic research into how Brittonic, the ancestor of Modern Welsh, influenced English structure and phonology (for references, see notes at the end).

Back to England the person (to contain myself slightly), his regional accents are a story of himself, his history being kept alive in all of its variety every day. He doesn’t hold a classist view of a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ accent because he knows why they’re all there- what languages and people influenced them and how these events affected him- the older generations now lost and forgotten being kept alive in the smallest of phonemes.

Every dialect, every accent, and every language tells the story of a people, from the smallest phonological marker right up to a language as a whole and England takes comfort and pride in his dialects and accents’ longevity and variety. He is as much of the North as he is the South, as much of the East as the West and a patchwork man born of patchwork cultures it makes no sense for him to favour one particular accent over another.

That being said, he is aware that there is a common cultural stance on accents as well as an opinion regarding ‘ugly’ ones, ‘common’ ones, and ‘classy’ ones, but he himself doesn’t partake in these ideas. I like to think that a nation takes on the speech of the people and the area they’re in, matching the person they speak to or the area they visit to relate to their people. So, for me a Chav Arthur exists as much as a Brummie one does, or a Scouser, or a Geordie, or a Cockney. They’re all English, and thus they’re all a part of him.

Class

I have to include this one, if only to touch on it lightly regarding accents and dialects. Class does influence which words you speak, arguably just as much as which accent (this is known as a sociolect). Although I said that England adopts the accent of whatever area he’s in, or whomever he’s talking to if they’re English, the class people are will also affect which words he choses to use.

Here’s a short example from here:

'It is pudding for the upper class. Dessert is sometimes used by upper middles, but afters and sweets very clearly put you below stairs.'

Have some more!

Upper class: Spectacles, Lavatory or loo, Die, Napkin, Sofa

Middle class: Glasses, Toilet , Pass on, Serviette, Settee or couch

(Working class is a mix but harder to find sources for).

This is where England treads a fine line. It could be that he again adopts more of a class lexicon regarding who he is speaking to, matching his people word for word. However, England is not unaware of the affects of class, regardless of how he himself feels, and also although class snobbery and divide frustrate him, he cannot deny using this understanding to benefit himself, which also conforms to how his own people behave. (I myself have, many times, diluted and filtered my speech to be seen as ‘better’).

Want to be seen as more reliable and powerful? Want to be taken more seriously? RP and Estuary English (a lot more so these days), hold undeniable sway and England is not above adopting a manner of speaking to come across ‘better’ or more polite, or a more ‘common’ accent to fit in with the working classes. I think of England as leaning more towards a working-class mindset- he’s very hands on, very up for and used to manual labour and this particular English class has always made up the bulk of his population. It makes no sense for a nation, who represents all of their people, to have a snide view or a preference for a particular group and England as a person I see is someone who does not enjoy the foppery and false airs of aristocracy.

That being said, England is an intelligent man. He knows how to work a room and use a crowd to his advantage, knows what must be done and what he needs to do to achieve a goal and if this entails courting the upper classes for a time then he will do so. He’s adepts at switching himself like a chameleon, blending his behaviours, accent, and dialect to match who he’s talking to to achieve a goal or to fit in with someone’s perception of him, or to gain influence or prestige. He also doesn’t hate his upper classes- they are of him too, and the middle and working class have their own prejudices and ideas against the others. But he doesn’t adopt a stereotypical distain of lower classes because to him, it really doesn’t make much sense.

Abroad, this need to cultivate a particular perception defiantly comes under greater pressure. RP and Estuary English are more well know, more heard and taught, and more recognisably ‘British’, and so these are what he uses when speaking English to other nations or foreigners, either wanting to uphold an image of himself (more so in the Victorian/ Edwardian period than nowadays) or just for the ease of being understood.

Regional Differences

Okay, this one is a lot more fun. Does England put in his milk first or last when making tea? Does he put jam first, or clotted cream when having a scone? Does he have chips with gravy, or curry sauce? Does he have dinner at 6, or 9? To marmite, or not to marmite.

Ah, that is the question, and England does not know the answer. Does he do what he does because that’s what he likes, or because that’s what his people do? He didn’t grow up with these habits, after all, they’re all relatively recent in his lifetime, and so these habits are defiantly things he cultures for a particular audience.

I’m not really sure if the above preferences are class based, (well, milk first when making tea is argued to be, but I can't find any sources I'd consider entirely credible. I put the ones I did find in the notes below, in case any one's interested), so it’s hard to get a sense of which one to use. Overall, it doesn’t matter which you do and neither is right or wrong, but the English feel strongly about them, one way or another, and often Arthur the man isn’t sure at all which one he himself actually thinks is better.

Food in another sense though is something he can be surer of. A Cornish pastie not from Cornwall is not worth eating, nor is a Bakewell tart outside of Bakewell. England can be very particular about this sort of thing and enjoys maintaining and supporting the ‘original’ flavour or recipe of a thing where he can, considering this to be the ‘best’. Sally Lunn Buns from Bath, Gypsy tarts from Kent, Eccles Cakes from Eccles.

England wants to preserve his food and culture and has what could be considered a snobbish view on the ‘best’ way of creating or eating his national foods. Some things he is more lenient with: he will eat cheddar cheese, whether or not it is from Cheddar, same from Cumberland sausages not from Cumbria. But he certainly has a preference and he is not afraid to voice this when asked for his opinion.

Okay, we're done

Phew! This had me digging out my old linguistic student brain. To anyone who has made it this far down, gosh golly miss molly thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride, and especially @prickyy who was kind enough to want to hear my opinions about all of this <3

----------------------------------------

Notes:

Brittonic influence on English:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brittonicisms_in_English

https://scholar.google.co.uk/scholar_url?url=http://journals.mountaintopuniversity.edu.ng/English%2520Language/Celtic%2520Influences%2520in%2520English%2520A%2520Re-evaluation.pdf&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2ohDYdq3BoWImwHn6oWQAg&scisig=AAGBfm29zTF0FBCpd1KqDiAbjM-0X7nfoA&oi=scholarr (PDF)

https://scholar.google.co.uk/scholar_url?url=http://www.oppi.uef.fi/wanda/unicont/abstracts/14ICEHL_MF.pdf&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2ohDYdq3BoWImwHn6oWQAg&scisig=AAGBfm3UvOXbJEb0b51J73eBnTJvgGaQOA&oi=scholarr (PDF)

Sociolects and class distinction within language in English:

https://languageawarenessbyrosalie.weebly.com/social-dialects.html

https://www.grin.com/document/313937

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U_and_non-U_English

Milk in tea first and the potential class reason:

https://www.theteaclub.com/blog/milk-in-tea/

https://qmhistoryoftea.wordpress.com/2017/05/11/milk-in-first-a-miffy-question/

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livinginncity · 3 years

Text

if we were human

♚: lee rang x reader

❡: fluff??(angst, pure angst)

ⱳƈ: 2.5k

⚠︎: besides it being really bad? none really. like, literally a couple swears. it was fluff, and then it became angst, so...sorry, but not really because if i’m crying, so are you.

children could be heard all around the park. some screaming and laughing as they run behind, others crying after they tripped, only to soon be comforted by the gentle holds and hushed assurances of their mothers and fathers. a bit further away was a small dog park, from which came all kinds of barks and growl, as well as cooing of the passerby. and there at a bench, located slightly closer to the swings and slides attracting the younger humans, sat a man that looked less than pleased to be where he was.

“Guess who.” a female’s voice rang out as a soft hand covered his eyes. he merely rolled his eyes beneath their new coverings and proceeded to drag the small wrist away from his face. “y/n.”

the young woman sneered and scoffed before yanking her hand out of his grasp to walk around and join him on the bench. “I don’t like you.”

“I don’t like you either.” a smack to the back of the man’s head could be felt soon after the words left his mouth. “Yah!”

“What are you doing here anyway? I never took you for the people watching type.”

“That's because I'm not. As if they deserve that much attention.” a hand lazily lifted in the direction of a familiar little boy, the action bringing a smile to the woman’s face.

“Ahhhh. But that one’s the exception? I thought you didn’t like little kids with runny noses, something I heard you have in common with your brother actually. Is that a gumiho thing or a family thing?” the man she addressed turned his head to look at her with an unimpressed look.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much? Or that you ask too many questions?”

“Well considering that was one of the first things you said to me when we met, I’ll just assume you know the answer to that already.”

she turned to look where the man’s gaze had previously been fixed and he followed suit. their eyes moved as they followed the movements of the young boy whose energy seemed to rival that of a puppy’s. ‘how fitting’ was the thought that came to the pair. minutes passed before they changed positions—the girl moving to settle her head on her company’s shoulder. said company shook her off before she repeated the action, leaving her be the second time. and he stayed in place even after she dragged his head to rest upon her own.

“Rang-ah.” the man simply grunted in response, urging her to continue. “I hate this.”

his eyebrows furrowed slightly at the sudden proclamation. “The kids? The families? Parks? I don’t really like them either. The first are messy and demanding, the second is an extremely unrealistic dynamic, and the last are way too loud and crowded.”

“No.” she took in her surroundings before speaking again. “This. I love all of this. I want it all. The kids are adorable and it feels so rewarding to be someone they rely on and look up to. I’ve had my fair share of family drama, but I’ve always wanted my own that I could cherish—pointless fights and all. And parks are probably one of my favorite places because it gives me everything I need to imagine what it’d be like if I had the first two.”

“What?” at her words he lifted his head to look down at her.

“I hate all of this shit that’s going on right now. It was one thing when you were just this occasional menace to your brother, but now the Imugi is involved and Lee Yeon refuses to let Ji Ah go again. It’s caused so many problems and with them, questions to be asked. Things could be so much simpler. Don’t you ever think about what life would be like if we were all human? This would all just be some petty high school drama. Like, Lee Yeon got class president in school and now, years later, both he and Imugi are CEOs competing in the nightclub industry or something like that.”

“You’re starting to sound like Lee Yeon. I guess you’re just as lame as him. Or maybe even lamer because really? That’s the best you can do with this fake drama?”

“Did I ever tell you that I ran into Soo Ho before you got the Tiger’s Brow back from him?” she ignored the questions, but her own annoyed him slightly. before he could respond. “I asked him if I could try them on and walked to the nearest window I could see myself in.”

“So, what’d you see? What were you? A Snake? A rat? Pufferfish?” her only response to his teasing was a pinch to the side. she shook her head before continuing.

“I saw a child.” her face changed to a solemn one. “All I saw was a snot-nosed little kid that the world seemed to have it out for. I didn’t even live long enough to have many firsts. And no one was ever there for the few I did. Well, there was one. Towards the end, I think my final year, I met an old lady. She lived alone, but she took me in the moment we crossed paths. She gave me my own room, let me help her cook, as much as a child could help, and she would always tell me these stories of her husband who had passed about a decade before. In just a few months, that woman gave me what felt like a lifetime of love. All while I was slowly dying, she made me forget the hardships, the neglect, the hatred, and by some cruel fate, she died first. But before she went, she said to me “treat my death as not another result of this terrible world, but take it as a sign that even when we know that our end is inescapable, we are able to cherish the temporary moments in which we are truly happy should we allow ourselves that much.” And so,”

the woman finally lifted her head from the gumiho’s shoulder to look into his eyes. “I think, if I could be reincarnated as a human again, I would. But since it’s probably never gonna happen I want to live like one. Get married, have a family, get mad when someone doesn’t show up for the holidays. I don’t know if I’d make it as a human with everything I know now, and I honestly don’t want to be human right-right now because I probably wouldn’t get to be around you. And I also just can’t imagine how you’d get by without seeing me every day.”

“Don’t act like you’re anything special.” he scoffed and looked back at the playground.

“You don’t have to admit it.” she stood up from the bench, looked over to the young boy he had taken in, and turned back. the woman grabbed his face and, after looking at the man for a few seconds, leaned in. “I know you love me.” and then she ran. “Soo Ho-ah! Let me play with you, that old fox is being mean again!”

“Yah!” he didn’t get up to chase her. she was right no matter how much he thought about it. somehow that weird girl wormed her way into the list of people he more than tolerated. and as he sat alone with his thoughts, he watched her play with the reincarnated boy, the latter seemingly winning their current sword fight.

does he ever wanna be human? no, it seems way too boring. does he like kids? he likes one, so that’s good enough. will he get married at some point? well, it’s just some rings and paper. and it’s not like he isn’t in love with that girl in the park.

bonus;

“Hey, y/n. If you’re watching this then...you know. I figured a couple good deeds might do me well in the afterlife, so what better way than finally letting my brother be with the girl he’s waited hundreds of years for.”

“You crazy bastard.” those were the only words that she could force her mouth to speak as she looked down at the small screen.

“I know you’re probably cursing me right now, thinking ‘this crazy bastard.’” somehow they both managed to let out a chuckle. “You know I don’t like vulgar words, but I’m not there, so i told Soo-Ho to pinch you for me every time one leaves your mouth.”

“Of course you did. It’s already a habit of his now.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. Especially to you, Yu Ri, and Soo-Ho. I didn’t get to say thank you, either. You’ve all helped me more than I’d ever care to admit, but I really am grateful to have shared part of my life with you. I got to help Yu Ri like Lee Yeon helped me, got to meet Blacky again, and I got to experience so many things with you.”

the tears in her eyes were already brimming and it was clear they wouldn’t stay there long. “y/n.” she looked back to the screen as he called her name.

“go to the nightstand on the right of my bed and open the drawer.” the girl got up from her place at the edge of the bed and walked over to the wooden table. with her phone in her left, she used her right to open the drawer, and she could feel her heartbeat stutter as she laid her sights on the black velvet box that sat in it. she reached a shaky hand to pick it up, and when she flipped it open she couldn’t help dropping the phone as she brought the other to her mouth with a choked sob. all she could do was shake her head and let the tears subject themselves to gravity.

“Do you remember that day in the park?” despite not being able to actually see through the endlessly flowing tears, she managed to scramble around and find the device that had slipped from her grasp. “You were talking about all this stuff like marriage, family, kids—what it’d be like to be human because things would be so much simpler. And while I don’t think anyone could ever convince me that being human would be fun, I figured we could at least do some of those human things. We were kind of halfway there, you know? You practically live in my apartment, and Soo-Ho took over the living room with his toys, so it was only a matter of time for him to get his own room so I could stop stepping on legos—maybe get a door with a lock from the outside so I don’t have to worry about waking up covered in stickers.”

she laughed as she recalled the memory, his interactions with the little boy, and their goofy smiles when things were calm for once. “You dorks were made to follow each other into every life.”

“I was gonna propose to you after this whole thing was over. Once I knew Lee Yeon was safe and not being targeted by a wannabe dragon. I’m sorry I couldn’t give that to you or...our own kid, though I think the one we have now is pretty great. And I’m also really sorry that I’m finally telling you this once it’s too late, but you were right. About what you said that day.” her breath hitched as she saw the tears glisten while they slid down his face. “I love you.

as if it were clockwork, a sob made its way from her throat and the tears began again.

“Yah, stop crying already. Please. I’d be upset if I was the cause of it.” and she tried, she really did, but it wasn’t as easy as he made it sound. “And, I know this is probably asking a lot for all that I’ve put you through, but can you wear it? At least for a little bit. Just think of it as a way of honoring my memory—the better parts obviously. You can keep my apartment if you want, too. Soo-Ho might be a job better-fit for Sin-Ju and Yu Ri, but if he says he wants to stay with you, you better let him.”

another laugh emitted from between the sobs as she listened to his final message.

“I really do love you, y/n. And if there is ever a chance of us finding each other again, I’ll tell you every chance I get. Anyway, I think it’s time for me to go now. I only have a couple more minutes and I don’t think the others are gonna make it in time. I’m scared if I’m being honest, y/n. I’m afraid of being alone, but you helped me not feel like that all the way up to the end—I finally had a family. So thank you. Love you.” and he smiled his big, child-like smile before adding on, “And don’t tell Lee Yeon I said sorry, or thank you, or I love you that much in under ten minutes.”

and just like that, it was over. no more, dumb family feuds, no more naengmyeon with no eggs because someone would always steal it, no more Lee Rang. she stared at the paused screen for what felt like hours before setting it to the side on the bed, to do as he had asked. carefully, she took the ring out from the safety of its cushions and slid it onto her left hand. she let out a shaky breath as she stared at her ring finger and she said it back, hoping that somehow, someway, he would hear it. “I love you too, Lee Rang-ah.”

it was a while before she moved from that spot—getting on her feet only to answer the door that had just rung. opening it, she could have seen the man who had taken the place of Lee Rang’s in the living world, but all she saw at that moment was an older brother who had also lost someone he loved.

“Lee Yeon-ah.” it was then that the male finally took in her appearance. she wore jeans, one of his brother’s sweaters, and her hair was in a bun that had clearly seen better days. but what really caught his attention as his eyes traveled, was the black box in her right hand, and shining silver band on her left. then he lifted his eyes back to hers to see just how tired she was. “Lee Yeon-ah. I miss him.”

the man simply brought her into his chest as she sobbed. and she cried, and she cried, and all the while he stood there with her in his embrace. it was all he could do, he couldn’t offer her words of comfort just yet because, even now she may be much stronger than he is. because she’s strong enough to live without the promise of his reincarnation. she knows she may never see him again, but won’t risk exchanging her life just so he won’t go through the same thing.

“I miss him so much.” her voice cracked as the words came out, and he ran his hand over her hair.

“I know, I know. I miss him, too.”

#tale of the nine tailed #tale of gumiho #lee rang #lee rang x reader #lee rang imagine #kim bum #kdrama #kdramanetwork #lee yeon #lee dong wook #i wrote the first part two episodes before the final one #so after acting it out in the shower i wrote the bonus part

392 notes · View notes

ktheist · 3 years

Text

in another life (i would be your man)

muses. hero!yoongi / assassin!yoongi / father!yoongi / lawyer!yoongi

word. 2.5k

genre. reincarnation au

time and time again, you find yourselves in the other’s absolute mercy.

mercy, which both of you know, the other will not grant.

