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Interventions Part One

Season Two Episode Six

Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader (Aaron Hotchner’s Sister)

Words: 6275

Series Masterlist

Summary: Y/N spirals out of control. Spencer and Aaron recruit the whole team to help.

Notes: This one is going to be crazy long, but I’m really excited to dive into each relationship the reader has with everyone on the team. I was really planning on making this one part to keep the season nine episodes, but I thought, fuck it. There’s so much to go over in this. I was going to do more with JJ, but since she wouldn’t actually be there, I shortened it, but I think it still conveys the importance of their friendship. Obviously, both of these parts are going to jump scenes a lot, but I hope it’s still clear.

Warnings: Alcoholism, suicidal thoughts/actions, depression, PTSD, etc. (both of these are going to be pretty intense, so ye have been warned)

He carried it with him. The envelope, though thin, it weighed in his pocket every day like a stone pressed against his heart. It was too painfully familiar, the sweeping letters of his name. The note left by Jason Gideon haunted yours, the sting of abandonment fogging Spencer’s mind with more emotions than he knew how to handle.

It’d been three days since everyone got back from Los Vegas. Three days since he saw you, or even heard from you. The worry was making it hard to work. He had no idea where you were or if you were okay. He didn’t even have it in him to be angry. He just wanted you to come home.

Of course, the team noticed the youngest member’s change in behavior, but everyone assumed he was still recovering from the case with his father. Only Hotch suspected something else was wrong.

He hadn’t heard from you either.

The whole morning, everyone worked in a tense silence, like they were all waiting for a bomb to go off, but they didn’t know when. Emily darted back and forth between her desk and Hotch’s. She feigned a series of questions about cases, but really she was just checking to make sure he was okay. She’d noticed he’d seemed more stressed than usual lately and figured it was because of worrying about you. Of course, everyone was worried about you. Morgan had asked about you more than usual and Emily hadn’t quite figured out why.

It was around one, right after everyone got back from lunch- whoever decided to leave- that the said bomb hit.

“Guys,” Prentiss said, eyes glued to the news playing on the television.

“Pine River Psychiatric Hospital outside Oregon City, Oregon has released a statement today announcing the death of mass murderer, Lydia Y/L/N, the woman responsible for what the press called ‘The Birthday Cake Killings,’” the anchor announced.

The room went silent. Reid was frozen in his chair and his hands started to shake. Hotch came out of his office and watched with them.

“Lydia Y/L/N killed six teenage girls at her daughter’s birthday party in the spring of 1998. She pleaded insanity and was sentenced to life in psychiatric care. Y/L/N leaves behind her daughter, the only victim to have survived the murders-”

Hotch muted the television.

“Oh my god,” Prentiss exclaimed. “Does Y/N know?”

Hotch nodded. “They would have called her first. She’s Lydia’s only next of kin.” He turned to Reid who hadn’t stopped staring at the TV. “Reid, did you see her this morning? Did she seem-”

“She left me,” Reid said, almost to himself, but loud enough for Morgan to hear.

“What?” Morgan boomed. “What do you mean, she left you?”

Reid spoke quietly like a broken man trying to find the pieces. “The night we got back from…” he took a deep breath and finally turned around to find everyone’s anxious gazes burning into him. “From Las Vegas, I found this on her desk.” He pulled the note out of his jacket pocket, looking down at his name in your beautiful handwriting.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Morgan asked.

“I didn’t think I needed to announce the condition of my love life, and frankly, I wasn’t ready to talk about it,” he fired back. “I figured she would’ve told you,” he added, looking up at Hotch.

“She didn’t,” Hotch said. A thick, heavy feeling of dread filled his chest like molten metal.

“Damnit!” Morgan yelled, kicking his chair back. It hit the floor with a deafening crash.

Rossi came out of his office. “What’s going on?”

“Y/N’s mom died,” Prentiss answered, still shocked by her partner’s outburst.

“Is Y/N okay? Does she know?” He asked.

“You don’t understand,” Morgan sighed. He took a moment to calm himself down and let his gaze dart between Hotch and Reid. “Y/N’s drinking again.”

A tense heaviness sank into everyone in the room. In a blink, Reid had crossed to Morgan, his hands gripping the other agent’s shirt.

“How long have you known and not told anyone?” Reid snapped.

Morgan was taken aback. He’d never seen the kid like this before. Reid had never been violent with someone else on the team before, but the fierce anger on his face told Morgan just how serious he was.

He put his hands on his shoulders slowly, trying to urge his hands away from him. “I only found out when I called her to come to Vegas, okay? I was trying to give her the chance to tell you herself, but I think it’s been going on for a while.”

“Do you have any idea what this means for her?” Reid said, the anger cracking to reveal his panic. “Do you know how much pain she must be in? And now, her mom is…”

“Reid,” Hotch said sharply.

Reid let go, but Morgan kept his hands on his arms.

“We’ll find her.”

The two men looked at each other, a shared guilt between them. Morgan knew, if he’d just told Hotch and Reid about you, they could have stopped you from leaving.

Spencer berated himself for not noticing the signs. He should have seen it. He should have helped you.

And now you were gone.

It was like Fairfax all over again, except now, the only villain they would be facing was the one inside of your head. The demons you’d never shared.

You didn’t know why you answered the phone. You’d been ignoring calls all day and almost turned it off altogether, but the name that came up stopped you. Maybe you thought it was somehow poetic.

“Hey JJ.”

“Y/N, hi. I-um-I just heard and I want to see how you’re doing.”

“You know, I didn’t think Aaron would stoop as low as to use the new mother to babysit.” Your words swam in your head as much as they stumbled out of your mouth.

“I’m not calling for your brother. I want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

“Oh, I’m doing great. I’m curled up, watching stupid Christmas movies about stupid families with stupid mothers who make stupid dinners for their perfectly stupid kids. I’m having a great morning. You?”

She paused. “Sweetie, how much have you had to drink?”

“I don’t know why you guys are making a big deal about this,” you huffed. “It’s not like you were there the first time. You don’t know. Maybe I’ve changed. I’m not the woman you met and trusted into your family. Killing someone does that.” You didn’t mean for the last part to slip out, but the liquor loosened your lips.

“You’re right. We weren’t there,” she said. “But we’re here now. You have people who care about you, Y/N. We just want to help you.”

You stared at the tv, absentmindedly watching a mother and daughter decorate Christmas cookies. You imagined them licking the frosting off of the spoons and collapsing in a seizing, gasping heap. Just like you and your mom used to.

“I need you to do something for me, JJ.” You finally said.

“Of course. Anything.”

“You’re the front man. Hell, you’re the first person I met that day. You were so sweet and smiley and wonderful.”

Your words held no bitterness, but a kind of melancholy. Like you were mourning for a life lost. The life where the two of you were friends, where Spencer smiled at being made godfather of her son, and you could look on with something other than total despair in your chest. You could resume pretending that you were a part of their family.

“You’re the one that looks through everything and decides what cases to present, right?”

Her tone tinted with confusion. “Yeah.”

“Tell them I’m not one of your cases.”

“Y/N, wait-”

You hung up the phone.

“Okay. Thanks JJ,” Reid sighed. He leaned his head back against the hallway wall, taking a break from his pacing. He tried calling you again, but no answer.

JJ said you didn’t sound good. He felt bad for bringing her into this- she should be relaxing at home with Henry and Will, but he knew that she would have driven to the BAU and yelled at him for not keeping her in the loop.

He knew JJ saw you as more of a sister than just a friend. She was worried. Everybody was.

“Was that JJ?” Prentiss asked. “What’d she say?”

“That Y/N is drinking and she’s afraid it’s going to get worse,” he said. “Y/N told her that she’s changed. She doesn’t think she deserves to be a part of us anymore.” He paused and ran his hand down his face. “Because she killed Sarah Cunningham.”

“She thinks she’s becoming her mother,” Prentiss nodded mournfully. “And now, she’ll never get the closure of coming to terms with it because her mother died.”

“Morgan should have said something,” Reid snapped. “He knew. He could have- I don’t know- maybe if we’d known we could have stopped her from leaving.”

Prentiss crossed her arms. “Come on, Reid. You aren’t really mad at him and you know it. This is about something else.”

He stared at her for a moment, shoulders sinking, and started pacing again. “I should have seen it. I knew something was off, but I didn’t do anything and now-”

“Woah woah woah,” she said, holding a hand out to stop him. “This is not your fault, okay? Y/N would have been careful. She understands behavior just as well as we do. She would know exactly what to hide from you, from Hotch, from everybody.”

“But I should have seen through it,” he shook his head, voice cracking from the pressure building in his chest. “I didn’t even go after her. She left me that letter and I assumed it was because of Vegas. I thought I’d become too much for her and she left just like-”

He stopped himself. He didn’t even know who he meant at this point. So many people had left him already. The thought of losing you… it piled on with the rest until he couldn’t see anything else anymore.

Prenitss’ face softened. “Spencer…”

“I don’t know what to do,” he cried. “When I almost lost her before, we had a villain, something to go after. Now,” His hands floundered helplessly at his sides. He needed to do something. “She doesn’t want to be found.”

Emily took the younger agent in her arms and hid her own heartbroken expression in his shoulder. It felt like the team had lost one of their own and, in a way, she thought maybe they had. But she refused to accept that.

Emily Prentiss, of all people, knew what it was like to protect the people you love from your past. And as her mind started running with the connections, she let Reid go, keeping a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re going to find her,” she said. “She’s going to be okay. Y/N’s one tough woman, even if she doesn’t see that right now. We have to help her find herself.”

He nodded and returned to his pacing while Prentiss formed a plan.

Dave- Six years ago

Your arm hung limply in the sling across your chest and the soreness of every motion only made the red tint of embarrassment on your cheeks grow.

The man sat across from you in a chair in the corner. He flipped absently through a magazine, gazing up every once in a while.

“I remember you, you know,” you finally said after the silence became unbearable. “You were at my high school graduation reception. You only stayed, like, two minutes, but I saw you there. You’re David Rossi. I’ve read your books.”

“I would hope you remembered me,” he scoffed, putting the magazine aside. “Who do you think that generous gift came from?” The man smirked and crossed his arms, eyeing you in a way that reminded you of your brother every time you snuck out. “So… wanna talk about how you got here?”

“Where’s Aaron?” You asked, avoiding his question.

“Being processed.”

You nodded, only snippets of the past few hours recovered in your memory. “Right.” You shifted back against the hospital bed pillow and winced. Hangovers and broken bones definitely didn’t mix. You blew out a breath. “That was stupid.”

“I’ll say,” Former Agent Rossi said.

You rolled your eyes. “I meant Aaron. He could get fired for something like that, right?”

“I doubt he will be. Professor Douche isn’t pressing charges so he can keep this all under wraps. Besides, most people in the bureau would have done the same thing,” he glowered. “I know I would have.”

“Brian isn’t a bad man. He’s brilliant and he’s helped me through-”

“He’s writing a book, Y/N,” Dave blurted.

You looked away, the reason you drank pouring back into your memory. You’d found the pages on his desk and downed a few glasses of wine, finished a bottle of vodka, and half a bottle of absinthe, by the time he came back to his house. You screamed at him until you fell down a flight of stairs.