“have you any last words, hero?” the grass shrivels up around yoongi all because hot air wilts the greenest of life.

a single bead of sweat trickles down the side of yoongi’s face as he looks at you without a shred of fear in the face of death.

“all the gold you’re hoarding... does it bring you happiness?” he says, as though already finding serendipity before you can even drive your talon into his chest.

“happiness!” you roar, mockery dripping off your word, “such humanly sentiments. you forgot who you’re speaking to, hero.”

“yoongi... yoongi’s my name” he sighs softly, eyelids fluttering shut, “say it.”

it is you who fall silent this time.

to say the name of the soul who’s bound to you not for love but for destruction... have you the right?

in your last life, a good few hundred years ago, he’s the one that drove the cross into your chest.

in the one before that, you burn him at the stakes for the wretched powers he held.

in this lifetime, even the armor made of the silver cannot withstand the weight of your paw, talon digging into his chest as he lays underneath you, ready to accept the heroic death.

“very well, if not in this lifetime, then perhaps the next...”

you live for three human lifetimes as the great dragon who brought the continent together. the humans, without their hero, are mere mortals. they learned better than to put their faith in one man.

in the next lifetime, you find yourself kneeling in front of a silver haired man - what a striking hair color for someone who’s supposed to be on the low.

“my hand’s gonna slip,” that gravelly voice still sends shivers down your spine.

“what-” you breathe out, eyebrows knitting together.

he takes his aim.

but there’s something wrong.

the angle he’s pointing at will graze your cheek and ear at most.

then he shoots.

when the bullet bounces against the cement somewhere a few inches away behind you, your body moves on its own. your leg sweep out to send him tumbling down onto the ground. your thighs pin his hips down so he can’t get up and you push the gun farther beyond his reach.

“why are you doing this?” you hiss, knife against his throat.

“don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to be happy?” yoongi says simply, too complacent for a man who’s about to lose yet another life to his enemy.

“that’s not how it works,” teeth gritted together, you press the dulled side of the knife harder against his snow-kissed flesh.

“then, how does it work?” he asks.

for a moment, you’re frozen in place. then you’re taken back to where it all begins.

you were a queen who poisoned her king before proceeding to ruin the kingdom until it remains but a memory to those who’ve lived through your tyrannical era. yoongi was the crown prince from a small country who enticed you into his chambers and kept you locked in a tower like a caged bird while he went to war with the neighboring kingdom with your kingdom’s army.

“i- i hated you for seducing me and locking me up in that tower,” you murmur, breath shaky, “a- and you hated me because i-i couldn’t be killed... because i was...”

“a blood sucker.” he finishes for you.

a flash of anger crosses your eyes and paint your vision red. you press the knife harder - no doubt there would be a bruise, “no matter how immortal i was... i died because of a broken heart. you killed me!”

“i was breaking my own heart for having to keep you locked in that tower but if i let you go...” he trails off, his hand coming to settle on yours.

it’s the first time you hear him choke up.

“so many died because of our love,” yoongi’s voice comes out barely above whisper.

“your sin is mistaking hate for love,” you flick your wrist, switching the side of the blade pressed against his neck to one that could cut through clean and swift.

but before you can seal yet another lifetime of your surviving, a sharp pain cuts into your arm, forcing you to release the blade, your free hand cupping the familiar circular wound that’s gushing with blood.

you push yourself off him, going over the ledge and jumping off to your safety. and yoongi’s left in the cold, night air, the coms in his ear buzzing back to life.

it’s six months later that he finds you, dressed in deep red, smiling seductively as you cling on a man twice your age. all of a sudden, he finds himself ignoring whatever his partner’s saying in the coms and approaching you and the man.

yoongi can barely remember what he said but he remembers the overwhelming feeling of relief when the man pushes you off and march out of the room, shouting russian vulgarities.

“planting a bullet hole in my arm isn’t enough, you just had to sabotage my mission, don’t you?” you’re on top of him once again but the ground isn’t cold and hard as he’s always remembered in the series of you pinning him down in differing lifetimes.

“have you thought about what i said?” he doesn’t look like he minds it anymore.

being pinned down by you, that is.

rather, yoongi quite likes the view of your cleavage when you lean down close enough to whisper into his hears, “i reflected on my past mistakes... and truly, i wish nothing more than to have you gone from my sight once and for all.”

then his index finger ghosts over the softest protrusion of the healed up scar on your arm. and you feel goosebumps on your skin.]

you leave in the morning, slipping out of the hotel room in that skin tight maroon dress, noticing the woman in the lobby, looking like what you would’ve looked like if you were waiting for your partner who went against orders and checked into a room in the very same hotel he was supposed to eliminate his target at.

sloppy. fucking sloppy.

yoongi never sees you after that. he got reprimanded and almost got eliminated by his own agency if it hadn’t been his father, the head of the extermination department who pulled some strings and buried the matter.

it’s a surprise he’s still alive at the age of of thirty-one, owning a lawfirm of his own and living the life he’s never thought he’d have.

a normal one.

then, he spots you, walking down the sidewalk holding a toddler’s hand and smiling down at him like he’s the most precious thing you’ve ever hold dear to.

“stop the car,” yoongi orders.

“s-sir?” the driver, surprised by the sudden request, hesitates.

“pull over!” it’s the first time the young man has ever hear his boss raise his voice.

so he does just that, but a block away from where yoongi last saw you.

he runs as fast as his legs could carry him. but the sidewalk is empty of a woman holding a child’s hand.

it takes another year of him searching records of faces and names. for you have many and unlike yoongi, he’s sure you have no one to pull the strings and make one blunder disappear.

then he finds you, under a pseudonym, of a certain kim hana whose child is named kim youngsoo.

“it’s me,” he announces, stepping into the light that pours past the window and over not even half of the room.

“mommy, can we order pizza?” youngsoo’s lively voice rings from outside of the room.

“yeah, why don’t you decide what toppings you want and i’ll be out there in a sec, sweetie,” your voice sounds heavenly - none of the guarded strain that he usually hears. but your eyes, they look like the eyes of a woman who would give everything to protect her most precious possession.

“so it was you... one year ago,” you say, ambling to the dresser where yoongi easily finds out your motive.

“the gun’s not there anymore, you really think i’d break into the house of an ex-assassin and not think to look for weapons tacked up somewhere out of sight?” he hears the frustrated sigh you make before you stand with your feet apart.

looks like you believe his words.

looks like you’ve got no problems taking him on with bare hands.

“he’s mine, isn’t he?”

a scoff.

“you’re pretty dumb if you think one night’s all it takes to get pregnant with your bastard child.”

“who’s the father, then? why isn’t he around?” he presses on.

and his questions have always been intrusive but you notice the weight of his every inquiry. as if he’d drop dead right this instant if you don’t answer them.

“he walked away, couldn’t accept that we had to always be on the move just because he had a baby with a wanted woman.”

and it’s not the police that wants you.

“his social security number?” yoongi shoots you another question.

“i don’t know. i don’t remember,” you say simply, a shrug accompanying your answer.

“number one rule of being an assassin: never forget anything,” yoongi recites easily, even after five years, he still recalls the drilling his mentor forced him through, “so that leaves us with one possibility: he doesn’t exist, this ex of yours.”

“mooooom.” youngsoo calls out, sounding too close for comfort.

“just a minute, sweetie. why don’t you take my phone out of my bag and get ready to dial up the number to the pizza place?” there’s a lightness in your tone.

envy wraps around yoongi’s heart before he even realizes it. how he wished you’d speak to him in that delicate, loving tone as well.

“look, i’m tired, i’m done playing games, i’ve been done since that night. i know i fucked up and i know some day i’ll pay for it but not tonight... tonight... at least let me have one last night with my kid.”

it’s the way the word ‘my’ and ‘kid’ fall naturally off your mouth that makes yoongi realize that he’s the one stuck in the beginning all along. that he’s the one who couldn’t move on from the past even though he sought to change the present and threw your world upside down when he decided not to take the shot.

before he can say anything, you’re already out of the door but he senses no rush in your footsteps.

“do you have the pizza place’s number down?” there it is again, the soft, tender tilt in your voice.

it’s a little faint but he hears it clearly.

and it may very well just be a trick to make him sympathize but what is he to sympathize with when he’s only here to ask for confirmation?

why do you treat him like death who’s finally come to take back your borrowed time?

well, the answer was simple.

“i paid off the bounty,” yoongi meets you at a cafe where he knows you’ll feel safer.

no assassin will make a move in broad daylight, in public, with his face out for the cameras to record.

“how much?” you sound like you just got another loan tying you down.

“enough that they can’t resist,” he states.

and before you can even say anything, he goes on, “i want to see him.”

“no.” you say curtly.

“he’s my child too.” he slides the white envelope he pulls out of his pocket to you.

it contains the dna results from the hair on the comb youngsoo complained he lost and yoongi’s own hair.

“he’s doesn’t need a father,” you don’t even give the envelope a second glance, “if that’s all-”

“that’s not for you to decide on your own,” he cuts you off.

it’s the firmness in his tone that makes your eyebrows rise. min yoongi has always been a gentle soul. even when he was driving a cross into your heart, he’d done it with the heaviest heart.

and for him to place his foot down like this - how very unlike him.

which is why, when he pulls, you pull harder.

“if you so much as appear in front of youngsoo, we will disappear and i’ll make sure you’ll never us again.”

and with that, you take out the blank check from your purse and slip it over to him. the check and the envelop laying side by side.

money isn’t the issue, you’ve managed to wire every single penny you have to different bank accounts before the agency could even freeze the one in seoul. it took several trips to japan, hong kong and china but you eventually got enough to start a new life with your new life.

and that new life of yours is being shaken by the presence of an entity of the past.

you begin noticing the men and women dressed in plain clothing standing a few feet away from where you and youngsoo go. they’re there, acting absolutely normal which makes it unnormal. always watching, always being on guard as if their lives depend on you and youngsoo’s security.

it goes on for another three months before you finally get tired of it and approach one of them, “call your boss over.”

youngsoo’s blowing bubbles at the park when a sleek black car pulls up at the curb and a familiar face steps out.

“you can see him every week on saturdays, one no-show and you’re out. also- i decide when he finds out,” you set the rules and yoongi looks like he a little kid who’s about to perform at his school’s talent show, “do we have a deal?”

“absolutely,” he nods readily.

yoongi’s hand moves on its own and he almost hooks his index finger around your pinky finger as if asking for some kind of emotional support. but he stops himself.

he walks beside you, watching as you walk out from under the shades of the tree, your expression instantaneously brightening when the sunlight hits, “youngsoo-ah,” you wave the toddler over.

his little legs comes running towards you, curious, bright eyes staring at yoongi and right through his soul. he’s never felt so bare and defenseless.

the only thing that keeps him from running away is the fondness in your voice. and the smile on your face that he’s never seen before, “youngsoo-ah, this is uncle yoongi, he’s mommy’s friend...”

yoongi musters the best smile he can - he never needed to try. it’s the people around him that force smiles to please him. never the other way around. never him having to smile so he wouldn’t scare off his son.

he crouches in front of the child that’s partially hiding behind you, “youngsoo-ah, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

#bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #bts smut #yoongi imagines #bts imagines #bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #bts au #yoongi au

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unloved-cadillac · 3 years

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All Over Again(Levi x Reader)

After regaining his memories, Levi is in high school searching for Y/n, his past Queen in which he served under. But after he does, she doesn’t remember him nor her past. Can Levi make her remember or will he make her fall in love with him again?

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌: 3.4𝗄

Reincarnation was the norm in the new world. After many lives lost, they were found a lifetime later. Many got lucky in the sense of finding their other half from their previous life. Either it’s by accident or glimpses of their face in dreams that drove a person to find them. Although, not everyone remembers their past lives. And, boy, does it suck for their friends who do.

In Levi’s case, it was his previous queen who didn’t remember him. Who also happens to be his lover.

His dreams were filled with her ever since he can remember. Her beautiful h/c hair flowing in the wind while they rode on their horses, her sparkling eyes when she spoke of her new book. Her plump rosy lips that made him want to kiss her forever. What he gathered from his memories, he was some kind of knight that was under an oath to protect the L/n family who was the royal family at that time. Levi also found out that he had fallen hopelessly in love with the princess. Y/n L/n. Well, at the time she was a princess when he fell for her. Levi was a mere soldier when he was picked to be one of the royal guards sent to protect Sina’s flower.

“Hey! Levi! You’re daydreaming again!” Hange yells out while tapping his shoulder. “Huh? Oh. Sorry.” Levi snaps back to reality. He was in class. English to be precise. He hated English. But he remembered Y/n telling him that she was very fond of writing and reading so he tried for her. “Thinking of her again?” Hange asks with a broad smile on her face. Hange was also part of that era with them. As a matter of fact, she was the closest friend apart from Levi since Hange helped in the castle’s science field. “Shut up, Shitty Glasses.” Levi groans and wipes his face. “I have a new memory of her.” Hange tells him and he looks back up at her. “What was it?” “Well, we were in the lab and I spilled some kind of solute on her and it burned her left hand by a mistake. Even though she was hurting she laughed which in turn made me laugh. You even slapped my head. Ouch.” Hange tells Levi and chuckles. “But that was also the moment that she kissed you.” Levi’s eyes widened and a faint blush formed on his cheeks. “Yeah. I remember spying on the two of you and she kissed your cheek while you dressed her wound. It was cute.” Hange continues and smiles.

As Levi was about to say something, their school bell rang, indicating the end of the school day. They packed their bags and walked out together. “How am I gonna find her, Hange?” Levi asks and Hange sighs. “I don’t know, Levi. It was by pure luck we found each other. Maybe in time she’ll turn up.” She pats his back as they walk home. Yeah. In time.

~~~~

The following day, Levi was in his home room class with Hange when their teacher came. “Alright, kids. Today I bring some good news! We have a new student joining us today!” He exclaims making Levi groan at his loudness. Pixis was always so damn enthusiastic about everything and it was a pain in the ass sometimes. As this man spoke, Levi thought of Y/n. He was willing to walk out this damn school and the life he had here just to find her. She had his heart for so long and all he wanted to do was hold her on his arms again.

“Ok, kiddo. You can come in now.” Pixis says and the door opens. Levi had his head on his table, trying to catch a few winks before 1st period but that was disturbed when Hange shoved him awake. “Jesus, shitty glasses. The fuck you want?” He questions her and Hange had her mouth agape and her eyes wide. So wide, her eyes were for sure going to pop out of her skull in a few moments. “Oi, Hange. What’s wrong?” All she does is point to the front of the class and he turns his head to look at what his friend pointed at. That was where he almost started crying.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Y/n L/n. I’m glad to be part of your class!” Y/n says and smiles a bright smile. Levi almost fainted from what he was seeing and hearing. She was here. This wasn’t a dream nor a memory. She was right in front of him, smiling a smile he hadn’t seen in forever. “Y/n, there’s a seat right there by the window. Go on.” Pixis tells her and she walks to the table and sits herself on the seat. She sat in the third seat from the front in the row next to Levi’s. But he sat right in the back with Hange so they couldn’t speak to her. Hange and Levi shared a look before the bell rang. As everyone started to leave, Levi and Hange walked up to her. Levi’s heart was beating a million miles per hour. This was it. He was finally going to hear her voice after so long and he will have her again. “Uhm, Y/n?” Hange called to her and Y/n turned around and smiled. “Hello.” She says. Hange looked at Levi and Levi looked at Y/n. “Hi, Y/n.” He says and she smiles. “Hello.” She says again and Hange launches herself onto her making Y/n almost fall over. “Oh, Y/n! I’m so happy that we found you! You have no idea how long we waited for you! I’ve missed you so much!” Hange cries out and all Y/n does is pay her back. Hange could feel her resistance and pulls away to look at Y/n’s confused face. “Y/n?” “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?” She asks and Levi’s heart just drops. Hange looks at her then Levi. “What?” Hange asks Levi and he doesn’t say a word. “I’m gonna be late to my first class. Goodbye.” Y/n says pulling away from the awkward scene and walks out the class, leaving Levi and Hange with a broken heart.

“What the fuck, Levi?!” Hange yells out while they sit in the cafeteria. Levi’s eyes were trained on Y/n while she spoke with some people. Y/n stopped and looked at him. He blinked and continued to look at her. She blushed and looked away. He smirks knowing that even if she doesn’t remember them, he still could do that to her. “Guys!” A friendly voice calls out to them. Turning around they see Armin walking up to them with a book. “Armin! Hi.” Hange says and Levi greets him with a “hey.” Armin sits next to them and places the book in front of them. “So, I read up on your little situation with Y/n and I might have a solution.” Armin says and Levi looks at him sharply. “Explain.” Levi says and Armin opens the book. It’s old, with a brown cover that was filled with little designs. “I found this book in the library. It was written by someone who was always reincarnated and in this page,” he points to the book, “it explains what he experienced when his friends couldn’t remember him.” Levi grabs the book and starts reading it.

..and man was I bummed. The four closest people to me couldn’t remember each other and me. Funny how I did but they didn’t. I kept on trying, for almost two months, to speak to them. To tell them about the adventures we had in our lives. But none of them budged. I was getting really impatient. Not only did I feel alone, two of them were destined to be together and they never even looked at each other. So I stayed up for countless nights, trying to find a way to jolt their memories. Something must’ve happened that was a constant in our lives. I’m sure previous life me is laughing at my face now. Anyway, I wrote everything down from what I could remember. Four lives. I wrote everything for four lives worth. And there was a thing that was a bit constant.

In my first life, we were in the times of mythical creatures. Maria and I were playing with a small dragon and it burned her arm. All of us laughed and helped her treat it. In my second life, we were in medieval times and a horse bit her hand. In my third, we were in a forest and Maria didn’t know the three of us. But when my cat scratched her, she gasped and fell down. Then she leaped into my arms telling me about our lives. In my fourth, I was a soldier and Maria had been shot. The five of us smiled at each other and then we died.

After coming up with the conclusion that Maria had to be injured in some way for her to remember, I set a plan. Since I wasn’t the cause of any of her injuries, it was something that did it. A creature or animal. The next day, I went to Maria and told her to meet me behind our school yard. She was hesitant, of course. But she showed up anyway. I told the others and they all showed up. Mostly because I used their interests to lure them there. When they showed, I had a dog. Tim was my big Saint Bernard who could never harm anyone unless I said so. When I pointed to Maria, he ran up to her and pushed her on the ground. His claws mistakenly scratched her and I quickly pulled him away. No one did anything. They all just stared at each other. Maria looked at her arm and then up at me. Tears filled her eyes and she leaped into my arms. She whispered to me that she remembers. I smiled and hugged her back while the others joined in. When we pulled away, the two that were destined to be together kissed. We were back together and that’s all I wanted.

Levi sighed and handed the book back to Armin. “So, we need to find a constant. Something that happened before that will jolt her memory.” Levi says and Armin nods. “Yup. Is there anything that might work?” He asks. “There is one. But here’s the thing: we only remember our one past life. For what we know, this is our first time being like this. So how can we be sure it will work? What if we fuck it up?” Hange asks with a worry. “Then we start fresh.” Levi answers while still looking at Y/n. “Ok. Well, let’s meet up at the cafe later and we can talk about it.” Hange proposes and Levi hums in agreement. “Oh! Armin! How is Annie?” Hange asks and Armin blushes. “She’s good. Her school is far away so we hardly see each other. But we Skype and stuff so I guess we’re okay.” He replies. “Your past life is so cool, dude. Being a merchant and falling for a soldier. You must tell me more one day,” Hange excitedly says and Armin smiles. “Of course.” Those two ramble on while Levi thinks of how he could win his queen’s memories back.