Dave’s face softened with sympathy. “He was using you for content, sweetheart.”

“That’s not…” You still couldn’t lift your gaze. “That’s not why I did it.”

He took a seat on the edge of the bed and for some reason, you welcomed his presence. In your years of building up distrust for everyone, this man- basically a stranger- already felt so familiar.

“I know,” he said.

“My uncle drowned himself in a bottle of Jack. I haven’t seen him since I graduated, but it’s still, I don’t know. When you don’t have much family, every member counts, right?” You finally looked up at him and found he was listening intently. “That’s why I went over to Brian- Dr. Calvin’s house. I have a key so I let myself in and found the manuscript on his desk.” You didn’t know why you were telling him all this. Maybe you knew, if Aaron trusted him, then you could too.

He didn’t say anything for a while, only nodded in understanding. After a while, he finally spoke. “You know, I’ve been through a lot with your brother in the years we worked together.” He paused, making sure you understood the importance of what he was about to say. “When he called me tonight, I'd never heard him so scared. Believe me. The broken nose was deserved.”

You laughed humorlessly, hating the fact that he was right. When you were loaded into the ambulance, you remembered Brian worrying about how he’d look. He screamed at you for bringing him into your problems. He wasn’t anything like the person you’d fallen in love with. Your brother had just seen that all along.

“You’re a legend in profiling, right?” You said.

He raised a brow. “I don’t know if ‘legend’ is the word I would use.” He chuckled. “Why?”

You turned your head to the window. Your lip quivered as the pieces and fractures of memory kept coming back to you.

“Why do I do it?” When you looked back at him, tears filled your vision. “I mean, I saw what it did to Uncle Robbie. I’ve seen it since I was a kid and I let it happen to me anyway. I welcomed it. Why?”

“There’s a lot of reasons people turn to alcohol and drugs, especially after going through something like you did,” he said. “It makes sense that maybe you saw a kind of relief your uncle got from it so you tried to find it for yourself.”

“Is there something wrong with me, Mr. Rossi?” You cried. “For the past four years, I’ve been trying to figure it out. I tried to drink it away, but it just made things worse. I don’t know what to do.”

He put a hand on top of yours. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Y/N. You survived something nobody should ever have to go through. Your entire life changed. Hell, you found out there was another half to your family you didn’t even know about. And you still graduated top of your class. You’ve pushed yourself so hard to prove to yourself that you aren’t that girl anymore that you split yourself in two.”

You closed your eyes, the tears finally spilling out. You never realized it before. All this time, you’ve spent studying to figure out why your mom did what she did that you never thought to turn what you’d learned on yourself. You were overcompensating in one side of your life and crashing in the other.

Dave held your hand a little tighter. “It’s time to become whole again.”

Although he didn’t show it, Aaron felt sick. The panic had knotted his insides and clouded his head with images of his little sister lying on a motel floor somewhere, choking on your own bile or with a gun in your hand.

He hated himself for not realizing sooner. He knew the signs. He’d spent two years with you getting through your addiction. The overcompensating and avoidance made sense now. You knew, of all of the people in this office, he’d see through it and he failed.

“She’ll be okay,” Rossi said from his seat in the corner. “She was before. She’ll find a way back.”

Hotch shook his head. “This time is different. When Robbie died, she lost a connection to her past self. She mourned the person she used to be, but she came out of it. Now, she lost any amount of closure she could have gotten,” he sighed. “She never went and saw her, you know. Not since the trial. She said she always meant to, to understand, but she could never bring herself to do it. Now, she can’t.”

“And with what happened in Fairfax…” Rossi blew out a breath. “She thinks there’s nothing now to stop her from becoming like Lydia.”

“Without her mother as a tether, she thinks there’s nothing stopping her from losing herself entirely. It’s why she left Reid, why she’s been avoiding me,” Hotch said, a tone of helplessness making his voice darken. “She’s protecting us from what she thinks she’s inevitably becoming.”

Rossi nodded and stood. He walked to the Unit Chief’s desk and put a hand on the edge. “It’s up to us to remind her that’s not what she is. And then we’ll bring her home.”

A quiet knock at the door interrupted their thoughts. Morgan stood, tension evident in the stiff way he held his shoulders. Like the springs inside of him were waiting to break. Hotch dismissed Rossi with a nod.

The older agent left and closed the door behind him.

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. “Garcia tried tracking Y/N’s phone, but she’s got it blocked off somehow.”

“I helped her do that,” Hotch sighed, running a hand down his face. “I didn’t want her to have to worry about fans or copycats trying to get to her. You know what the press was like.”

“Arnold Owens was a real piece of work,” Morgan nodded. “I can’t imagine what that was like for her.”

“It wasn’t easy, but she was always a tough kid.” The other agent made for the door, but Hotch stopped him. “Have a seat.”

Morgan clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and took the chair across from Hotch, the deep sense of dread now mixing with his guilt.

Hotch centered his gaze on Morgan, the seriousness of his expression softened by the sincerity in his eyes.

“I don’t blame you for what happened in Fairfax,” Hotch said.

Of the things Derek was expecting, that was not on the list. He just sat there, blinking for a moment. “I didn’t think that you…” There wasn’t any point in lying, so his voice trailed off.

“I don’t blame you, Morgan. Owens was the more pressing threat. You couldn't have known the Cunninghams were waiting for her. It wasn’t your fault. Nobody thinks that, including Y/N. I know how you’ve carried it with you. I know you think that’s the reason I’ve been so hard on you and I need you to know, now, that it isn’t.”

Morgan looked at his hands, clasped in his lap. “I know I should have said something about her drinking, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“She asked you not to and you trusted that she would make the decision on her own to seek help. And she might have, had her mother not passed away. That isn’t your fault either.” Hotch leaned forward on his desk.

The average person may not have noticed the change in his face, the slight hint to just how worried he really was, but Morgan did.

“I’m telling you this because I need you to have a clear head for all of this,” Hotch said. “I’m afraid you and Prentiss are the only ones who can. You saw what it’s already doing to Reid and I…” He swallowed. “I’ve seen what she’s been through before and I’m afraid this time is only going to be worse. If we all close in on her, I don’t know what she’ll do.”

Morgan stood with new determination. “I’ll have Garcia work a new angle.”

“I’ll be right out,” Hotch said. “I need to call Haley in case Y/N said anything to her.”

“Wherever Y/N is, Hotch, I’m not gonna rest until I bring her back and get her help.” Morgan opened the door and stepped back out to the bullpen, finding Reid still pacing in the hall and Prentiss’ chair empty.

Emily

The Christmas movies continued as you downed another glass. You fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling while your hand reached for underneath the pillow. You stopped halfway, rolling your head to the side and switching your focus to the fabric on the chair.

Somehow, your legs managed to bring you to the chair and your fingers latch onto the scarf. The soft, purple material made you feel more than you want it to. The guilt. The loneliness. The wish to have him here now like nothing happened. But that was selfish.

Your mind traveled back to what laid underneath your pillow.

A soft knock at the door brought you back.

You groaned quietly and sat back down on the bed, hoping they’d just go away. The manager had checked up on you a couple of times just to make sure you paid, so it was probably just him again, even though you’d paid out for the next few days.

“Y/N, it’s me.”

Emily?

“Crap,” you muttered, but the word itself hardly formed on your lips. Maybe if you were quiet enough, she’d go away.

“Come on, I know it’s you. Open the door,” Emily boomed. She knocked again, this time louder. It made your head pound.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you winced. You made your way to the door, tripping slightly on the chair leg. You kept the chain locked and cracked the door open. “Hey Emily.”

She grimaced and put a hand down her nose. “God, you look like hell.”

“What’re you doing here?” You slurred through the words and swayed on your feet.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t think that’s-” The turning in your stomach cut you off. You slammed the door shut and unlatched the chain.

“Okay, this is how we’re doing this,” Emily sighed, hurrying after you, hearing the sounds of you vomiting in the bathroom.

She sat beside you and held your hair as if you were college girls at a party. The hand on your back soothed your sickness until you were able to sit up again.

“I never had a big sister,” you muttered through your haze.

Emily didn’t say anything. It broke her heart to see the strong woman she’d come to know reduced to a scared girl on the floor of a sleazy motel bathroom. She could see in your eyes, behind the drunken trance, the despair you were trying to forget. Wrapped around your hand, a long purple scarf was carefully kept off of the floor and in your lap. Even intoxicated, you seemed to protect it.

“Isn’t it stupid?” You said, noticing her eyes on the scarf. “I stole it. His favorite scarf. I just wanted something I could hold, you know? He’s probably looking for it. Will you give it back to him?” You held it out to her with sad eyes and pouting lips.

She lifted you off the floor. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are going to give it to him yourself,” she said. “After we sober you up, so come on.”

“But I don’t want-”

She pushed you into the shower and turned on the stream of freezing water, ignoring your squeals of protest, only now taking the scarf from your hand. You stood in the spray of icy cold and could feel.

You got out of the shower and were sick again. After that, Emily decided you seemed conscious enough and took you back into the room, helping you change out of your soaked clothes and forcing a glass of water down your throat. The water was followed by coffee and you switched back and forth between the two. It must have been an hour of just that. No questions. No words. Just water and coffee.

“Why are you here?” You finally asked, pulling the blanket around your shoulders tighter.

“You’ve got a lot of worried people back home. You know that.” Emily thought back to Reid’s trance over the past few days, his terror as he paced. She handed you the scarf.

You sniffed. “He hates me now, doesn’t he?” You abandoned him with nothing more than a note- just like his dad, just like Gideon. You didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye. At the time, you just hoped he’d never have to see you again.

“He misses you.”

You closed your eyes, rubbing the fabric back and forth in your hands, as if you could conjure his comfort. When you opened them again, you were still just in the motel room, sitting across from Emily’s pitying eyes.

You blew out a long breath. “How did you even know how to find me?”

Her expression darkened and she looked down for a moment before returning to your gaze. “Because I’d do the same thing.” This was the part she was afraid of, but she swallowed and kept a straight face. “Now… where is it?”

You froze, fingers tightening around the scarf. You could deny it. You could say you didn’t know what she meant. But what was the point?

Emily held out her hand. You leaned back, reached underneath the pillow, and pulled out the gun. She took it slowly, as if reaching too fast would scare you into shooting it. With one hand, she tucked it into her waistband behind her, and with the other she reached for yours.

“I need to know- I’m not going to be upset with you- but,” she sighed, “did you come here to use this?” Her voice was filled with such sincerity, such concern, you knew you couldn’t lie.

“I don’t know,” your words were surprisingly steady. “I just wanted to protect everyone.”

She nodded, understanding. “From you?”

You didn’t say anything. You just turned your head to the window. She continued.

“Y/N, I know what it’s like to be afraid of becoming just like your parents. Hell, half of the people in your life know what that’s like.”

You scoffed. “It’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” she said. “But I also know what it’s like to be so terrified of a part of yourself that you’d do anything to keep it hidden. You’d do anything to protect the people you love from the ugly, brokenness you feel.” She squeezed your hand a little tighter. “But all you’re going to do is hurt them.”