~~~~

At the cafe, Levi and Hange talk over coffee and tea. They were brainstorming and Hange speaks. “Levi, maybe we should try that burning thing on her.” “I hate having to hurt her. Isn’t there something else?” Levi asks while sipping his tea. “The thing is, I can’t remember anything else that might work.” Hange explains and he sighs. They continued to speak when Levi heard the cafe bell ring. Out of curiosity, he looks at who entered and he quickly slapped Hange to look. “Ow, Levi! Not so hard. Oh.” She stops and looks at Y/n. She was with some girl and it looked like she didn’t know they were here either. Hange groans and looks back at Levi. “I miss her. That should be me dragging her everywhere,” she says. Y/n and her friend order drinks and it looks like they weren’t staying. Since their drinks were in take-away cups. A man stood behind the pair and Levi narrowed his eyes. The man leaned down in between the girls, making them startle. “Hey ladies.” Levi heard the man speak but the rest was soft. Levi saw the man’s hand making its way to Y/n’s back. “Uhm, I’ll appreciate it if you kept your hands off of me and my friend, sir.” Y/n says and Levi smirks. Yup, definitely his Queen. “Oh, come on doll. I know you like having a man holding you.” He replies and his hand was going to grab her ass when Levi stepped in and grabbed his wrist. “What the..?” “You heard her. Keep your hands off of them,” he says sternly and Y/n looks at him. Suddenly, Y/n flinches and holds her head.

“This prince doesn’t seem to understand that I do not want to marry him,” Y/n whispers to herself while the prince continued to babble on and on about how rich his father was and how good they would be together. “So, princess,” he leans towards her, “what do you say we go up to your massive chambers and have some fun?” He moves his hand to grab her waist when another arm grabs his. “Levi!” Y/n says and Levi twists the prince’s arm. “Keep your hands off of her,” he says and throws the prince on the floor. He looks at Y/n and cups her cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?” Y/n snaps out of her memory and looks around her. What was that? She looks at Levi who was eyeing her carefully. “Did he hurt you?” He asks and she shakes her head. “I..I need to go.” She goes past Levi and walks out. “Thanks Levi. I owe you one,” the girl says and walks out with the drinks to Y/n. “Hey.” Levi turns to the barista. “Levi, right? Thank you. For saving them. You’re welcome here anytime for free.” He says and Levi nods. He goes to sit back down with Hange and looks at her. “What?” He questions her smug face. “She remembered something,” she replies and Levi scoffs. “Sure.” “Really, Levi! She did. If she didn’t she wouldn’t have held her head or would’ve thanked you! We’re getting close.”

~~~~

“Oh my god. What was that?” Y/n whispers to herself as she gets ready for bed. She remembers her faint dreams that she had. All of them were of this boy. He looked just like Levi. Now that she saw him in real life, her heart fluttered all the time and the sense of pure love radiates from him. She knows the whole story about reincarnation. Her friend told her of her past life and how she and her girlfriend were there together. “Why can’t I remember?” She holds her head and groans. “He means something to me! I know he does! Shit.” She says and falls into her bed. Maybe her dreams will give her some answers.

Back at the palace, Y/n was reading her book while Levi stood guard by her door. Looking up from the book, she catches Levi looking at her but he quickly looks ahead when she does. Closing her book, she sets it on the table and walks up to him. “Levi.” She calls his name. “Yes, your majesty?” He responds. She wraps her arms around his neck forcing him to look at her. “You know you don’t have to be so stern when you're with me alone, right?” She asks and he looks down at her. “I hated those men looking at you today,” he suddenly says and she gasps. “Was my knight, perhaps jealous of said men?” She slyly asks while he scoffs but doesn’t answer. “Is that a yes?! Oh I knew it!” She giggles and he looks at her. Y/n calms down and cups his cheek. “Your Queen orders you to give her a kiss.” She says. “I don’t need to be ordered to do that,” he responds and places his lips on hers for a soft, loving kiss.

Levi wakes up after his dream. “Another memory. Fuck,” he sighs as he runs his hand through his hair. “Y/n. Remember me. Please.”

“Y/N! RUN! GO AWAY FROM HERE!” “NOT WITHOUT YOU, IDIOT!” “FOR GOD’S SAKE Y/N LISTEN TO ME!” Levi yells back at her. He swings his sword back and forth fighting the enemy while guarding his Queen. He turns to look at her and sees an arrow flying towards her. He runs in front of her with the intention to block it from piercing through her. Instead it pierced him. He saw her eyes widen and looked down at the arrow. “L-Levi,” she whispers to him as her tears fall. He couldn’t hold on for much longer. So he quickly kisses her and he leans on her. “I love you, Y/n.”

“LEVI! NO!” Y/n yells out, springing up from her bed. She pants and tries to catch her breath. She feels her cheeks which were now soaked with tears. Her hands were shaking. It felt so real. “Levi. Queen. It all makes sense now.” She whispers to herself and wakes up to go to her bathroom to wash her face. As the water hit her face, another memory ran through her mind. His funeral. It was pouring down and Y/n looked up to feel the rain hit her face. “I love you, Levi.” Y/n looks at herself in the mirror and smiles. “Finally.”

~~~~

Levi and Hange walk to their class while Hange goes over their plan. “Ok. So, I’m gonna take Y/n to our science lab, okay? You will be outside watching like how you did back then. I’m gonna show her some cool experiments and I’m gonna accidentally hurt her. When she yells out or like cusses at me or something, you come in and ask me what happened. You will take her hand and look at it while she looks at you. Then, you take her to the nurses office and help her wound and get all lovey dovey. Then you look at her, staring into her eyes oh so lovingly and then you will lean in and she will then you both will..-“ “ALRIGHT, HANGE! I get the idea!” Levi puts a hand over her mouth to shut her up and she chuckles. She looks ahead and sees the person they were just speaking about. Hange points to her and Levi looks. There Y/n stood. With an apple and caramel muffins.

Levi and Hange stop dead in their tracks and look at her. Y/n smiles and walks up to them. “Hange.” She says and Hange smiles. “I remember you telling me once that you loved the caramel muffins I got for you. So here,” she hands her the container. Hange eyes sparkle and take the box. She looks at Y/n and brings her in a bear hug. “Oh Y/n! Y/n! I’m so happy you remember me! I’m so happy!” Hange yells out and Y/n laughs at her long lost friend. Setting her down, Hange looks at Levi who had his own smile on his face. “I’ll leave you two be, your majesty.” Hange says softly and Y/n giggles at the name. Levi looks at Y/n with adoration in his eyes and Y/n smiles while holding out the apple. “And my knight told me that his favorite fruit was an apple.” Y/n says as some happy tears fall down her bright face. Levi moves to her and wipes her tears away. “You remember me?” Levi asks and she nods. “I remember. I remember us. Levi, last night I, I saw how you died. You died protecting me. You saved me, Levi. You saved me, baby,” she whispers and holds his face. “Yeah. I told you. I’ll always protect you.” Levi replies with tears falling down his face and Y/n crashes her lips with his. He wrapped his arms around her waist and twirled her around. He settled her back down but kept her in his arms.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers into her lips. “And I’ve missed you.” She says and hugs him. He pulls away and looks at her. “Just know, that I’ll do it all over again for you.”

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agentrouka-blog · 3 years

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Tyrion and Tysha murder mystery hints - first mention in the text

This thing just keeps tugging at me, and this recent thread made me ambitious to examine it in more detail. So I’ll look at hints for an even darker edge to the story of Tyrion and Tysha in the parts of the text that actually mention her.

Since I have limited time, I’ll do several posts. This one is about how we learn about Tysha in A Game of Thrones.

We head into AGOT, Tyrion VI via a chapter transition from AGOT, Jon V, where Jon talks Maester Aemon into choosing Samwell as his assistant. In the presence of his current assistant Chett, who - it is revealed later in the ASOS Prologue - murdered a girl he liked for rejecting him.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”

“Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.

Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”

“Does that mean …?”

“It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”

(AGOT, Jon V)

The chapter is followed by AGOT, Tyrion VI, where Tyrion and Bronn rest on the high road after being kicked out of the Gates of the Moon, after he won his trial by combat:

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering dead-wood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.”

The entire conversation between Jon, Aemon and Chett sets up Tyrion. A lordling, bad with manual labor, but smart and a reader. Yet we know he is no Samwell Tarly in his sensibilities, and the last sentence is dedicated to Chett.

Chett...

The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.

But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.

Like Tyrion, Chett is rejected by others for his appearance, has a violent father and a lot of resentment that comes out in the shape of murdering “slatterns”. He also mixes it up with the idea of marriage. Like Tyrion, the cold night reminds Chett of the girl in his past.

He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him?

Chett killed her in a rage, but the truth is layered and haunts him.

But back to Tyrion.

Tyrion VI emphasizes Tyrion’s cleverness as he converses with Bronn, explaining his strategy in the Vale for how to steal Bronn from Cat’s service and make use of his practical talents, and his strategy for their travels in the Mountains of the Moon. Tyrion talks, Bronn listens and agrees to serve him.

The point is, Tyrion is very observant and smart. Reader, trust Tyrion’s judgent and words, is the message. Then we get more personal.

As they light a fire and eat a goat, Tyrion remembers his goaler Mord who treated him cruelly in the sky cells.

(Mord, btw, translates to murder in many a germanic/Scandinvian language.)

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.

The image of coins spilling from hands is picked up later.

Tyrion was hoping to lure in the mountain clans, but they take their time showing up, so he tries to be even more conspicuous.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.

He chooses the “terrible” tune himself. It leads straight to his memory:

“Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats.

Myrish, as in the Myrish lens. The object Lysa sends Catelyn, which has a false bottom hiding the real message in a secret language, a message of murder and conspiracy. A secret language, a foreign language, like Mord.

"A lens is an instrument to help us see." (AGOT, Catelyn II)

Bright and merciless as truth.

My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed … yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to … well, nowhere, really.

Where Tysha went will become a theme. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir examines that beautifully here.

But even right here, the tone is ominous, and GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize it with the ellipses.

We get the story of Jaime chasing after the outlaws and Tyrion and Tysha falling into bed at an inn after drinking, eating and talking, and the story of their marriage, and its end.

Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

“He sent the girl away?”

“He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

NOTHING about this makes sense, which is ridiculous when you consider we were just hammered over the head with how smart Tyrion is supposed to be.

Since when is Jaime prone to setting up complex schemes? Why would feel the need to push Tyrion to have sex at thirteen, and why would be ever do it this way? Why would be hire him a virgin for his first time? We don’t question it because GRRM has told us not to question the smartiepants. But as we later learn, that was all. not. true. So maybe other things aren’t true, either.

“After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she …” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”

The parallels to his memory of Mord are striking. Silver and gold, coins spilling from hands, a “price” beyond expectation... and a promise of something very sinister at the next meeting.

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”

1) Nice how Bronn makes it about Tyrion’s pain. Tysha’s pain does not exist to them. And so the reader is also drawn away from it. Poor Tyrion.

2) Another reference to killing. It foreshadows Tyrion’s murder of Tywin over this very matter, of course, but at the same time...

Tyrion gestured impatiently with the bow. “Tysha. What did you do with her, after my little lesson?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Try harder. Did you have her killed?”

His father pursed his lips. “There was no reason for that, she’d learned her place … and had been well paid for her day’s work, I seem to recall. I suppose the steward sent her on her way. I never thought to inquire.”

“On her way where?”

“Wherever whores go.”

Tyrion’s finger clenched. (ASOS, Tyrion XI)

I don’t think it can be emphasized enough that this happens right after he murders Shae. Shae the whore.

“Did you ever like it?” He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he’d slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. “Did you ever like my touch?”

“More than anything,” she said, “my giant of Lannister.”

That was the worst thing you could have said, sweetling.

Tyrion slid a hand under his father’s chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm,” he said. He gave cold hands another twist as the warm ones beat away his tears.

And just before he asks him about Tysha, Tywin assures him he was meant to be sent to the Wall. Whether or not that’s a lie, we’re looking at another Chett parallel. Murdering a “slattern”, facing life at the Wall.

We close Tyrion’s memory of Tysha:

Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”

He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss …

Like Chett, his thoughts return to the girl. He turns into the goaler, Mord, his rage comes through, his capability of great violence. In ASOS, his lashing out at Tywin is preceeded by directing his violence toward the “whore” who allegedly betrayed him. Which is preceeded by a truth about Tysha.

“Thank you?” Tyrion’s voice was choked. “He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me … watch.” Aye, and more than watch. I took her too … my wife …

“I never knew he would do that. You must believe me.”

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!”

“Tyrion—”

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(ASOS, Tyrion XI)

The turnkey here is interesting. Once again, Tysha’s memory is associated with a cell and the presence of a turnkey. In his anguished memory, Tyrion almost stumbles over him. The last turnkey was Mord.

So, just looking at Tysha’s first mention, there are so many ominous connections. Murder murder murder.

The chapter ends with Tyrion meeting and “hiring” the mountain clans. How? To avenge himself on Lysa Arryn, he promises them the entire Vale. Really driving home that “a Lannister pays his debts” is all about disproportionate retribution.

A few chapter later, to create some distance to this dark tale, Tyrion meets Shae and sets up to re-create his entire Tysha trauma. The two are intertwined, so why should their ends not be?

That’s fodder for a different post, though.

#asoiaf #anti tyrion lannister #tysha #murder mystery #long post #Shae #tywin lannister #bronn #mismemory #memory edit

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it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream · 3 years

Text

Silva Lining (Saul Silva x reader) chapter 19

Warnings: swearing?

Word count: 1.4k

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You had just enough time to grab your stuff and run before the camp was overturned by the Solarian guards and an angry Andreas looking for revenge. The ‘dark guards’ as they had called themselves opened fire on the enemy as you and your friends made a run for it in the direction they had pointed. Black cloaks billowed behind you as the dark guards followed behind. Soon enough you’d run into an open field, in the middle, a plane. Not an ordinary plane you and Bloom knew from earth, no, this was more like what you’d call a Quinjet, you know, the thing they use in avengers. Apart from the armour glistened black, so dark you could see your own reflection. The female Dark Guard clicked something on a device that was concealed by their cloak, the hatch at the back of the hovercraft opened and your friends made a b-line for safety. The shouting from the Solarian Guards got closer, the two Dark Guards struggling to hold off the hoard that had amassed at the edge of the forrest line.

With the amount of fire power the Solarians had, you knew the plane wouldn’t be able to leave the ground without taking any damage. You turned, abandoning the safety of the aircraft. You were pissed off, cold, you head hurt and all you wanted was the man you loved and these assholes were the ones getting in your way. With all the emotions now swirling inside like a bottled hurricane, you threw your arms out to the sides. It was if everyone stopped. The guards on both sides looked up in amazement as black tendrils floated from your fingers, creating a wall high and wide, as wide as a football field, separating you and the enemy.

“Get on the thing and get it started!.” You threw your head in the direction of the spaceship looking thing and the Guards listened, running to start your way to Saul. The Solarian guards were trying all they could to penetrate your magic but it was no use, you were too strong and determined for them.

The sleek, black machine roared to life, your friends were standing at the open door shouting at you to hurry. You knew without focusing on the shield it would only last a couple more seconds suspended in the air before the enemy could break through, it was now or never. With a swoosh of your arms you turned and ran toward the open door, the black, dense wall of fog dropping rapidly behind you. The sound of bullets could be heard whizzing through the air, arrows too. The spacecraft was hovering in the air, Sky was leaning down waiting for your outstretched hand when another arrow flew past, grazing your arm and embedding itself into the body of the plane.

——————————————————————————————————

Sky managed to pull you up just in the nick of time. Your arm had a deep cut, the arrow slicing through your skin like a hot knife through butter. You’d think with all these fairies around they would be able to heal your bleeding wound in a flash but no, the only one capable of it would be Mr Harvey and he didn’t have any of his herbs or potions. Terra had some, but not the ones he needed, she did give you something to take the pain away which worked almost instantly.