Her words sunk into you like teeth, but the wall around your heart wouldn’t let them completely in. There was still that fear, the sense of inevitability that even her honest eyes couldn’t chase away. But it did make you realize something. You may not have had the strength, but you still needed a failsafe. Just in case she was wrong.

You wiped the corner of your lip with the back of your hand.

“I need you to call someone for me.”

The office was buzzing with effort in trying to locate you. Everyone was working even harder since Prentiss just up and disappeared.

“We know she must have gone to Fairfax,” Reid exclaimed. “Why can’t we just go find her?”

“This is all about protecting us from who she thinks she has become,” Hotch sighed. “If we charge after her, I’m afraid what measures she’d take to keep from ‘hurting’ us.”

Reid stopped his furious scribbling on the map of the city. He turned to Hotch, wide eyed and terrified. “You don’t think she’d…”

“I think, if she’s pushed herself this close to the edge, then she’ll do anything if she believes it means not dragging us down with her.”

Spencer let the marker fall to his side and leaned hopelessly back against the table. Statistics unmercifully filled his head. Connections between PTSD and suicide, alcholism and every other dark thought his stupid logical brain could conjure. He should have seen the signs if you had gotten this bad.

“She’s spent her whole life learning how to mask herself, Reid,” Hotch said, as if reading his mind. The older agent was thinking the same thing. He should have known you were avoiding him for a reason.

“Guys,” Morgan rushed through the doorway, phone in his hand. “Prentiss found her.” He put the phone back to his ear and listened, expression contorting with confusion. “What are you talking about? Just bring her back.”

Reid opened his mouth, but Morgan held up a hand to stop him.

“Alright, alright. Text me the place and I’ll meet you there.”

The shift in his tone made Reid and Hotch stop breathing. Hotch was the first to speak.

“What’s wrong?”

Morgan’s head tilted, bewildered. “Prentiss found her. Sobered her up as best she could. But she wants me to pick her up.”

“What are we waiting for?” Reid exclaimed. “Let’s go.”

“Just me,” Morgan said. “Y/N said it’s important.” He shrugged and looked to Hotch for approval.

Hotch nodded. “Go.”

Reid whipped his head around. “We aren’t going with him?”

“If that’s what brings her back,” he sighed. “Yes.”

Derek

He spent the entire drive trying to wrap his head around it. Why him? Did you still think he was the only one who knew about the drinking? Why wouldn’t you want to see your brother? Or Reid, for that matter? Sure, there was a reason you left him, but of everyone in the BAU, why would you need him to come and get you.

Derek pulled into the parking lot of the motel Prentiss sent him and spotted both of your cars in front of the room. Prentiss stood outside the door with a duffle bag and a grave expression.

“Hey,” he greeted, getting out of his car. “What the hell is going on?”

Prentiss shrugged. “She told me she wanted you to take her back so she could talk to you about something. She wouldn’t tell me what.” She turned to the office where you were checking out. “I’m just relieved she agreed to come back at all.”

He blew out a long breath. “That bad, huh?”

“I counted four empty bottles in that room,” she nodded. “And I found this.” Prentiss glanced around before pulling the gun out from her waistband.

Derek looked down.

“Do you think she was going to do it?”

“Honestly…” She sighed. “I don’t think she’d see it as enough. She thinks she deserves this. Deserves being alone and miserable. She’s convinced herself that there isn’t a way out.”

“Then why did she agree to come back at all?” He mused.

You finished paying and walked back to where the two agents waited for you, Derek’s hard, worried face staring you down. You straightened your shoulders, determined. He was the only one that could do it.

“Are we ready?” You asked, picking your duffle bag off of the ground.

“I guess I’ll just meet you guys back in Quantico.” Emily said, gaze darting between the two of you.

“Quantico?” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why would I be going to Quantico?”

“Because you called me to take you back and that’s where we’re going,” Derek said.

You made no further argument and got in the car.

The drive started in tense silence. You didn’t say a word, partially because every motion of the vehicle was making your head sway. You should have taken Emily up on her aspirin offer.

“So are we gonna spend the next forty minutes in silence, or what?” He chided.

“Why are you talking so loud?” You groaned, leaning your head against the cool window.

“God, you’re really out of it still, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart, you just spent the last four days on a bender, scaring the hell out of everyone, and breaking Reid’s heart in the process, so fine is not exactly the word I would choose.”

“This was a bad idea,” you muttered to yourself. Your head’s pounding increased.

“You wanted me, you’ve got me, but I’m not gonna just drive you back so you can disappear again.”

You put a hand to your forehead. “Please stop talking.”

“Why did you need me anyway? Do you have any idea what this has been doing to Reid-”

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull over, damnit.” The ferocity of your tone was all he needed and he quickly got to the side of the road in time for you to be sick again.

Derek stopped the car and got out, walking around to the other side where you were crouched by the passenger door, hands on your knees to hold yourself up.

“Great,” he exhaled, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, well, alcohol poisoning’s a bitch, Derek. I would know.” You stood back up, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Here you were, standing on the side of the road in a puddle of sick, with Derek Morgan’s famous big-brother-protective, but frustrated, gaze locked on you.

The two of you stood there for a long time. It was just like the police station. His tough-love approach was familiar, almost comforting. It had to be him.

He seemed to understand the shift in your gaze. “Why did you call me, Y/N?” He stepped towards you.

“Because they love me too much,” you sighed, coming away from the car and the now soaked earth.

“What?”

“You’re the only one who will do it,” you said. “Because they love me too much.”

His eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what you meant. They widened again when he understood. “No.”

“You’re the only one-”

“You can’t actually be serious,” he scoffed.

“If I… change. If I do something to hurt them. I need you to-”

“That’s not how this works, Y/N. You know that. You’ve spent the last ten years studying it. You aren’t just going to wake up one day and turn into Lydia Y/L/N.”

“I killed, Derek,” you cried. “I’m a killer. I’m already her.”

“Your mother suffered a severe psychotic break due to undiagnosed PTSD from your father’s abuse,” he said slowly. “Why are you so convinced that that’s who you are?”

“Because everything I touch dies!”

Your hand hit his chest before you really knew what you were doing. You pushed again.

“Arrest me.”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

You hit him again, this time harder. “Derek, arrest me. Stop me. Do something! Arrest me, damnit!”

“Y/N, stop.”

“I can’t go back. You have to end it. I can’t- please- I can’t do it alone. Derek, please.”

He caught you before you fell, holding you up against his chest as your arms fell defeated to your sides. Sobs muffled against him and tears stained his dark shirt. You kept muttering the same things over and over again until they didn’t make sense to you anymore. Derek lowered his voice to a persistent, caring whisper.

“Y/N, running away isn’t going to save us. You can’t protect anyone by destroying yourself,” he sighed, keeping his arms locked around your shaking frame. “Or asking me to.”

“You don’t- you don’t know that.”

“I know you. And I know how crazy Reid and your brother are going right now worrying about you,” he said, still holding on. “They aren’t afraid of you, sweetheart. They’re afraid of losing you.” He pulled back, tucking a finger under your chin to lift your head. “If I don’t bring you back, that kid is going to lose his mind, you hear me?” He smiled slightly. “I know the fight you’ve got in your head isn’t one that I can just pull you out of, even though I want to. But that’s the thing, Y/N. You have to keep fighting.”

You closed your eyes, more tears cascading down your cheeks. He kissed your forehead. “Let’s take you home, okay? I talked to Garcia and she said we can use her office and you can tell me everything. Or you can say nothing. It’ll be up to you.”

With a deep breath, you nodded, opened the car door and climbed inside.

(I know I forgot to post last week, I'm sorry!)

The In-Betweens series: @amywright; shesoperfectt; hereforsmutbcicantgetenough; violetbossler; hyper-half-blood; i-bitch-you-bitch; xcastawayherosx; preciousbabypeter; @jori21; @sol-48; @murdermornings ; @ staygoldsquatchling02; @ ara-a-bird

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagines #aaron hotchner #dr. spencer reid x reader #derek morgan #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #david rossi #dr. spencer reid #mattew gray gubler #the in betweens #criminal minds imagine series

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lovefairymina · 7 months

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(Sorry if this is long)

“You must be (Name),” Maedhros’s voice reached through the tent. You glanced at the elf that had walked through the entrance. He stood taller than any of his kin. His crimson hair nearly glowed with the light of the lambs within your tent, and his sharps eyes were locked with yours, filled with caution yet determination, determination to claim what he came for.

“I am lord Maedhros. I have come to discuss the returning of the Silmaril in your possession,” he stated.

You glanced at a couple of your men that stood on the sides of the tent. They respectfully nodded their heads and gave the elf a chair to sit on.

“Of course you are. Why else would you be here, lord Maedhros?” you started as he sat on the opposite side of the table that separated you. “I am willing to return the stone, but it depends on what you are willing to give in return,”

“Give in return? What are you implying?” Maedhros frowned at your last statement. You nearly chuckled in amusement. “I am proposing a trade, my good elf lord. Did you honestly think I would give your precious stone for free? We have gone through a lot of trouble to win the battle and acquire that pretty rock. I believe it would only be fair if we would receive a little compensation — for succeeding where you and your house failed,” you explained.

“And what are you asking for compensation?” Maedhros questioned.

“Anything that will benefit my people, land, money, provision, protection. Just like you, I am a leader. My duty is to look after my people. Thought, in your case since your loss in Nirnaeth was rather severe. I’m going to give you the chance to come up with a compensation price worthy enough for your precious silmaril,” you replied with an amused grin.

Maedhros kept himself calm even though you could notice a small frown forming up. “Is this why you agreed to a discussion? To squeeze me from whatever you can with a possible false promise to return what is rightfully ours?” he questioned. You chuckled. “Oh, you judge me too harshly. I am no Morgoth. I have my own reasons to hate that foul god, and besides…” You crossed your arms. “Do not tell me you wouldn’t pass such an opportunity to trade with people who are so desperately after the rock you possess?” you said. “Especially if your own people can greatly benefit from it,”

“I have no use for the rock. The trinket is pretty much good for being a pretty decoration over the fireplace, but when I see an opportunity–- I take it. And I believe this is a fair business proposal. Not to mention you kinda have contest for the stone,” you mentioned. “What do you mean by contest?” Maedhros questioned.

“There are other people who are willing to trade for the Silmaril. I only postponed them because you were the first to reach out about the matter,” you revealed. “So fairly said, time is ticking for you,” you stood up.

“And I believe you are more inclined to this deal than result in possible violence,” you walked around the table to him. “Taken our current situations. If we decide to resolve this by blood it will only end up badly for both of us. You and your people are experienced in war, but so are we and we have more people to rebel against yours. Plus, I do not think you can risk tarnishing your house’s already tarnished name,” you leaned against the table and looked down on him. “So think about it. Don’t you think doing a fair trade for the silmaril is much more plausible than a possible mass murder? That way you will avoid bloodying your hands and perhaps people would look at you more in light than take you for mindless murderers. Of course, we can do this the hard way, but then we both will gain nothing from this,” you explained. “Most of my people do not like you, but I will do what I think is best for them, especially during these crucial times. So, what say you, elf? “ you looked down on him.