“So where is it you’re taking us exactly.” Sky hadn’t left your side since you boarded the plane, his protective side in full force, you were sure he didn’t trust the people who had rescued you, but why should you, you didn’t know them.

“We’re going to the castle, where the Princess will meet her father and loyal subjects, you will also get to meet the students at the Witch academy. They’ve heard all about you and are eager to make your acquaintance.” You looked at Sky and mouthed ‘Witch academy?’ to which he shrugged, your mother and Harvey on the other hand seemed to know what they were talking about.

“Once Fairies and Witches practised magic together, but then the blood witches spoilt the name and they had to go into hiding. Bringing together the two races again was a plan that we at Alfea had been discussing seriously, hoping in time to bring the realms back to how they once were. I didn’t know it was your father who housed the school.” Your mum sat and pondered in silence. Well, if it wasn’t one thing after another…. you still had a lot to learn about this life.

It seemed like you had been travelling for hours, at one point you were sure you fell asleep, only waking when Sky changed the dressing on your bleeding arm. It was light outside, but the sky wasn’t its normal blue hue, instead the sky here was more purple and pink, something you’d never experienced in your lifetime.

“Were in Imperium.” Stella gasped as she looked outside with you, taking in the hue of the sky as well as the multi coloured landscape below. The others all rushed to the windows in excitement.

“I didn’t think it was real, the only thing I know about it is what i’ve heard in stories.” Terra turned to you smiling.

“So what’s so special about this place exactly?” They gave you a blank look. After a good 30 minutes of story time, you found out that Imperium was thought by some to be a myth, legend, only those important enough knowing the location of the realm. Imperium was home to some of the rarest of creatures in the whole of the magical world, it’s thought to have been the first realm created by the elusive Great Dragon, the very creature that gifted you with your immense power, the dragon soul.

It wasn’t long after you took in the scenery below that things really started to come into view. The air craft came to a slow landing, the two Dark Guards touching all sorts of holographic screens to power down the vessel that brought you to safety. Looking out of the window again, you noticed a crowd had formed.

“Stay close, don’t trust anyone.” Sky whispered to you and the others low enough that the Guards didn’t hear. You all stood, ready to disembark, your arm you held against your chest firmly, wincing when it jostled. As soon as the hatch door came down, you were bombarded by people. They were looking you over, equipment was at the ready to heal your arm and you were nothing but confused.

“We sent word that the princess would be needing immediate medical attention.” The Dark Guards stood by you watching as the healers made a fuss. Your friends and mother stood close by keeping a close eye on the situation.

“I don’t care about my damn arm! Where is Saul?!” You flinched as a shock went through your arm, when you looked down, the wound was gone, as if it had never been there in the first place. You thanked the healers but still the only thing you were thinking about was Saul. You pushed passed the nosy crowd of people that had gathered. You broke free of the mass and out into the open, what you saw next made your heart stop.

There he was, dressed in all black, stubble caressing his jawline, lips set in a confused frown as he looked towards the commotion, it was only when he saw you that his whole face lit up, his eyes widened and his mouth turned upward in an almighty grin. Your eyes brimming with tears, you flung yourself forward, running as fast as you possibly could, Saul running just as fast toward you, bounding down the many steps that led up to a huge castle you had failed to notice. You didn’t slow, throwing yourself into his arms, your bodies colliding. He caught you as you knew he would, his arms wrapped around your back as your legs came around his waist. The tears were flowing now, emotions were extremely high, you could hear cheers in the background. You looked him over, making sure he was okay then wasted no time pressing your lips to his in a feverish kiss. Like always, fireworks and sparks erupted, although this time, the sky danced with colour, a neon light show curtesy of your magic.

You were where you were supposed to be, in his arms, it was home.

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Hey! Whoop they're reunited! Saul is back babies! <3

Hope you liked it, please comment/love/follow/re-blog <3

CHAPTER 20 ----- CLICK HERE

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bts-fic-collection · 3 years

Note

Hello!!! Thank you for allll the hard work you put in!💕 Please suggest the longest Fics possible!!! Absolutely any ship I just want them to be good! And fluffier the better. (Medium angst... think AGW) 100k+ pleaseeee

Thank you! ^_^ I’ve done my best to find some fics like that! :)

Shades of Wrong by maeumin

Rating: E

Pairings: Jungkook/Jimin

Status: Incomplete (Updated 16 Apr 21)

Word count: 116,189

Summary: When CEO Jeon Jeongguk is offered a deal he can't turn down, he requires the assistance of a right-hand man to assure everything goes according to plan.

What a shame the perfect candidate is no other than Park Jimin, the best lawyer in Seoul and Jeongguk's sworn enemy.

Box of Flowers by YeetMyself

Rating: E

Pairings: Jungkook/Taehyung/Jimin

Status: Complete

Word count: 109,401

Summary: The three of them made plans to meet by Han River, and Jimin was going to buy ice cream and a bottle of wine to celebrate his own courage. He was going to tell them how every time he looked at them his heart fluttered. How he dreamt of them, the three of them, staying together, forever. They would be happy and in love and… and it would be perfect.

In the span of a text message, a photo, and Jimin’s tears, those dreams crumbled.

Park Jimin has been in love with his best friends and housemates – Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook – for almost ten years. He finally has the courage to tell them, and then it happens. Taehyung and Jungkook fall in love with each other, leaving Jimin on the sidelines, alone.

The Prince Who Kissed A Dragon by Curionenene and YeonAh

Rating: E

Pairings: Seokjin/Taehyung

Status: Complete

Word count: 258,139

Summary: The smart reaction would be to take a step back and not engage in a deadly game of chicken with a thousand-pound flying reptile. But Taehyung's nannies hadn't raised a coward.

So, in what was the stupidest move in an increasingly dangerous list of stupid moves, Taehyung leaned up that extra foot and pressed a cheeky smooch to the centre of the dragon's snout.

Behind him, Jungkook let out a strangled sound, even as Jin pulled back, the cave shaking from his stumbling steps. "Did you just kiss me?"

(Oh, and yeah. There's black magic, intrigue, and a plot to claim Taehyung’s life and plunge the whole land into a cruel war. But we all know what you're really reading this for.)

I am your beautiful boy by NamjoonieSprout

Rating: Not rated

Pairings: Namjoon/Yoongi

Status: Complete

Word count: 272,049

Summary: There’s something so comforting with knowing your lifetime is limited. It was a morbid thing to say, to think about, but in some ways a comforting idea nevertheless. Because while this lifetime may be hell, this hell is short, confined within a set amount of time. It will end, as all things had a tendency to do. It gets rather depressing if you think too long about it though, just as all bad things will come to an end, so will all the good things. There is no judgement made, no clear separation between the two, it all merely leaves. You can’t even have second thoughts, no get out of jail free cards, no takes backs. Sometimes you don’t even get a goodbye.

Even then, it is your life, ultimately. A short time so unconditionally, lovingly entitled to you. Yours to make unhellish in so many ways, with so many attempts, a constant cycle of trial and error. The world wronged you with circumstance, and you will wrong it by staying alive and thriving within it.

This is how Yoongi views the world. In this world that had wronged him since birth, he will spite it by surviving it for as long as he can. He promises himself that he will come out the over side victorious, having lived a life that was more than just existence.

State of Our Affairs by ninadaydreams

Rating: E

Pairings: Jungkook/Seokjin, Seokjin/Taehyung

Status: Incomplete (Updated 5 Apr 21)

Word count: 328,807

Summary: Reporter Kim Seokjin has always wanted his byline on the front page of The Bangtan Times. But he didn't end up writing the lead story. . . because Reporter Kim Seokjin himself became the lead story.

An imagined modern Royalty AU also featuring Editor Min Yoongi, Socialite Jung Hoseok, Anchorman Kim Namjoon, Photojournalist Park Jimin, Artist Kim Taehyung, and His Royal Highness the Crown Prince Jeon Jungkook.

#ask #jikook #vminkook #taejin #namgi #jinkook #jimin #jungkook #taehyung #seokjin #namjoon #yoongi #long fic #enemies to lovers #fantasy au #dragons #slow burn #Rating: E #Rating: Not rated

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jimlingss · 4 years

Text

Ducklings & Dimples 2

Original / Sequel

➜ Words: 17.1k

➜ Genres: 58% Fluff, 20% Adventure, 20% Action, 2% Angst, Historical!AU - kind of

➜ Summary: After your adventures with Yoongi, you head home to face your family and the duties you've run from. A year has passed since. But you never anticipated meeting him again with his fiancée.