Maedhros was quiet for a moment. “And what if my contest offers a greater price?” he asked. “That will remain to be seen unless you are willing to add yourself as a little bride price,” you chuckled and returned to your seat. “So… do we have a deal?” you asked, waiting for his answer.

Astonished by your straightforwardness, a brow was cocked and his head tilted. Crossing his arms over his chest, he then tossed his head backwards as the oncoming laughter was no longer able to be contained. “So, that was your plan from the very beginning, me? You say that you are uninterested, and yet you request that I possibly offer myself to make a fair trade. How impossibly confounding you are,” he whimsically remarked. “I believe we might have found a common ground.”

#♡{sweet.hugs} ~ {maedhros}#silm imagines #maedhros imagine #maedhros x y/n #maedhros x you #feanorians #middle earth imagine

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splickedylit · 1 year

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please tell me more about the stuff in the tags of your last fic, I love xenolinguistics! What if brother and sister were just correlated do to our gendernorms? What is sister in Alternian?

I mean, to be clear, that post is an excerpt, and far from the full fic which is still in process! But uhhh let's see. So in the tags you're addressing, I said

"what if 'motherfucker' and 'brother' are translated different but they're related words in alternian…. #what if 'brother' and 'sister' aren't different words theyre just translated in english based on gender but there's no distinction actually #it's all the word I tend to translate as 'kin'/'family'/'fam' but gendered by english-speakers for comprehension"

My thought wasn't that there was a word for "sister" in Alternian, any more than a word for "brother"! In keeping with the minimal amount of gendering I try to do when I write trolls, I was thinking there could be a single word that just basically means "troll who is part of my 'family'", (although "family" here is its own kettle of fish on Alternia, more on that later). To a conversational learner of Alternian, it would be fairly natural to translate it according to the gender of the person being addressed, since calling someone "brother" or "sister" has more linguistic precedent than the gender-neutral address I've used in clown-fics before, which is "kin".

(I don't think I got that from canon, as far as I remember I came up with that because I wanted more queer characters and needed a gender-neutral church term of address for them, lol).

Bear in mind my worldbuilding is also partially predicated on the way I tend to write the clown church, which is a little more based on real life juggalos than some clown churches I've seen written in fics--I like the idea that purplebloods are still violent assholes to each other, but that they have a weird kind of cohesion, a default allyship with each other via the church that isn't quadranted and isn't necessarily in cahoots, but just expects a certain amount of kinship. "Family", or "troll-closer-than-friend", something that's not quite a quadrant but is closer than the average troll gets to have with other trolls, usually. I like the thought of other blood castes finding that deeply unsettling--and I also feel like it makes a certain amount of sense; both for the sort of weird troll equivalent of an ethnoreligious group and also for a comparatively smaller ruling class that has to keep the much more numerous, psionically-gifted masses in line.

But also as individuals they will certainly still challenge, undercut, and murder each other sometimes haha. They're Alternian trolls after all. ANYWAY

Terms of address in Alternian are actually a really fun concept, especially if I was playing around with the concept I talked about a little in later tags on that same post--that you can present yourself as a superior, inferior, or intentionally give zero inflection either way, which is risky in its own way if the person you're speaking to doesn't agree that you're equals. That actually meshes nicely with one of the few bits of xenolinguistics we do get in the comic, which is that apparently the troll word for "friend" is the same as the word for "enemy"! Which you could work in a couple of ways!

the word just essentially does mean "friend"/"troll I'm close to"--if you are actually friends, then cool. If not, it becomes more like a guy in a bar calling you "pal" and stepping into your space. Humans have their own dominance and submission tone indicators, and imposing closeness or familiarity on a person you aren't familiar with to that degree can be a threat in any language, so it would feel right to me if Alternian had the same thing but much more aggressively codified.

The word is understood as "friend" when it's said in a submissive/friendly/fawning stance, and "enemy" when it's said by a superior or dominant troll. This is actually also fun because it means that unless a highblood is explicitly lowering themself to use a less dominant tone, they're speaking to their social inferiors with pretty overt hostility.

To bring it back around to the original topic, I honestly like option two a little better--if any term of address can be dominant/hostile, submissive/fawning or neutral/equal, then Gamzee when he's introduced using the "equals" inflection of "brother/sister/etc" would carry on his canon vibe of not really acting like A Real Highblood. And then when murderstuck hit, he could drop all the way to a supposedly super friendly and harmless inflection on the "it's me :o)" sentences and an aggressive one on the "AND ALSO ME :o(" sentences.

"Motherfucker" is a fun one because carrying on the thought I was having in those tags, I was imagining "motherfucker" would be a very similar word in Alternian to "kin"--but smushed together with the Alternian for "fuck" and used in all sorts of ungrammatical ways. "Motherfucker" would make sense to me as an Anglicization of a word that in Alternian might mean something more like "(friend-closer-than-friend)fucker". After all, trolls don't have mothers--I think I've written before with the alternate headcanon that it refers to the Mother Grub, and is kind of profane/gross in that sense, but I also like the concept that part of the reason that we see so many purplebloods throwing "motherfuck(ing/er)" around is because they're also the ones who have a concept of "family" via the church, and a nonexistent translator was like "for readability I have not translated this literally but have instead used the nearest human equivalent" lol.

#Domestic Diplomacy #Homestuck #Gamzee Makara #he's the only one who gets a tag because this started as a discussion of brother/sister/motherfucker lmao although really it's just #xenolinguistics #xenosociology #I just really like writing trolls as markedly alien you guys........I just really like making up bizarre ways for little dudes to act QuQ

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usedtobethelegendcreator · 1 month

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Situations: Zuko vs Maedhros

It's been a long day, and you're just getting home. What have you been doing?