The country of Pegan is one you’ve never had the opportunity to venture into. It was a place that you teetered on, scaling the border, poking your head into one or two of the small villages just to sell in before you were on your way. But you had heard lots about it in his letters. You just never thought you would be visiting it in such a way. Ten round towers form a protective barrier around the elegant castle and are connected by firm walls made of gray stone. Refined windows are scattered generously across the walls in an asymmetric pattern. Beyond the gates are well kept gardens with fragrant flowers, gorgeous trees and many bushes that decorate the outside of the castle. The castle itself has clearly been around for at least a thousand years, but it doesn't seem like it will collapse any time soon. “Back straight. You’re slouching, Taehyung,” your mother barks to your youngest brother and sharply inhales when Jin purposely bumps into him with his broad shoulders, telltale signs he’s trying to instigate more bickering. “Stop that right now, young man. You’re supposed to set an example as the eldest.” “I wasn’t even doing anything!” Jin protests to no avail. Taehyung’s mouth curls as he jumps on the opportunity to berate his older brother, “You’re twenty six. You should act like it.” Seokjin’s mouth drops open. “How dare you bring my age into this.” “Can you guys please shut your mouths for one second?” Lia is exasperated and glares. “People are staring at us.” “Now, now, children.” Your dad clears his throat and brushes off his shoulders. “Let’s not give your mother a hard time and argue in front of the Duchess’ castle.” Your mother holds in her sigh temporarily and makes it to your sister, smoothing out her dress that’s been wrinkled from the carriage ride. “Hair in place, darling.” Then she makes it to the end of the line and looks at you. Your eyes meet hers and you anticipate nagging. Perhaps an insult of how strands of hair have fallen from your updo and around your eyes. Or how you should get rid of that frown off your face before she singes it off. But to your surprise, your mother merely smiles and swivels around. “Shall we enter?” She’s trying — you can see it and it’s an effort you appreciate. Your entire family climbs the marble steps leading up to the grand doors already open with folks filtering inside. It was the Duchess of Pegan’s birthday, a week long affair and evidently, a huge celebration. Much too extravagant for your own tastes, but it’s not like your opinion matters. “Kaela, Elden!” The man in the foyer comes over with a golden chalice and his wife trails after him. Immediately, your mother curtsies along with your sister and you dip down after a delayed second, momentarily forgetting the manners drilled into your brain. “Duke and Duchess Fesan. It’s a pleasure.” “Oh please, don’t be a stranger. It’s been too long!” The older man has silver, short hair that almost fully covers his thin, lived-in face. But his eyes are fond as if he has seen many good things in his lifetime. Fesan Winsor is a duke, brother to the king that runs Pegan. You only know such facts after the relentless history lessons with your overbearing tutor. He gives a light embrace to your mother and father, nods his head towards you and Lia, and shakes Seokjin’s hand. “Why, you’ve grown to be such a strapping, young man. Handsome, indeed. The last I’ve seen of you, you were but a wee boy.” “Thank you.” Jin practically beams over the praise and you and Taehyung roll your eyes. “Are you looking to get married any time soon?” His irises sparkle. “Do you have someone in mind, your grace?” The Duke barks out laughing at the witty quip and your mother audibly sighs. “Seokjin’s much too deep in finishing his studies to be considering marriage, unfortunately. And a bit too immature to handle the responsibilities of such a thing.” “Oh you never know about children,” Duchess Jacquelyn laughs boisterously. “They always grow up faster than we realize.” The Duchess is in a lavish dress that looks like it’s about to swallow her whole, flashy to the maximum and heavy diamonds are wrapped around her neck. It makes you wonder if it aches. Her golden hair is stark with a bit of gray, yet she is bright eyed and overly friendly as she squeezes the living daylights out of Lia and then you. It’s unusual how she has no respect for personal boundaries or what’s mannerly for a high-class lady that she is. There’s small talk made between your father and the Duke, but as the Duchess pulls away from you, her face lights up as if she recalls something. “Wait a moment! You are Y/N, correct?” “Uh, yes. I am, madam.” “Then you were the one who defeated that vicious dragon from the North with Yoongi, weren’t you?! Why your tale of bravery is infamous!” She grasps your hands with an excited smile. You swallow hard, not sure how you feel about being viewed as a hero when you’re not. But you don’t say anything for fear of having to explain. It’s not like you told your own family the true story. “Yes, what an amazing feat,” Duke Winsor marvels. “You must be very prideful to have such a hero in the family.” Your mother is visibly pleased while your dad plops a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N is indeed turning out to be the best sorcerer in our family.” “You would be too if you studied more,” Taehyung mutters to Lia and nudges her while she glares at him. “What about you, Mr. I’m-too-tired-to-practice-magic.” “Children,” your mother’s voice is full of scolding but a pleasant smile is placed on her features. It’s frightening and jarring how different her expression can be from what comes out of her mouth. “Oh, you must be so eager to see your old friend.” The Duchess turns over her shoulder. “Yoongi was here just a moment ago.” You nod stiffly, tight-lipped. “I’ll make sure to send my greetings to him later.” The middle-aged folks continue talking as you and the rest of your siblings stand there like stone statues that are decorating the castle. But as you look around the crowds, fearing the worst, you feel Jin poke you. “Was that the guy you were sending letters to every day?” he asks, referring to what Duchess Jacquelyn said. “Shut it.” Taehyung raises his brows with an amused smile, but no one speaks. It’s become a sensitive topic but always has been — you’ve never let any of them see your letters and you threw a big fuss on several occasions when Lia tried to sneak peaks. Now you regret it. Why did you spend so much time doing such petty, futile things. Eventually, you’re granted mercy when the Duke and Duchess continue welcoming new arrivals and everyone disperses for drinks. And unlike what they said, you’re not eager to see your old ‘friend’ at all. You’re trying to steer clear of him. “What are you doing standing here in the corner?” Your mother finds you reclusive with a flute of ale. It’s not the most sophisticated drink, but does enough to put you more at ease. Though, much to your dismay, she pries the glass out of your grip. “You should be socializing! Making connections. Like your brother!” She turns and you see Taehyung by the refreshment table with a younger girl who looks visibly uncomfortable. He barks out in deafening laughter, startling a few other guests and your mother sighs while you hold back a smile. “Maybe not quite like him.” “Is there something you want to say, mom?” It’s not like her to be so vague and to encourage you to talk to others. She’s always been apprehensive about you mingling, assuming you’re trying to scam them — which you usually are, so her caution isn’t unreasonable. “There’s a divine soul sorcerer,” she announces and instantly, you groan. “Of course there is.” “Don’t give me that look. You haven’t even spoken to him yet.” Unlike how you receive your magic from a legendary phoenix, divine soul sorcerers are blessed individuals who have a connection to divine beings. Whether they align with an ancient prophecy or their ancestor is an angel. They’re undoubtedly someone who could match the status of your family. You’re starting to suspect the reason your mother even came all the way over here was to get you to meet him. “Fine, I’ll talk to him,” you say, just to get her off your back. Your mother’s wrinkles crease when she smiles. “Good to hear. Now that’s one less issue off my plate— “ “I think Taehyung’s trying to impress that girl,” you interrupt, tilting your body over to the youngest who’s about to set the tablecloth on fire. Your mother practically swears underneath her breath and goes marching over without bidding you farewell. There’s a faint smile on your features and as a Halfling waiter passes, you grab a glass of manycherries wine. You release a long exhale, feeling your eyes bags deepen as exhaustion sets into you. Your eyes flicker to the fire roaring underneath the mantle. The rose and orange flames glow against your cheeks. Your fingers. And incidentally, it grows stronger. You feel the fire envelop you. The chatter of the room simmers down as you focus on the crackle and pop of the inferno. But unfortunately, it doesn’t last long. Not with the shrill voices close to you— “It’s a surprise, no? Even the Duke’s fiftieth birthday wasn’t as extravagant as this. All five houses are here and they even extended the invitations to families beyond Pegan.” “Well perhaps they had a good season or maybe one of the houses expanded their territory and we just haven’t heard about it yet. The Duke and Duchess looks after the entire territory and all the faction houses. It’s only natural they benefit from any changes, right?” “Don’t you two know?” “Know what?” “The reason this celebration is lavish….is because it’s practically an engagement party in disguise.” You exhale out of your nose, downing the glass of wine and when you finish, you see a familiar face in the midst. It’s a slender half-Elf with long blonde hair that’s half tied up and reaches to his ribs. Yorril. You remember his name after beating his ass with Yoongi in Bogsburrough a year ago. The memory causes the corner of your mouth to tug in a smirk. He sees you too and immediately turns away, walking off with his eyes wide. There are lots of people from different factions here, but you don’t know any of their names and don’t care to. Though out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a tall man in a white cape fluttering behind with his eyes focused right on you — undoubtedly the divine sorcerer your mother was referring to by his blinding aura — and you take Yorril’s inspiration and walk away as well. You drop your glass on a nearby table and zip into the dark hallway without looking back. You’re not sure where you’re going, merely winding down the corridors. But eventually your steps slow. Goosebumps raise all over the back of your arm. It feels like you’re being watched. Like there’s someone creeping. That there’s a presence behind you. But before you can turn around to discern what it is, a husky timbre makes you halt. “...alright?” At once your body seizes, freezing in its stop. Your blood runs warmer and your back meets the stone wall. There’s a sliver of light coming from the parted door inches away and you pull your orb out from the secret pocket you sewn into your dress. Gripping the object, you channel your magic and cast clairvoyance. The hearing sensor is placed behind the door. “Thank you, Yoongi.” It’s an unfamiliar soft-spoken voice. You hear his hum. “You’re welcome.” “I��m sorry. I know there’s a lot of people out there. I didn’t think my mother would invite so many people. It’s usually not like her to do this and—” “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize. I don’t mind as much as you think I do.” “Really?” “I can’t say I enjoy it, but it’s not so bad every so often.” You swallow hard, feeling your heart clog your throat. Though before you can hear another thing, a hand plops down on your shoulder. And you nearly shriek in surprise. Out of all people, you turn to find dad wearing a mischievous smile that Taehyung and Seokjin inherited, and he nudges his chin to the door. “Your mother wouldn’t like you eavesdropping, you know. Come on, let’s go back.” You nod, following after him. The two of you return to the main room and step out into the terrace, away from the crowd. “There’s plenty of other men out there, Y/N.” “I know,” you mutter without looking at him, unable to help sulking. The older man smiles, having an inkling of why you’ve been so quiet. “It’s okay for you to be upset. Everything’s a process of trial and error. And it’s something that’ll come and go in due time.” You sigh lightly, trying to muster a smile that never really comes. “You want me to meet that divine soul sorcerer like mom, don’t you?” “Heavens no.” Your dad pats you on the back as you look out into the gardens. “I just want the best for my daughter.” You meet his eye and he grins. It’s moments like these that you’re glad you came home. “Elden!” The pair of you turn around as an older woman with cat-like eyes and a piercing stare steps out onto the terrace, her slender black dress sparkling like the stars. “My goodness, it’s been ages!” “Hyoyeon.” Your dad gives a laugh. “You haven’t aged a day!” They come to an embrace and she pulls away. “Oh, you’re too kind. Have you met my son yet?” Your worst nightmare emerges. Yoongi is dressed in a black tunic, pants, boots and a black velvet cape draped over his left side. He looks less like a knight on a quest and more like a prince. But one thing that hasn’t changed is his duckling-like hair. Strands of pale yellow that stand out. His eyes immediately center on you in surprise. As if he wasn’t expecting you here. And of course he wasn’t. You hated functions and celebrations like these, but once you heard the rumours, you couldn’t help but beg to come. Or maybe he’s giving you that expression because of how odd you look. You suppose he’s never seen you in anything other than braids and that peasant dress that you used to disguise yourself in. Now, your mother wouldn’t catch you dead in attire like that. But with him comes the Duke’s daughter, Fesan Klarinda, the Marquise of Pegan. She’s petite with spiral curls and dimples dotted in each side of her cheek. She’s the epitome of delicate. Instantly, the girl looks between you and Yoongi, realizing that your gazes are locked into one another’s. “Y/N.” He breathes it out and something swells inside your throat to hear him call your name. It’s hard to keep your face blank and impassive. Yoongi’s mother glances at him and then you. “You know each other?” “She was my partner during my adventure.” “She helped you defeat the dragon? Y/N from the great Phoenix family?” his mother gasps and nudges him. With her teeth gritted, she mutters, “Why didn’t you tell me that? Had I known….” Your dad’s laugh cuts through the suffocating tension. “Such a small world indeed. But I’m glad to finally meet the man who protected my daughter. Congratulations on your engagement, son.” “It’s nice to meet you,” Yoongi’s fiancée says with a demure smile and you give a curtsy without uttering a word. “Is your eldest son here, Hyoyeon?” “Oh, Hoseok unfortunately couldn’t make it to the occasion. He’s busy studying arcane magic in a monk temple in Baldur's Gate. So I only have my youngest with me today.” “Not at all! Education is of the utmost priority for the children.” While they speak, Klarinda clears her throat. “There must be a lot to catch up on since you and Yoongi are fairly close, I heard.” “Yes, he is a great friend to me, my lady.” Yoongi’s eye twitches, but you pay no mind. You don’t speak a single word to him and while it’s terribly awkward, you seize the opportunity to leave. “I find myself a bit parched. If you'll excuse me.” You get away as quickly as you can while grabbing fistfuls of your heavy dress, feeling more strands falling out of your updo. But being out of his presence doesn’t mean you’ve escaped. You feel the weight of Yoongi’s intent gaze on you all night, from across the room to the table. You’re barely able to survive dinner and the food’s not at all charred enough to your tastes. You’re beginning to regret coming here. Even when you knew you had to see it for yourself. “Excuse me. I believe you are Lady Y/N, right?” After dinner, the divine soul sorcerer finally corners you at a moment when your guard is down, having been too focused on Yoongi. The man has silver hair neatly coiffured, but the colour isn’t from age nor is it lackluster. It matches his cape and white attire. Undoubtedly, the sorcerer has an otherworldly appearance. He’s handsome and practically radiant to that of an angel’s. And he draws attention, causing girls to turn their heads and swoon for him. You can only imagine his power and it’s no wonder your mother has insisted that you meet him. But you are far from being impressed. “You are?” “Allow me to introduce myself! I am Jinha, a favoured soul sorcerer. Son of the magnificent Concordia House here in Pegan. My ancestor was the chosen one of the Goddess Mystra.” His palm opens and he glances at your hand. But you don’t entertain the idea of him kissing your knuckles, so he retracts his arm after an awkward moment. He clears his throat. “You look absolutely ravishing. The most beautiful person at this party aside from myself of course,” he quips. You deadpan, “Thanks.” “Are you enjoying the party?” Hardly. “I am.” “Have you tried any of the crab-stuffed lobster tail yet—?” “I much prefer the wine.” You grab a glass from the tray of a stubby butler passing by and you down half of it. When you lower the glass, you find that he’s still there, smirking like an idiot. While this relationship would be textbook perfect, you hate sorcerers. You are one, have three siblings that are, spent your childhood surrounded by them. So you know best how arrogant and entitled sorcerers can be. You bet he spends his free time looking in the mirror. Plus, there’s already enough magic in you for two people. “I happened to speak to your mother earlier, Lady Y/N.” “Did you?” “She said you’ve been traveling before. I have been traveling across the lands myself, so we have quite a bit in common.” “Yes,” you answer in a monotone and then your eyes light up as you spin around on your heel to him. “Actually, she might’ve not told you but I run a business.” “A business?” “I’m a business woman. It’s gotten a bit pushed to the side since I’ve gotten home, but maybe I should start it back up again.” “What kind of business is it?” Jinha stands straighter as if to show how capable he is. “I would love to help.” “Would you?” A feigned coy smile comes across your face and you lean in to graze his shoulder. “I have quite a bit of valuables collected and a lot of ancient potions I sell. All from my travels. You’re actually very fortunate since I have one with me. Would you like to buy one? I’ll be willing to give it to you at a reduced price of ten gold pieces.” Since the first time you’ve arrived, you feel energy return to you. But then much to your dismay, the damned sorcerer apologizes— “I don’t actually have any gold on me right now.” “How about your ring.” You point downward, never breaking eye contact. “This is once in a lifetime opportunity.” Either your skills are rusty or he’s denser than a rock because your persuasions don’t get through. “I would never dare to give you such a worthless ring, Lady Y/N! With so many shiny valuables practically overflowing out of the hundreds of rooms at my enormous manor, you deserve something much more precious. Perhaps we could arrange a time when you could come visit my massive estate.” You audible sigh, not even trying to hide it. For the next ten minutes, the sorcerer bores you with speech about himself, his family, how he personally knows the Duke, how he’s expanding his manor to have two more gardens and five more fountains, and how delicious the crab-stuffed lobster tail is. You barely manage to escape, simply excusing yourself to find your sister. But as you turn the corner, away from prying eyes and ears, you grip your orb in your pocket and channel your arcane magic. You cast disguise self and at once, you take the form of the stubby butler from earlier. A foot shorter, larger, and white tailcoat with black breeches. Your empty glass even turns into a tray and you strut down the corridor with your head held high. You’re going to leave. Out the front door. Never to return. Coming here was a mistake — and confronting Yoongi isn’t something you think you have in you. You’re better suited to having no real relationships, no commitment, no attachments. Merely traveling around and scamming others is what you do best. After all, things were easier back then when you had no direction. There was less emotional turmoil. Fewer obligations. Fewer consequences. But regrets are a little too late, so in the heat of the moment, you throw away your hard-earned compromise with your mother and decide to run. Yet, before you can even think of launching yourself out the open arched window, your eyes grow wide at the man at the end of the hall. Yellow strands of hair catch your attention first. Then it’s the sleepy eyes. The tender features. Immediately, you pull your gaze away from him and stare ahead. It’s not too hard to make yourself unsuspicious when you’re disguised as a butler and Yoongi seems to pay no mind to you either. He merely walks past and you breathe a sigh of relief. But then strong arms wrap around your waist and your back meets a firm chest. The spell breaks. He saw right through you. Right through your illusion. Yoongi’s soft exhale causes goosebumps to rise all over your arms. “Thank god, it’s you. I was worried that it was really the butler.” His timbre is huskier than you remember. You stumble out of his embrace and turn around. “I apologize, sir. I wasn’t trying to create any trouble. ” “Sir?” Yoongi’s brows furrow, deep enough that it looks like it hurts. Neither of you say anything for a long moment as he stares at you and you divert your vision, preferring to admire how smooth the white pillars of the castle look. Then, his hand suddenly reaches out to graze the loose strands of hair that have fallen from your updo. It’s a gentle gesture and he quietly comments, “Your hair’s gotten longer.” But you don’t react. “How have you been?” he asks faintly. “Fine.” You keep your reply curt and short. Distant. “Congratulations on your engagement, sir.” “Y/N.” He sounds annoyed. “Let me explain—” But when you finally meet his gaze, your eyes are painfully stinging and his voice tapers off. You curse underneath your breath, having tried so hard to keep yourself together. Yet the effort to prevent humiliation is being swept down the drain, so you grab fistfuls of your dress and march away. “Y/N!” Yoongi doesn’t chase after you. You snivel violently, doing all you can to not let tears shed. You fail to watch where you’re going and you run into your older sister. “Where have you…..are you okay?” Lia looks down at you, her eyes wide at your state. You merely shake your head and her lips pout as she pulls you in. She doesn’t need to ask. “It’s okay. There, there. No one’s going to hurt you.” She’s wrong. You’ve already been hurt. // Min Yoongi is a bastard. You’ve sorely underestimated his abilities. He manipulates emotions better than you can, but you’re more so angry at yourself for misinterpreting memories. For allowing your imagination to take its course. After all, it’s easier to transform your hurt into anger than reveling in sorrow. You’ve never been the type to be passive. The morning after the banquet, there are tournaments out on the East field. You’re seated at the rows near the Duke and Duchess with the rest of your family. Taehyung is watching intently while Seokjin prefers to wave to girls seated a few seats down much to your mother’s dismay. You’re sitting beside Lia who has her parasol to shield the sun away and is fanning herself to keep sweat from her face. She hasn’t teased you about last night, not when it looked serious enough. But she hasn’t pried either, even though you know eventually she will. Curiosity has always been a fault in your family — second to recklessness. You watch as two men below fight, one with a bow and the other with a mace. You don’t recognize them, merely knowing they’re from different factions. And that they seem to be taking their hatred out on each other. “Ooh.” Taehyung sharply inhales when the Elf with the mace slashes the Half-Elf holding the bow. “That looks like it hurts.” The Half-Elf surrenders and the Halfling referee calls an end to the match. “It’s so hot out,” Lia pants and wipes her forehead with a handkerchief. “Since when did you care about sweating or not?” you ask, lolling your head to the side. She clicks her tongue. “Tch. Don’t you know how many potential suitors are here? I have to look my best. You should too.” “Can I leave?” you ask your mother, tilting yourself to her. Seokjin whirls his head around. “I second that.” “Absolutely not,” she hisses and glances over her shoulder, making sure that the Duke and Duchess aren’t listening. “We are honoured guests and it would be very rude.” “At least wait until the intermission,” your father adds with a charming smile. With that said, you sit back and try to get comfortable. From below, the Halfling referee steps up to his podium and announces through a cone, “For our next match, on the right is Jinha, divine sorcerer from the House of Concordia. And to our left is Yoongi, knight fighter from the House of Min and the Order of the Black Sun!” Your breath hitches in your throat. Immediately, Lia nudges you. “Who’s that?” Her eyes are pinpointed to the obnoxious man from last night who emerges while sweeping his hair back, his golden staff carried in his grasps. But you’re preoccupied with the other man. Someone with pastel yellow hair. Even from far away, it’s all too stark against his heavy armour. And you swear he’s looking right at you. Or maybe not. It could be for his fiancée who’s diagonal to where you are. That would make more sense. You damn yourself for being delusional again. “So that’s him?” Taehyung turns to you, asking, “The one you sent letters to?” “I never did such a thing,” you mutter. The Halfling shouts at the top of his lungs and the match begins. Yoongi grips his rapier in his hands and closes the distance. He hits twice, slamming down the blade onto Jinha with narrowed eyes and then surges forward for a critical hit. His accuracy and precision has become more refined since the last time you saw him fight. Yet, Jinha never bumbles or falls to his knees in spite of the brutality. He tightens his grip on his staff, jaw clamping down. He casts burning hands. His fingers spread and a thin sheet of flames shoots forth from his outstretched fingertips. It causes Yoongi to stumble back and the sorcerer turns his head, flashing a bright grin towards the rows, undoubtedly for you. But you aren’t fazed — not when you’re at the edge of your seat, gaze placed on Yoongi. Lia, on the other hand, is the one who’s impressed. Her jaw draws open, a soft gasp befalling her lips as she covers her mouth with a gloved hand. Across the field, your eyes lock into Yoongi’s. And then he’s moving again, blade slashing thrice. Jinha surrenders. “I should challenge you!” Taehyung suddenly breaks both you and Lia’s trance with his loud and startling voice, looking directly at Seokjin with a rectangular grin. “Do you want to fight?” “Actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” A wide smile spreads into your older brother’s face. “Do you think you could take me on?” Taehyung’s already rolling up his sleeves. “You’re just going to have to wait and s—” Your mother immediately pulls him down with the force of gravity itself. Her eyes pierce into your siblings. “Absolutely not! I won’t have any of my children fighting and hurting themselves!” The Halfling referee turns. “Does anyone want to challenge the victor of this mat—” You stand. “I do!” Your mother is absolutely mortified. Your father is taken aback. Taehyung is already smiling with a murmured ‘awesome’ while both Seokjin and Lia are visibly amused. There’s little your parents can do too when the Duchess starts clapping and hollering for you to enter the field and the Duke wishes you luck, citing that he’s excited to see the true capabilities of your household. “For our next match on the right is Y/N, phoenix sorcerer from the Kim Phoenix Household. And to our left is Yoongi, knight fighter from the House of Min and the Order of the Black Sun!” From the distance, no one can hear the two of you. No one can discern the way Yoongi’s looking at you. How he’s deflated, sword drooping by his side, his form not at all ready. “I’m not going to fight you,” Yoongi declares with the furrow of his brows. You scoff. “Then you’re weak.” Gripping your spellcasting focus, your blazing red and orange swirling orb, you channel your magic and cast fireball. A bright streak flashes from your pointing finger towards him, blossoming with a low roar into an explosion of flames. But it misses when he nimbly dodges out of the range. The spectators cheer, on the edge of their seats. Yoongi, realizing that you’re not conceding, moves towards you. He grips his rapier and hits twice, bringing his blade down to slash. You sharply inhale, but keep your feet rooted into the ground and as he raises his arm for the third time, it slips. The weapon falls to the ground. “Pick it up,” you spit at him in Elvish, straightening out your spine again. Gasping, you cast Melf’s Minute Meteors and six tiny meteors manifest. They float in the air and orbit you until you send both of them towards him. It misses, exploding on the ground instead. Yoongi grabs his sword, but when he hits you, it’s weak. It barely skims you. Doesn’t even break through skin. And he drops his rapier again. “Keep going! Don’t stop!” This time, the shout isn’t coming from you but from Duchess Jacquelyn who’s crazed as she grips the banister and cackles maniacally. The Duke stares at her in discomfort at how wrapped up she is and Yoongi’s fiancée, Klarinda, shakes her head. “Mom.” You have no plans of surrendering. Even if you drop dead here. You cast fireball again and this time, the blossoming roar of the flames consumes Yoongi. You hear him cry out in agony and you send two meteors orbiting you his way. One misses, but the other one explodes on his chest. Yoongi’s teeth clenches. His knuckles turn white. But before he surges forward with his rapier, the smoke dissipates and he sees you. Tears in your eyes. The trembling of your bottom lip. The quivering of your entire frame. And no one hears when you softly curse him— “Bastard.” Yoongi drops his sword into the dirt. “I forfeit.” At once, Klarinda races down the rows, grabbing fistfuls of her dress. “Excuse me, pardon me!” She races down the field undignified, but to resume to her fiancé’s side. She searches his expression. “A-Are you alright, Yoongi? I can heal you.” She casts cure wounds and presses her palms to his pectorals over his armour. And after she does so, she looks between you and Yoongi. But by that time, you’ve long grabbed your own dress and marched off the field, leaving the two lovers behind. At the exact same moment, a ghostly presence fades from the open arched window on the fourth floor, their eyes having been pinpointed on your figure for the entirety of the match. // There’s someone watching you. You can tell with the way goosebumps raise all over the back of your arm, hairs on the back of your neck lifted, how there’s a sudden weight of someone’s stare on your shoulders. It feels like there’s someone creeping, a presence behind you. Your heel pivots. “Yoon—” But it isn’t him or any of your siblings. A translucent force tries to push itself into your body, causing your words to choke in your throat, your weakened knees to stumble back. Your lungs wither and your throat dries as the remaining air inside you wheezes out. But you resist. With all the strength left inside of you. You use your remaining energy to prevent the force from taking control, from entering and intruding. And in the next moment, it slips out and flounders in front of you. What would be a terrified shriek ends up as coughs as you gasp for air. “W-What in the holy fuck—” It’s a ghost. A chubby man in white sleeping silks, his dark hair brushing against his shoulders, but his form translucent and feet floating inches off the cobblestone hall. Your seething fire running through your blood flares. It seeps out and magically wreathes around you as your eyes glow as hot coals. You lift your finger to him, threatening to attack and he steps back. “Hold on there! Don’t be hasty!” the ghost spits in panic. “I sincerely apologize for my blunder!” “Who are you?! What were you trying to do to me?!” “My name is Leo and I just wanted to borrow your body for a bit! You see...I have some unfinished business.” There’s an extended silence. Then you lower your arm and the fire drawn back into you. Your stare is unwavering and Leo musters a smile on his thin lips, wrinkles around his eyes creasing. “In hindsight, I should have asked. I apologize for intruding.” You scoff, guard still up. “What’s your unfinished business?” “Ah, I would like to see the sunrise one last time.” The ghost turns to glance out the window. “Someone once tried to banish me away, so now I’m in a quite unstable form. I am only able to venture in this realm when it is day or night when time itself is stable. I disappear every time there is a sunset or sunrise.” Your brow lifts. “So you’ve been haunting this castle?” “Well, I can’t leave if I have unfinished business.” Leo smiles at you, eyes almost hopeful. “Whoever tried to banish you should’ve done it properly,” you deadpan. Getting rid of this ghost could be your birthday present to the Duchess. “I don’t know the banishment spell unfortunately. But my older brother does.” You start to march down the hall, but the ghost follows after you frantically. “Please don’t banish me! I beg of you! Please!” It’s an opportunity and you seize it. Your feet halt and you twist to him with a smirk growing. “Then what will you offer me?” “Offer you?” “As payment.” Your arms cross. “We can strike a fair deal. If you want to borrow my body, I’ll let you. But only if you can give me gold.” The ghost bursts out in hearty laughter that streams from his chest. “I don’t have anything to my name anymore, dear sorcerer. Certainly not gold. I’m dead!” Your face morphs into impassivity, lips drawn into a tight line. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Yet, he still follows relentlessly, floating to your left and to your side, eyes plastered onto your profile. “Oh, but can’t you offer me even half a day out of the kindness of thy own heart? Surely you must feel pity for a ghost like me that’s forced to wander this castle with no end. I will leave when my business is complete, that I can assure.” “Why don’t you go bother someone else?” “But you are special.” At that, your steps slow and he smiles again. “You know magic well and it reminds me of a certain someone.” “Who?” He hums and frowns. “I can’t seem to remember.” You scoff. After years of your business, of persuasion and deception, you can tell he’s not being entirely truthful. But before you can press on and coax the ghost’s true intentions out, there’s a noisy interruption. “Y/N!” Taehyung approaches with his mouth lopsided. “Who are you talking to?” You turn to your side, but the middle-aged ghost has vanished in thin air. “It was a ghost.” “What?” He looks at you as if you’ve gone crazy and maybe you have. “There aren’t ghosts here. Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” “I came to tell you that mom’s looking for you.” At your exaggerated sigh, Taehyung grins. “Trust me, it’s a lot worse than what you think.” He’s right. Your mother’s caught wind that a few youngsters are going boating and of course, she has to push her children into the private affair. You’re largely unamused, not a fan of being stuck in large bodies of water, even if it’s just a lake. “You have to go.” The moment she sharply enunciates the word, she pulls on the strings on your back laced bodice with all her might and you choke on air. “How else are you going to get married?” She doesn’t see you roll your eyes in the mirror. “My plan isn’t to get married.” “Well you never know what might happen. Keep an open mind.” Somehow, she thinks marriage will quell her troublesome daughters, especially you. But you can’t blame her for holding such an idea. At this point, she’s trying everything she can. “It’s time to be a little more ladylike after the whole tournament fiasco.” In the meanwhile, Lia is sitting in the corner, amused. She has a frilly, puffed up skirt of her own, a shade of light pink and on top of her head, a giant hat with flowers. She’s always been the prettier one. But as you turn to the mirror in your own blue summer dress your mother’s putting you in, you find that you aren’t half bad. Your mother knows you tend to get yourself dirty and that you don’t particularly enjoy being dressed up, so your attire is much less obnoxious and more subtle. It’s proof she’s thought about you. Eventually, your eyes drift off of your reflection to the flames dancing in the fireplace. You stare at the crimson light it gives, the way the subtle smoke that rises from it, curling towards the chimney. “There we are.” Your mother secures the last pins in your hair and smooths out your skirt. “Not too shabby, darling,” she says with a smile as if satisfied from her own work. You wonder what’s the point of trying. It’s not like anyone will be enamoured with you. The person who matters the most after all has already been taken. “You look absolutely beautiful this fine afternoon, Lady Y/N.” Your trance shatters and you look at the man blankly. “Jinha.” “Dare I say, you may be more lovely than you were last night!” He grins and you answer him in silence. You allow the noise of the surroundings to respond instead — the cawing of the birds, the sloshing of the water on the edge of the grass, your brothers laughing as the boats bump into the pier. The only mercy given to him is when Lia quite literally bumps into you and clears her throat loudly. “Ahem. Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met before.” The sorcerer’s smile widens. “Excuse me, but you are?” “I am Lia, Y/N’s older sister. But I’m not that much older. Only by two years. I’m turning twenty four.” You’ve never seen Lia flounder so much. It’s amusing to behold. “Oh, I knew Y/N had a sister, but I would’ve thought you were the younger sister,” Jinha says smoothly and her expression lights up even further. He takes her hand, placing a kiss upon her knuckles and you’re glad she’s taken his attention. Heaven knows you aren’t interested. But as you’re about to walk away, your line of sight falls to a familiar girl with dimples. Klarinda, the Duke’s daughter, is wearing a brimmed hat and her expensive silk skirt flutters with her. If she’s here then where’s— Yoongi’s staring right at you. As if he’s a predator and you’re merely the prey. Immediately, you return to Lia being overly flirtatious with Jinha. It’s bearable for a few minutes until you join your brothers who are horsing around and threatening to push one another into the lake. But out of the corner of your eye, you watch Yoongi and look away when your eyes meet. You know he’s watching you too. You try your best to stay focused on your surroundings. The strangers around were from different families and factions, civil with each other when they’re on the Duke’s grounds. At most, they send glares to their enemies. So you allow the polite, peaceful chatter to engulf you before everyone slowly gets onto the boats to row out and enjoy the lake. “Finally!” Taehyung suddenly twists around, holding a rope in hand. “I got it untied!” Jin facepalms himself. “You idiot! You’re supposed to untie the rope after everyone’s gotten in!” “What?” “Not to worry!” Jinha announces with a grin and nimbly hops inside the boat before it drifts too far off the pier. He holds out his hand for Lia and she gladly takes it with a giggle, being guided in. You watch at a loss for words as the boat gets farther and farther. Still, the divine sorcerer boldly holds out his hand for you. “Lady Y/N!” You hesitate. The boat is already full with four people and you’re not sure if it’s worth jumping in and potentially getting pulled into the lake. But suddenly, before you can make a decision, your waist is pulled back by strong arms. “It’s okay. She can come with me. There’s one left.” “Yoongi!” your gasp is sharp and you look up at him. But he remains unfazed. Your siblings have their brows raised. But by then, they’ve already drifted off and Taehyung wordlessly rows away. You don’t have time to react or object — not when Yoongi’s grabbed your hand and you stumble after him. The last rowboat rocks back and forth violently and you drop into a seated position on the seat before you can fall in. It takes three seconds. The rope is untied and Yoongi rows away from the pier. You notice his fiancée meters away in her own boat, sitting closely with girls chatting and giggling together. Yet, she pays no mind to her friends. Instead, she stares at the two of you. “Shouldn’t you be with her?” Yoongi follows your line of sight and mumbles, “It’s fine.” You’re stuck with him. Yoongi rows where no one else does and you watch the water cascade back. The soft sloshing fills the background as it gets quiet and much too uncomfortable. Yoongi’s husky timbre breaks the tension. “How have you been?” “Well, I’ve just been trapped in my house ever since I’ve returned, but things are great.” Your voice drips of venomous sarcasm, but when you lift your eyes, his gaze locks into yours. The blonde man wears a somber expression, his irises darkening and you sigh, speaking at a quieter volume. “I actually worked out a deal with my parents. As long as I behave and don’t tarnish my family name, I can do as I please. There’s more freedom than before. But it’s a work in progress full of compromise. If I want to leave, I’ll have to write a plan so they know where I’m headed. I just haven’t decided what I want to do next.” Your muttering gets quiet and your face hardens. “Obviously, you’re doing well.” Yoongi stops rowing. He allows the boat to drift. “The engagement was set up by my mother.” “Oh please, Yoongi.” Your eyes roll and you cross your arms, ready for his excuses that you knew were coming. “It was arranged. For all I know, I haven’t proposed to anyone yet.” “That doesn’t change that fact that you’re an engaged man!” Your teeth grit. “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to go off with her and have a bunch of kids and a big family together, so congratu-fucking-lations.” It’s unbearable. There’s nowhere you can run. He’s truly trapped you here to confront one another. “And when were you planning to tell me? All those letters and you didn’t mention it once!” Your eyes sting painfully as your vision floods, overwhelmed with emotion. You feel blindsighted. “I thought I wouldn’t have to tell you at all. I was going to take care of it. I didn’t know you were going to be here.” “You really think it’s easy to call off an engagement with the Duke’s daughter?!” you spit and he takes your onslaught of anger. The pain is visible on your visage. “If I didn’t come, were you going to tell me when you got to the altar? Or after you got back from the honeymoon? I...I feel like an idiot.” “I’m sorry.” Staggering exhales pull from your lungs after your tangent and silence fills the large distance between the pair of you. Yet, Yoongi’s gaze is too tender for you to bear. “My biggest regret is not kissing you that night,” he murmurs. “Or rather, not asking you to come with me.” “It’s too late.” “It isn’t.” “What are you going to do, Yoongi?” “I’m going to call it off.” “How?” “I’ll try.” His voice is low, eyes half-lidded. “Then what?” you spit in exasperation. “What reason would you have to call it off? It’s a great arrangement! A beneficial marri—” “I want to marry you.” The inside of your chest stutters. Your breath catches in your throat. Warmth rises to your face and heats your cheeks like a furnace. Yoongi isn’t a straightforward man, blunt but never honest with his feelings. That trait has bred so many uncertainties within you. But in this moment, you feel his sincerity. You can see it, how hard he’s tried to reach you, to tell you his intentions. It reminds you of that night in Rutherglen. The festival and fireworks, when you were so close to one another, when you would’ve gone anywhere with him. “You’re an idiot, Min Yoongi.” You stand. “I don’t feel like talking to idiots.” You pull your orb from your pocket and cast shape water. The waves rise and it splashes him. Yoongi’s yellow hair is soaked along with the entire side of his head. His visage washes over into impassivity, akin to a glare. But you don’t dwell, palms laying flat in the air as you manipulate the water and push the boat back to shore. The minute you get to the pier, you pull yourself up. “I learnt more spells other than fire magic since our fight with the Remorhaz,” you add, “if you even remember that.” You know it’s unfair, but you rush away before he can discern how in a few words, he’s given you hope. The very hope that you know can easily break your heart again. // It’s been less than two full days, but it feels like an eternity. You’re slouched over an open arched window, elbow propped on the stone with your chin rested in your hand. The valleys of Pegan are out in the distance behind the fogged clouds, countless adventures and creatures out there for you to discover and explore. But you find yourself rooted in your place, a sense of uneasiness and yearning preventing you from leaving. At sounds of quacking, your eyes drift from the scenery to the first floor. By the staircase is a white duck with an orange beak trotting along with a row of pale yellow, baby ducklings behind her. They follow their mother religiously, teetering from side to side, trying not to get too curious of the world around them and a smile graces your lips. “Are ducklings your favourite animal, sorcerer?” Your spine straightens in shock and the wandering ghost, Leo, grins at you. Your hand presses to your chest as you steady your breath. “Are you trying to scare me to death?!” “Of course not! That would be defeating the purpose. I can’t borrow your body if you’re dead like I am,” he chortles, arms behind his back as he floats from your right side to your left. “I wanted to merely apologize for this morning. I didn’t mean to be so invasive or startle you.” You glare at him, not yet accepting his apology. He continues nonetheless— “Also, I want you to help me.” You snort unattractively, having known he had other purposes in approaching you again. “Unless you agree to my deal, the answer is no.” “Please,” Leo pleads. “I can’t move on.” You push yourself off the wall and walk away. He follows after you, even after you quicken your steps. “Why can’t you possess someone else’s body and watch your stupid sunrise?” “That is not my greatest desire.” The ghost comes in front of you and you halt in fear of him entering your body. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely truthful to you, dear sorcerer.” Your brow lifts, waiting patiently and Leo swallows hard. “I await another lost soul and I wish to depart this world together with them. I can’t move on without them.” Your frustration makes your voice shrill. “It’s not only you who has problems, alright? I can’t even fix mine! What makes me think I can fix yours?!” As your annoyance boils over, you start running. It’s useless to try to elude a ghost who can’t get tired, but you try anyway. “Sorcerer!” And without looking, you turn the corner and collide with another body. “Woah!” Jin steadies you before the two of you can topple over. “Why are you not looking at where you’re going?” Lia is with him and regards you with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” You glance over your shoulder. The ghost never comes. “It’s nothing,” you mutter in a sigh. “Mom’s looking for you again.” “What is it this time?” The words come out in a tired exhale. Your older brother shrugs. “Might have to do with tonight’s dinner.” “Hey, Y/N.” Suddenly, Lia takes your hands. “Tell me honestly, do you like Jinha?” “No.” You warily eye her, not sure where she’s going with this. The corner of Jin’s mouth curls. “Why? You like him?” “Well, if she doesn’t like him, she should give him to me,” Lia mumbles, then quickly turns to you. “Of course, if you do, then by all means, our sisterhood is my top priority….” You pull your hand away from her. “I don’t like him, Lia. But he’s not mine to give away either. You can do whatever you want.” Your sister’s eyes twinkle with a kind of enthusiasm that makes you scoff with a smile. Jin’s mouth is quirked as well, but his curiosity has been piqued and he doesn’t hesitate to ask— “It’s because of him, isn’t it? He’s the reason you’re not interested. The youngest son of the Min faction. What was his name?” “Yoongi.” If possible, Lia’s features light up further and she steps forward, cornering you. “What happened on that boat ride, Y/N? It seemed like you were having a really intense talk.” “It was nothing,” you murmur. “He practically pulled you into the boat with him. I mean, did his fiancée mind?” In the midst of the interrogation, Jin shifts to you, eyes unwavering. “You started sending him letters the minute you got back, but now he’s engaged and he happens to pull you aside like that— What really happened on your adventure together?” Millpass, Bogsburrough, Rutherglen. The memories seep back into you. The fireworks and festival, the night at the roadside tavern, fighting together at the underground market. The way he rushed in front of you in the face of the white dragon, how the two of you sat on the hill and watched the sunset together. It’s overwhelming. “Who is he to you?” “I said nothing!” you lie and push past them, stomping in the other direction to get away from your overbearing siblings. “Hey!” Lia shouts after you. “Mom’s still calling you!” You ignore them, turning the corner then down the staircase lest the wandering ghost plagues you again or you run into Taehyung, your mother or father. For good measure, you depart outside without any direction but merely feeling the soft grass underneath your boots. You’re about to turn yourself invisible for a moment of peace or disguise yourself as a maid to escape, but with your unfortunate luck that’s been bestowed to you since you arrived, you run into dimples before you get the chance. A petite figure with spiral curls and an evening dress of modesty. Her brown eyes sparkle as your eyes lock with one another’s. With half a mind and all the etiquette training that had been slammed into you at childhood, you curtsy. “Hello.” “Good evening.” Klarinda smiles at you without a trace of malice. “What a coincidence meeting you here. I was about to head to my greenhouse.” “Yes.” You stiffly nod. “If you’ll excuse me…” But before you can march off, she twirls around. “Would you like to join me?” It’s an open space. The gardens seem to stretch on for miles, plant walls that border the perimeter. In the center of it all is a structure made of glass. The ceilings are high to let in sunlight and there are rows and benches of potted plants and flowers. “Some of these I grow simply because they’re beautiful. But a lot of these herbs have medicinal purposes.” “You’re a cleric, aren’t you, my lady?” “I am, like my mother. And you don’t have to address me by such formal titles. A friend of Yoongi’s is a friend of mine.” The girl smiles. “Klarinda is fine.” You nod and she quietly hums a song as she waters flowers. You follow after her until a particular plant catches your eye — verdant leafs, yellow petals and plump berries. “It’s a sunberry plant,” Klarinda says when she notices your curiosity. “Would you like to try one?” The Duke’s daughter happily plucks one off and holds it out in front of you. The second your teeth bites down, the sweetness explodes into your cheek. She giggles at your reaction. “Good, right? My dad likes to come in here and eat them when they’re in season, so they’re always gone.” “Good enough to sell. You should cast a protection or barrier spell on them.” “I should.” She grins, dimples dotted on both sides of her face. “But between you and me, I actually don't mind so much. It makes me happy that he enjoys something from my garden, even if he has to sneak in.” Most of your first impressions aren’t wrong. Within minutes of conversation, you can figure out if a customer is going to chase you down and try to fight you or might come back at a latter time to buy more. And you can tell her innocence isn’t a feigned facade. The Marquise is endearing enough that you like her for it. For a moment, you almost feel envious of Yoongi. But they’re undoubtedly a good match. A stoic, strong knight capable of shielding away a virtuous maiden who knows nothing of the world, but is kind and generous to a fault. It’s a portrait perfect couple. “This place is really beautiful.” You force yourself away from the thoughts that form a lump in your throat. “Thank you. It can get lonely though.” You hum, supposing a vast yet empty estate would do that to someone. “Don’t people from Pegan visit often?” “They do. They mostly arrive for business. I used to play with all kinds of children from the different factions, especially during holidays. But they can be……” “A bit much?” Klarinda laughs. “Yes! Some might say crazy or competitive, but much is a good word too.” You grin. “I’ve barely gotten to know how the factions work, but I can already tell. Some of them are so conceited.” Her eyes sparkle. “Like Jinha?” “Yes!” She giggles, her dimples creased deeper and her teeth shown in the light. Like this, she’s less of a proper and demure lady, niece to the king, and more like a girl you would’ve known on your travels. “He can be quite a gentleman, but he has an arrogant nature.” “My sister likes him, but I’m not sure why. Personally, I think she could do better. Then again, they wouldn't be bad together.” With the divine sorcerer’s willing-to-please nature and Lia’s incessant demands and high maintenance personality, it might work out better than intended. “I’m envious that you have so many siblings,” Klarinda says with a tender smile and you’re caught in surprise. You didn’t know it was possible she could be envious of you when you were envious of her in so many ways. “I’m an only child, so I’ve often wondered what it would’ve been like to have an older brother or younger sister. There’s nothing that beats family after all.” “You’re not missing out on much, trust me. Siblings can be quite annoying.” She laughs again. “Still, I think it would’ve been nice to belong to a bigger family.” A comfortable silence simmers as you follow after her and she moves to prune a plant. You break the quiet. “Actually, I was away from my family for quite a while. For a number of years.” “I thought you went adventuring for one year?” You shake your head. “They told everyone I went to go study arcane magic, but it isn’t true. I ran away and was gone for three.” Klarinda looks at you with a gentle expression, recognizing your solemnity. “What matters is that you’re here with them now.” You nod. “I don’t regret coming home. I’m glad I didn’t have to return when there was a funeral of my parents.” “Even if they’re overbearing?” she asks with a tiny smile. “Even if they’re overbearing,” you confirm. “You met Yoongi during your travels, right?” Immediately, you freeze, but she focuses on her plant, only stealing a simple glance at you. “He told me a lot about you from day one.” “Is that so?” “The engagement was a surprise to the both of us,” she murmurs, placing her shears down. “It happened less than a month ago. Suddenly my mother sat me down and told me about the arrangement. It was strange considering she had never spoken to me about it before and she’s never been one to make such an agreement. Anyway, a few minutes after I met Yoongi, he spoke about you. Rather fondly.” “Really?” You plaster on a polite smile. “Well, I’m flattered. He’s a great friend.” “Is he sincerely a friend to you?” Klarinda asks. Her gaze is piercing and you raise your guard. She’s going to threaten you — you know it. But you weren’t the one who made the decision and you don’t want any part of it. It doesn’t involve you. It never will. Having learnt from the best, your face becomes blank. “I am very happy that he’s finally engaged. He’s always been very popular, so settling down just seems right for him.” At once, the cleric grips her necklace. Against your will, she casts an enchantment spell and a fifteen foot radius sphere sweeps out from her. It keeps you inside. A zone of truth that prevents lies. “I’m sorry. But I need to know.” She looks at you solemnly. “Do you like Yoongi?” You cuss in Elvish underneath your breath. You can’t be deceptive, but you can still be evasive in your responses as long as it remains within the boundaries of the truth. “It’s not like I dislike him.” “Please be honest with me.” She searches your expression earnestly, pleading with you. Being with Yoongi has made you soft. You’re used to protecting your vulnerabilities until the end, but the truth spills from you as if it’s been dying to be said— “I’m in love with him.” The spell dissipates. Klarinda smiles. “Then I’ll call off the engagement.” “What?” “They can’t force me to do anything and I’d rather keep two great friends than having an unwilling husband for the rest of my life.” Her dimples crease. “I wouldn’t want that for him, myself or you.” “Wait! J-Just because I feel a certain way doesn’t mean he does or even that the engagement should be called off! This...this is something you should talk about with him, not me.” Her smile becomes sweeter. “Isn’t it obvious?” You blink at her. “Yoongi loves you too. What’s more that needs to be said?” The girl is so certain as if the answer has never been clearer. She’s a hopeless romantic. Utterly so. Someone who believes that love prevails above all and suddenly, you want to give into that urge as well. But before either of you can move, there’s a rumble beneath your feet. The ground itself tilts. Klarinda catches herself on the bench and you find your own balance. The pair of you tear your eyes away from one another to the roaring noise. The castle is shaking in its foundation. She notices the smoke that’s rising in the air. “Is...that fire?” Your eyes widen and you rush over, instincts screaming. The girl trails behind you and you pull yourself inside. There’s fire eating at the walls and you take your orb out, focusing your magic to snuff out the flames. To the best of your abilities, you extinguish it. Klarinda stays with you, using her own magic to try to aid you. “Sorcerer!” In the midst of the pandemonium, a familiar voice and form comes from the walls. Leo, the ghost, floats to your side. “I need your help. You must come with me. Please!” Klarinda’s eyes widen. But you don’t notice. “Don’t you see what’s going on?! I can’t help you!” The ghost vanishes. There is smoke filling the halls, flooding the corridors and you cover your mouth with the sleeve of your dress, coughing into it. Members from different factions are rushing past with their own weapons and shields, swords gripped or magic at their fingertips. There’s shouting above the chaos, but you don’t know what’s going on. Not until you enter the main room and find your mother and Taehyung. “Mom!” There’s a dracolich in the center of the circular room, towering high enough to graze the dome ceiling. It’s a monster — once a dragon until it became undead. Now what’s left of it is bones instead of flesh and blood, open eye sockets and decayed wings. But instead of being buried underneath the ground or burnt to ash, it’s come back to life, roaring and whipping its tail to a group of terrified, screaming wizards. There are several death knights as well. Decayed bodies with rotting flesh and pinpoints of light in place of eyes. They’re undead warriors who have revived, having once been rangers and barbarians until they fell. And one of them lunges at Taehyung until your mother casts finger of death, causing it searing pain and making it drop to its knees. Three rays of fire shoot past her, firing onto the death knight. She turns her head. “Y/N!” “Where’s Jin and Lia?” “They went to go find your father. He’s with the Duke!” Another death knight comes running forward with an axe and Taehyung screams before splashing a bubble of acid on it. A beat later, your mother’s grasp on her wand tightens and she sends a frigid beam of blue-white light streak on the monster. A coldness sweeps through the room and you follow up with casting firebolt. The monster has slowed down, barely staggering and obviously wounded. Yet, it tries to swing and misses Taehyung by a long shot. “Not bad,” you comment. “Hey, I’ve improved a lot since the last time you saw me fight!” A rectangular grin is plastered on Taehyung’s face. But the conversation is cut short by the dragonlich’s tail. He jumps away before he’s attacked and joins the other side where a paladin is fighting another monster. “Go!” Your mother shouts. “It’s too dangerous!” “I’m not leaving!” You don’t know where these undead creatures came from, how they even came alive again, or who revived them. There’s no time to think and in the midst of the anarchy, you’re trapped. Sheer seconds as you realize you’re about to be struck, but you’re unable to do anything. You merely brace for the impact. But the monster drops dead in front of you. Yoongi pulls his rapier out in one smooth tug, the silver blade slicing through the air. You gasp for air and he immediately engulfs you in an embrace. The man with the light blonde strands of hair holds you tight as your breath steadies and you savour his warmth. There are no words spoken, nothing that needs to be said that can’t be translated through his desperate yet affectionate gesture. “Sorcerer.” The moment can’t last long when you’re interrupted by the ghost. It floats to you and Yoongi is on guard, lifting the tip of his weapon. But you place a hand on his arm and he eases. “Listen to me.” You’re calm enough to finally pay attention, to hopefully be given answers. And answers are what he offers you. “There is a lich where the old castle resides. You must find the phylactery and destroy it before things become worse.” “A lich?!” Liches are among the worst creatures of humanity — undead spellcasters of great power. They’re creatures who traded in their souls for a chance to exist forever. There are untold treachery and blasphemies they’ve done just to become what they are. But they’re given immortality unless someone destroys their phylactery, an object that stores their life essences. Before you can ask any more questions, the ghost dissipates in thin air. Klarinda, who noticed the transparent form, runs to you. She grabs your hands and searches your expression. “What did the ghost say?!” “T-There’s a lich in the old castle!” “I know where that is!” The Dragonlich roars deafeningly as a warlock casts hold monster and it becomes paralyzed. At the same time, Yoongi pierces a death knight that was barreling towards you. You turn to your mother who gives a glance and she doesn’t even take a moment of hesitation. “Go!” She trusts your decisions — her gaze tells you that. Klarinda nods and Yoongi takes your hand. The two of you follow after her as she twists through the halls. “How did you come in contact with that ghost, Y/N?” “I don’t know. He was the one who approached me after the tournament and he’s been bothering me since yesterday.” Klarinda turns down the hall. “Do you know who that ghost is?” “He told me his name is Leo.” “He’s King Lionel,” she says and your brows raise. Yoongi doesn’t appear surprised either. He wears a solemn expression, having recognized him as well. “There was a section of his life in my history textbook of Pegan. This place used to be his castle.” You’re baffled, completely rendered speechless. She continues, “There was a rebellion a thousand years ago. This whole place burnt down, but it was rebuilt during my grandfather’s generation.” “Were there ever mentions of a lich? Or someone who traded their soul?” Yoongi shakes his head. “No.” “He never had a wife. But there were rumours that he had a mistress. A wizard from far away lands.” Your eyes meet Klarinda’s. “His kingdom was taken down before they could get married.” “But why now?” You’re running out of breath as she climbs a staircase. “If this...mistress traded in her soul a thousand years ago, why is she trying to revive dragons and knights now?” “It isn’t just now,” Klarinda murmurs, her brows drawn into a tight furrow and jaw clenched. “Members of the royal family in Pegan have gone missing for generations. They’ve always swept it under the carpet and kept it a secret, but I think I’m about to find out the reason.” The three of you turn another corner, but come to a grinding halt when you see a flailing lady. “Mother!” Duchess Jacquelyn is in the middle of the corridor, wearing a bountiful and extravagant gown while her arms are full of jewelry boxes, dangling strings of pearls and diamonds. One string slips from the pile and rolls on the cobblestone to your friend’s feet. “D-Darling! What a surprise! What’s going on? The noise has been startling me!” Klarinda steps forward. “What are you doing?” “T-This?! Nothing! I was just re-organizing! Yes. Reorganizing.” “That’s grandmother’s ring.” She points, eyes narrowed in. “You’ve never brought it out since her funeral.” “Well...sometimes change is needed, sweetheart.” They stare at one another while you exchange looks with Yoongi. There is a pregnant silence, tangible tension that’s suffocating. Then you notice how Duchess Jacquelyn slips her hand to her side and something glistens in your eyes, blinding your vision. Your mouth draws open. “You’re not my mother!” — “Watch out!” The dagger strikes her. Klarinda cries as the back of her right hand is sliced. Yet she grabs the opportunity and grips her necklace, her spellcasting object. The girl’s left hand comes out and she holds her mother’s double by the wrist, casting inflict wound. The creature screams horrifically in sheer agony. “What did you do to her?! Where is she?!” You grip your orb, casting scorching ray. One beam of fire hits it and it screeches. A moment later, Yoongi lifts his rapier and strikes it twice, causing the monster to stumble onto its back. Its weapon clacks out of reach. Klarinda grabs the dagger and holds the creature to the floor. She presses the blade to its throat. All traces of her kindness and mercy have dissipated in the face of her rage. “Where is she?!” “O-Okay! Okay! I surrender!” It puts up its hands and shifts. The form of the creature is no longer the beautiful, middle-aged Duchess but a tall, elven gray-skinned humanoid. Its face is formless and eyes are pale and bulging. Its voice croaks, “I’m a doppelganger! I didn’t have a choice! The lich made me do it!” “My mother!” Klarinda shrieks and you lower yourself, squeezing her shoulder and she eases. Tears have filled her eyes, but when she glances at you, she’s able to compose herself. “She’s dead. Her soul’s been consumed.” Klarinda breaks down into sobs. You wrap an arm around her and she lets up on the doppelganger, but Yoongi makes sure to keep his foot down on its shoulder. “We have to get it.” She wipes at her tears, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “We have to kill that lich, Y/N!” “We will,” you promise her. “We will.” Seconds later, you see Jinha come forward and he rushes over trying to get a grasp of the situation. “Can you take care of this?” you ask and he easily agrees. “O-Of course, lady Y/N.” He binds up the doppelganger and Klarinda casts cure wounds on herself, healing her gash. She takes your hand afterwards and you hold it. Yet, even as her frame shakes, there’s determination in her steps. A type of anger that has solidified her resolve and given her courage. “This is the passageway.” She pushes open a small stone door to reveal a crawl space after Yoongi helped push a bookshelf to the side in the corner of the library. “I found it as a kid, but I never went in too far. The servants found me and they tried to cover it up.” The three of you crawl through before it opens up and Yoongi helps you down onto the landing. There is consuming darkness until Klarinda casts light onto the dagger she has and you ignite a flame to dance into your hand. The empty void is collected with cobwebs, spiders and eyes of bats staring back at you, quietly observing your forms. Each of your steps echo and a cloud of dust emerges. You move slowly, scared that the steps of the staircase winding downwards will collapse under your weight. But you’re able to look around, at the crumbling paintings, the fragmented pillar pieces, the stone walls with scorched markings, and the ancient statues long lost and eaten by time itself. Never would you have guessed that the basement of the castle held all of this. That they had rebuilt themselves on top of what was once the castle of the entire kingdom of Pegan. You can imagine what this would’ve been like a thousand years ago. Children running with servants scolding them, advisors walking by King Lionel’s side, his lover waiting for him. Then you envision the screams, the devouring fire. You can see the charred marks along the banister. You can almost hear it, but you quickly shake it off before you can become frightened. “Destroying the phylactery is the only way we can get rid of the lich without it coming back, but how will we know where it is or what it is?” It could be any object in any room. You turn with the flickering fire in your palm, looking all around you. It’s endless. “If that monster is down here, there has to be a reason,” Yoongi offers, standing by your side. “It could’ve moved anywhere but it might be protecting its phylactery.” “I know where it is.” There’s a low voice and a familiar ghost descends in front of you with a saddened smile. “Your highness.” Klarinda bows her head. But you remain still, even after knowing his identity. King Lionel looks at you with his brows knitted together. “I am sorry for deceiving you, dear sorcerer. Or rather, holding the truth from you. I feared you would have denied my request had I been forthright about it. In hindsight, I could’ve prevented the devastation that has wrecked this place. Had I only known….” “Do you know where the lich is? Or where the phylactery is?” “It is in the last place where I perished.” The King smiles. “In our chambers.” He turns, floating away and Klarinda follows. You and Yoongi trail behind her and when you feel the back of his hand grazing against yours, you grasp it. Yoongi looks at you and you release your held sigh. “Why is it that we always find ourselves in adventures like these?” “You mean these life or death scenarios?” The corner of his mouth curls and he squeezes your hand. “We always manage. But you should’ve told me that you were talking to a ghost.” “I don’t think we were on speaking terms until recently, duckling.” Yoongi grins at the nostalgic nickname, the one you used to start each letter, and your own smile is tinged with sadness. You don’t know if either of you will live. If the pair of you have it in you to be an actual hero and defeat the greatest monster. And as these doubts fill you, so do the regrets that you harbour for not hearing him out, for not trusting in him. With such little time, you wonder if this is it. If this will be your last opportunity. Your steps slow. “Yoongi. I—” “How dare you enter my lair?!” There’s a snarling voice resounding above and instantly, the ghost of King Lionel vanishes. Klarinda turns behind her and looks at you and Yoongi. The hall has ended with a crumbling stone door in front of her. “Leave!” The voice shrieks deafeningly into multiple layers. “Leave!” You nod at her and she pushes the door open. The dust billows out, sweeping in front of your forms. The fire in your hand smothers and the strong gust of wind pulls through your hair. You can’t open your eyes, so you shield yourself away. Yoongi feels his grasp on you loosen. Your touch fades away from him. He shouts after you until his throat is raw, but it’s to no avail. He scrambles blindly until he’s able to open his eyes and finds himself in an empty void of darkness. “I know your greatest fear.” There’s a whisper in his ear and he jolts, turning around while drawing his rapier. But there’s nothing there, not even a shapeless figure. “Min Yoongi. I have read your thoughts.” “I have read your mind,” a second voice crackles to his left. The right snicker. “Your greatest fear is betrayal of your loved one.” ��Whether that would be no longer sharing your affections.” “Or choosing another person to be with.” “Get out of my head,” he commands from deep within his stomach, his impassivity ruined by the furrow of his brows. But Yoongi feels a cold breath on the nape of his neck. “A lick of poison from her would destroy you for good.” Fire. You see it in front of you as you’re collapsed on the floor. The orange and rose glow are illuminated on your face. You’re sitting so close it seems to lick at your cheeks. Yet you’re brought into a lull as you listen to the crackle and pop, as you allow the smoke to fill your senses. You’re brought in a trance as you watch the fire burn a house down, a quaint home with a picket white fence and large windows with pink curtains. “Your greatest strength is your greatest fear.” There’s a murmur in your ear. It’s unrecognizable. “I know,” you mumble. “You are afraid of one day no longer being able to control the flames that seethes to be unleashed.” “But repress it no longer, dear,” the left voice seductively whispers, hissing softly. “Worry no longer.” “Your magic is incredible and oozes from you.” — “Give into it.” — “Allow it freedom.” “What….about...Yoongi?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from the fire into the darkness. You stand back on your feet, finding balance again. “No.” There’s a sharp inhale to your right. “Leave him.” You scoff automatically, the idea so utterly ridiculous that it’s unfathomable. “I’m not going to do that. I finally found someone that doesn’t find me annoying….” “You could be powerful.” The more it talks, the more you’re coming to your senses. “I already am powerful!” You twist around, dispelling away the hallucination of the burning house with the flicker of your hand. “And I already know how to control my powers! You think I’m some kind of amateur sorcerer?! It doesn’t control me. I control it!” Again, you ignite a fire in your hand and narrow your eyes. In the distance, you catch strands of pale yellow. And you run after him. The voices scream for you to stop, but you fight against the magic that threatens to pull you back. The moment you smother out the flame, you leap at Yoongi. Your arms are thrown around him in an embrace and immediately, his hands wrap around you. Yoongi stumbles back with an infectious smile expanding into his cheeks. The spell dissipates and you find yourself back in the underground remains of the ancient castle. “Don’t let go of my hand again, brat.” “I’m sorry,” you mumble against his neck. Suddenly, there’s a piercing scream that ricochets through the air — one belonging to only Klarinda. You pull away from Yoongi, eyes locked into one another and he sets you down. Your fingers interlace and you follow the sound, turning down the hall once more and entering through the large double-doors to the decaying chambers. A frame of a bed sits in the wide expanse of the room, grayed cloth ripped and drifting over the canopy. Ash and soot sits in a layer on the floorboards, the wardrobe and vanity along the back wall destroyed. There’s a large painting on the wall, but the faces of the couple have been torn and scratched by bleeding fingernails. Your eyes sweep the room within seconds before landing on Klarinda who’s been blighted. She’s fallen over and you come to cover her with your body as you look upon the lich. It’s angular and skeletal with withering flesh stretched tightly across visible bones, dressed in regal finery, reddened drapes that once was vibrant. Yoongi’s knuckles turn white at his grip and he runs towards the creature. He misses, but hits on his second try, slashing it across. He surges forward, yet it does little to the lich that still stands. “Foolish children,” she hisses and grips the blade of Yoongi’s rapier, rendering him immobile. “You aren’t heroes. Your recklessness will bring forth your death. I will not spare you from the choices you have made.” You cast immolation and flames wreathe the lich. She lets go of Yoongi’s weapon and the light of your magic is so bright that you’re forced to look away. At the same time, Klarinda cures her wounds and slowly comes to her feet again. “Do you really think you could defeat me?!” The lich’s snarling voice booms across the room. Pinpoints of crimson light burn in the empty sockets of where her eyes were before they rotted away. She glides forward as if floating on water and a sphere of poisonous gas billows to all corners of the room. “Yoongi!” You cover your mouth with your hand and the yellow-green fog obscures your view. You hear the clanking of metal where he hits the lich and you feel your vision blurring from the poison. But as you narrow your eyes, you’re able to make out the faint shadow of the lich’s form. And a thin green ray springs from your pointing finger in the spell disintegrate, allowing you to hear it’s deafening shriek. You give permission for your phoenix magic to unleash and you’re magically twined in swirling fire, eyes glowing as hot coals. Your flesh sheds bright light into the fog. Behind you, Klarinda murmurs words of restoration and you feel yourself being healed from the poison. The lich is toying with you. You know it. The moment you stepped into here, it could’ve immediately killed any of you with a single word, but instead, it chose to manifest those hallucinations and slowly suffocate the three of you in this poison. The lich glides towards you, but is stopped by Yoongi. Before you can pull him out of the way, she lifts her finger, and he drops to his knees. He screams from the sheer agony that courses up his body. “Yoongi!” The lich casts detect thoughts on him, probing his brain, tearing apart bits and pieces of it. It hums and muses, “How selfless yet foolish. Even in this much pain, you are still thinking about how much you love her.” Yoongi grits his teeth, bumbling upwards to his feet and strikes the monster thrice. The force is enough that she staggers back and tense silence fills the air. You steal the opportunity and come forward next to Yoongi. Your palms press towards the monster to cast fireball, but the roar of the flames never comes. The lich has counterspelled it. Klarinda cries and runs forward with her dagger. “You killed my mother!” “And her soul was delicious to consume,” she snarls and grabs her blade, tossing it aside as if it were a toy. “Yours will be too!” Klarinda sobs as something catches the corner eye. But there’s no chance — not when the lich takes your spell of choice and magic blooms out of her thin fingertips. Fire blossoms from her flesh, thundering out in the force of her rage. You immediately turn to hug Yoongi, arms embracing his body to protect him. But when his hands reach to the back of your neck and he presses your face to his shoulder, you’re not sure who’s protecting who. Yet, the fire never reaches you. Even when it rumbles through the room and the ruins of the ancient castle. Even when the walls begin to crack further and fragments of the ceiling dust down. Even when scorching flames has filled every corner of the space. You raise your head, finding that the ghost of King Lionel is facing the lich. One of his last fragments of magic has been channeled into an aura of life spell, shielding the three of you away. “Enough, Karlis,” he calls out to her softly. “You have done enough harm.” “I thought I banished you!” she snarls out, crouched over as the pinpoints of red lights of her eyes glare at him. “I won’t leave without you.” “Why?!” The voice is jarring to your ears. “The girl you knew is long gone!” Neither of them notice Klarinda who staggers upwards towards the vanity in the corner, struggling to grab her dagger along the way. “Even so, I won’t leave her behind again. I won’t leave you behind. So come with me, Karlis. Leave your anger behind and come with me.” His arm outstretched but the monster cackles horrifically. “Foolish, man! I will not stop until I have destroyed the bloodline that ruined us.” “No one ruined us. It was I who ruled poorly, and you who chose to give up your soul and walk down this path by your lonesome in the wake of your grief. Karlis.” “Never!” she screeches and a gust of wind pushes him away. Then the lich screeches in torment. Klarinda digs the dagger’s blade into the heart shaped necklace on the vanity — the phylactery that holds the life force of the lich. She plunges the weapon several times until her arm strains, until the dagger’s curved against the vanity’s surface, until it slips from her trembling hand and she tosses it aside in the midst of tears. The lich’s bones collide against the floor. Her screams are audible around the room and the red clothing flutters in the air as it drops. You look away with Yoongi, but King Lionel gazes at her until the last moment. Gone. After centuries of terrorizing Pegan’s royal family, just like that. // The sunbeams pierce the sky in pastel shades, painting the clouds in watercolour hues. It breaks away the darkness of the night and the stars of the horizon. Klarinda is silent as she looks onward from the open arched window with her arms behind her back. But you know it’s not her. She’s been possessed by King Lionel, having granted his wish and allowed him to borrow her body. “My last duties as a King have been complete,” he murmurs in her voice. “My business is finished now that I know she hasn’t been left behind.” He turns to you and Yoongi with a dimpled smile. “Thank you. Sorcerer. Knight. Without your help, I wouldn’t have been able to free her from her own treachery.” “It’s not like you gave us much of a choice,” you mumble half-heartedly and he chuckles. “I guess I didn’t. I’m also sorry I’m not able to give you gold or any semblance of a reward when you have bestowed to me such a great favour.” “Having our lives is enough,” Yoongi says, bowing his head and you scoff lightly. The ghosts’ eyes twinkle as he looks at him and then to you. “You really do remind me of her,” he says. “But more strong-willed and self-assured. Something she had greatly missed and led her to her demise.” A sigh releases from him. “The world is blessed to have such great heroes.” The pair of you exchange expressions. “I’m not so sure about that….” You still don’t feel like heroes — he was the one who protected you and Klarinda was the one who destroyed the phylactery. Both you and Yoongi barely did anything other than waltz in there without a plan. In retrospect, that was probably a bad idea but there wasn’t really enough time to figure out battle tactics. Or at least that’s the excuse you’re going to hang onto. The ghost gives an all-knowing smile and turns to the horizon. “My time is here. Thank you for your help, heroes.” Within three seconds, he dissipated from her. Klarinda stumbles and is steadied by Yoongi. She smiles, thanking him before gazing at the pair of you. Two dimples are marked in each corner of her cheeks.

The chaos has come and gone. The moment the lich’s life source was destroyed, the monsters no longer swarmed and spawned on the grounds. The place is no longer haunted either. It’s finally what it looks like — simply, a castle. You came here to find the truth and to confront Yoongi — you never expected to encounter a ghost and a lich. It’s a wonder how it’s possible trouble can find you in so many ways no matter where you go. “Aren’t you cold?” A husky voice pipes up behind you and you’re brought out of your trance. Pale yellow hair joins your side, reminding you of ducklings. It’s still dawn, but you’re at the bottom steps of the garden's gazebo instead of seeking refuge on a soft bed. It was the only way you could get some peace and quiet from your siblings. “I’m never cold.” You turn to him, a fire flickering in your palm. Yoongi tenderly smiles. “How did speaking to Duke Fesan go?” “He’s bedridden, but he’ll make it. He wasn't too badly injured. But he’s grieving with his daughter.” You nod. “And your mother and father?” “They’re fine. A little shocked, but they’re using the opportunity to boast about me. A lot.” A laugh bubbles out of you. “Well, it’s not like they have no reason to. You’re amazing, Yoongi,” you breathe it out with a second thought, as if it were factual and you don’t notice his gaze on you. “How about your own family?” “They’re fine. My sister’s well enough to flirt with Jinha and my brothers are bickering loud enough to give my mom a headache,” you say and he hums. “But we’re leaving in a few hours. They already called the carriage for the afternoon.” “You’re heading back home?” You nod wordlessly. The tension is suffocating. You decide to break it, turning to him while masking a smile. “How was breaking the...other news to the Duke?” “Easier than one would expect. Klarinda asked to call off the wedding and the Duke said it was the doppelganger’s arrangement anyway. It was trying to amass as much wealth for itself as it could.” “That’s good.” “It is.” “Get that sorted and out of the way.” You steal a glance at Yoongi pathetically to find he has an impassive expression and is blankly looking onward. After a moment, he yawns tiredly and then his eyes flicker to you. Instantly, you divert your vision elsewhere, not noticing his smile. “You know,” he says, “the Duke thought it would be unfair to me. Even though it’s going to be called off, everyone already knows about the arrangement. It might be an opportunity for gossip to be made towards the Min faction.” “And what did you say?” “I said that I already had someone else in mind from the start.” Your eyes meet. Pools of deep brown locked into yours. Strands of his blonde hair nearly pricking into his lashes. And it’s an intimate moment as your voice quiets. “Did you really mean what you said on that boat ride. About regretting not asking me to come with you?” The man exhales, “Every day.” “A wedding with me would be awful,” you murmur, barely coherent. You feel how warmth rises to your face and heats your cheeks like a furnace, and for once, it’s not because of the magical fire inside your blood. “My mom would have to have a whole show and if you thought having three siblings was a lot, wait until you meet my cousins and extended family. They multiplied like damn rabbits.” Yoongi tries to put on a stoic face but fails. His grin is all too gummy. “I don’t mind. You haven’t met my brother yet, but he’s just as overbearing. And if anything, my mother would be ecstatic. She loves noble titles, so she’d hit it off with your mother.” “I still want that great big house.” “I would like one too.” “If you haven’t noticed, I really like my food burnt to a crisp like a fiend.” “I don’t mind.” He shrugs. “I always liked my meat especially cooked anyways.” “I’m a con artis—” “No matter what you say, I won’t change my mind, Y/N.” Yoongi’s brow cocks, challenging you straight on, albeit more gingerly than you’ve ever witnessed. “Your persuasions won’t work.” “Yoongi…” “You still owe me that refund.” What? He grins mischievously and you roll your eyes, having no idea why he’s bringing this up and ruining the moment. “Are you serious?” “Very. You scammed me over a year ago and I expect a full repayment. Also, I happen to collect interest. It’s a hefty, hefty interest fee.” “Okay.” You play along. “What do I owe you now?” You’re not sure what to expect. You’re never sure when it comes to him considering he’s so hard to read. But your breath hitches as he lowers himself to one knee and looks up at you with his tender features relaxed into the softest expression. He pulls something out of his pocket. “Nothing. It’ll be me who will owe you, if you would so graciously choose to spend your life with me—” You throw your arms around Yoongi. The both of you collapse onto the soft bed of grass and you giggle infectiously, pulling yourself up from him. “You’re an idiot, you know that? I really thought that for the rest of your life, you were just going to send me letters.” Yoongi grins a gummy smile. His arms wrap around your body and he reaches up to finally capture your lips on his. The two of you kiss each other, making up for the moments where you should’ve done it sooner. It’s sweet, but less than innocent with how eager it is. You only manage to pull away when out of the corner of your eye, you catch curtains shifting from upstairs. “Nosy, aren’t they,” Yoongi laughs. At the left window, your family is crowding around. Taehyung and Lia are shoving each other to get a look, Seokjin has his palms pressed against the glass, your father is grinning while your mother is absolutely astounded. At the right, both of Yoongi’s parents are peeking out owlishly. You see different members of the faction watching in both horror and confusion, having not yet heard of the news that the engagement is broken and assuming that they’re catching him in the midst of a scandal. But more importantly, you see Klarinda smiling infectiously at the top of the tower with her dad coming to look too. “Exciting, isn’t it?” Yoongi teases, “With so many guests watching.” “Is it so hard to get some damn privacy? This is why I prefer being on the move,” you whine and cast invisibility on the both of you. Yoongi laughs, closing the distance to kiss you again.

[Epilogue] “What if this is a trap.” “Then we’ll grab our weapons. But I don’t think it is.” There’s a house in the middle of the peaceful suburbs, placed in the middle of the street in a row of other homes. Built with bricks covered in render and an oak roof with a chimney on the side, it stands tall in a fairly asymmetrical pattern. The windows are large and it looks like the structure has two floors. More importantly, they swear they see the curtains shift on the left side. The two young adventurers step up on the wooden porch, facing the oak double doors. “Do we just….knock?” “I guess.” His fist raps against the surface while she braces herself for an attack. The door swings open. She hitches her breath, but an onslaught of offensive spells never happens. Instead, they see you. In a simple, brown dress and your hair braided in an updo with loose strands framing your full features. Your eyes glisten, giving a smile and the door widens. “Good afternoon! You children look so tired! Come in, come in!” The pair of them exchange expressions before stepping inside. The interior instantly takes their breath — cozy maple and fresh flowers at the entrance way, mementos on a shelf near the open staircase with a magical pull to them. It’s clear that the owners of this house have made it their own. They can tell each object carries its own meaning and memory, not merely for decoration or the purpose of luxury. “My name is Y/N,” you announce, with a light twinkle in your irises. “And I am a servant girl to the lord and lady of the house. May I ask who has entered the home?” “I-I am Park Jimin. It’s said that there’s a great and powerful sorcerer who lives here and a dark knight who’s been to Shadowfell.” “They’ve defeated dragons and liches before,” the girl beside him adds, brows furrowed as she regards you with a healthy amount of suspicion. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m afraid they’re not here at the moment. They went out to do some bidding, so you might have to wait a few hours until they return,” you inform and the two of them look at one another. “Can I ask for what reason you’re searching for them?” “We have received a prophecy and were sent by Mirla Nistar.” Jimin steps forward. “When lightning strikes twice, a man of darkness shall usher forth a country's doom and the end of wealth. We have reason to suspect that this man is the demon lord, Abraxas, who is trying to rise from Shadowfell.” You hum. “Alright. I’ll let them know as soon as they get back. Would any of you care for tea? I have the best honey and sugar available!” But suddenly, the dimpled boy feels a heavy weight on his mind. It’s a presence pressing on his brain, probing deep and whispering around the caverns of his skull for permission to be let inside. He grips his temples with a groan and his partner turns to him. “Jimin?” He looks off at you and she follows his line of sight. Before she can ask you what you just did, you slip something out of your pocket. In one split second— “Potion?” You hold up the stoppered bottle with the milky liquid sloshing inside. “You have a headache, don’t you? I know it when I see it! Must be from your long travels! Nothing like a rejuvenating potion to feel better.” “I..I’m alright.” Jimin lowers his hand. “Nonsense. You don’t want to miss this chance!” you emphasize. “I bet it wouldn’t even cost you a dime. You’re probably going to spend the same amount on some food or a place to stay at, so why not fork out some now? And it might be helpful for any upcoming adventures or expeditions!” “How much?” the skeptical girl slowly asks and you know you have it in the bag. “Ten gold pieces.” Your eyes glimmer. She digs into her satchel. But then— “What’s with the ruckus?” A rounded face and sleepy features lug down the stairs. He runs a hand through his baby yellow hair shagging in front of his forehead, having just woken up from a long nap. “Who are these people?” “They’re adventurers trying to defeat some demon punk—” “Demon lord,” the boy tries to correct. “—who’s apparently coming back to wreak havoc and steal children.” “Close enough,” he sighs. Yoongi makes a noise of acknowledgment, his expression impassive. Then his eyes dart at them and the potion in your hand. He points. “Are you trying to sell them that?” The corner of your mouth curls. “Maybe.” “Poor folks,” he exhales, utterly ruining your business transaction and not remorseful at all for it. “You’re going to get us into trouble one day.” You scoff. “When haven’t I gotten us into trouble. It’s not new news now.” Your husband grins and comes to sling an arm around your shoulder. He kisses you shamelessly in front of the two strangers, yet it’s a soft and tender gesture. It makes you smile against him. Suddenly, the door shuts behind them and the surrounding warm candlelight ignites. It billows a dim luminescence into the warm home that you’ve both made your own, glowing against the numerous mementos on the shelf that display the many years of your travels and journeys. Yoongi hugs you to his side and you quirk your head onto his shoulder with a sly smile. The adventurers finally come to recognize who the people in front of them are. And the pair of you turn to them. “What was it that you needed again?”

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi scenario #yoongi fluff #yoongi adventure #bts adventure #yoongi as the stoic knight #and OC as the angry phoenix sorcerer lol #FINALLY AN END TO THE SERIES :D #hope you guys enjoy it #this is gonna be one of those ones that you're gonna need to read the original before the sequel lol #i think it's a hard one to understand without reading the one before

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