Zuko: I signed another peace treaty.

Maedhros: I patrolled the area around Amon Ereb one more time. Can't have any fuckin Orcs coming in and making off with our hostages, they are not our sons now, MAGLOR!

Where do you live?

Zuko: The royal palace, along with my servants and guards. I do my best to treat them well.

Maedhros: The dilapidated old fortress of one of my dead brothers. My last remaining brother and I won't be able to protect it by ourselves for long. Morgoth and Thauron are still out there, destroying the world. There is nowhere else to go. We haven't told the hostages, but my brother and I know that we will likely die here.

There's an assassin outside the door! Quick, what do you do?

Zuko: I will incapacitate the assassin if they make it past my guards.

Maedhros: *murders for the 235345894758th time* It smells like bitch in here.

Well, now the people living with you have seen the assassin's body. What now?

Zuko: Aang, this isn't airbender preschool. I'm not leaving the Fire Nation in the hands of Azula, who would most definitely make a bid for the throne if I died.

Maedhros: Maglor has committed just as many crimes as I. The hostages can get over themselves.

It's the anniversary. What happened today?

Zuko: I was banished from the Fire Nation for speaking out of turn. I now know that my banishment helped me become a better leader.

Maedhros: The battle I organized ended in the betrayal of Ulfang and his sons, the Dwarf-king of Belegost died defending our retreat, and my dearest cousin, High King Fingon, was crushed beneath the foot of a Balrog. We do not have the strength to fight such a large-scale battle against Morgoth again. My brothers all escaped alive, but the harshest and most rash of them began itching for a fight against our own kin.

The guy that hurt you is here!

Zuko: My father is a pathetic, cruel man. He has no power over me anymore after Avatar Aang took away his bending.

Maedhros: *cracks knuckles* I'M NOT GOING BACK TO THANGORODRIM, FUCK OFF, MORGOTH.

What's the worst thing you've ever done?

Zuko: It's a close call, but I think my worst deed was when I burned down Kyoshi Island.

Maedhros: I've committed mass murder against my own kin three times. My hands are soaked with blood. Elves and Orcs alike flee from my face.

Uh, where are you going?

Zuko: I have a meeting with some ambassadors.

Maedhros: I'm going to steal my father's magical jewels from the Valar in one last desperate bid to fulfill my Oath.

#maedhros #zuko #atla #silmarillion #incorrect quotes #maedhros is feral

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jiangwanyinscatmom · 1 year

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Why do people say cultural and contest wise the wen remands death wasn’t wrong cuz blood revenge how does that work? Tried asking someone who said and they called me white American even though I’m neither like they’re the once saying agent China didn’t have morals but I’m the uncultured one for some reason

Because they're pulling excuses out of their bum.

Now, there WAS a system called "Family Extermination" or the Execution Of the Nine Guanxi (The principles that dictated calling others as kin by confucian concept) Or 诛连九族 zhulian ju zu, guilt by association. This was done in mass as Lingchi 凌迟 (I doubt I need to remind this fandom what this is now do I?)

The punishment of death went as so:

The criminal's living parents

The criminal's living grandparents

Any children the criminal may have, over a certain age (varying over different eras, children below that age becoming slaves) and—if married—their spouses.

Any grandchildren the criminal may have, over a certain age (again with enslavement for the underaged) and—if married—their spouses.

Siblings and siblings-in-law (the siblings of the criminal and that of his or her spouse, in the case where he or she is married)

Uncles and aunts of the criminal, as well as their spouses

The criminal's cousins (in the case of Korea, this included up to second and third cousins)

The criminal's spouse

The criminal's spouse's parents

The criminal (The first offender)

But even historically, this was almost unheard of to implement and was all but nulled by the time of the Shang dynasty's (1600–1046 BC) rise in China and "post-modern" East Asian society.

With that out of the way, The text of the work condemns what was done to the remaining Wens as cruel and unusual punishment, and hypocritical for the cultivation world as a whole. There is no cultural excuse given in the work for the justification that killed the Wens, remaining cultivators or not. MXTX also did not condem Wei Wuxian for being radical for standing against the persecution of the remaining Wens. What was done to the Wens was anachronistically influenced by this historical process, but as with everything else in the book, is written as a heinous act.

There is no such thing as blood revenge within Family Extermination as it was only used in regards to treason, of the divinity of the Imperial Court, and Emperor. The Cultivation world is neither divine, or imperial within MDZS. It is a separate political entity in that universe. They have no reason to logically claim this punishment, and it was not used on the Wens. They were brutally beaten instead and left to rot in a pool. Lingchi, was a very public execution as a warning of what happens when you go against the divine right and rule. Those children left alive due to "statutes" lost any previous status their family name once held and were all but nameless slaves. The Wens, was just a senseless murder under the veneer of righteousness for a nameless concept that was different for all involved with the deaths. Family Extermination was for the Divine Family, and them alone to establish as a sentence.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wen remnants

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thyandrawrites · 1 year

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Do you think Endeavor will die trying to save Touya or helping Shoto save him? It makes sense for his character being afraid of dying like his father did to only end up the same way and Endeavor being dead also would bring peace to Touya and release him from his obsession on Endeavor. What do you think the ending will be for the Todoroki family? I just want Touya to be happy and not love that awful person that is a failure of a father anymore because loving Endeavor is only poison imo

My feelings about this aside, I see Enji surviving the manga and stepping in as a father only in the aftermaths of this war.

I don't think that the trope of redemption through death works to address Enji's remaining loose ends, because I don't think it's compatible with the resolution that Touya's arc needs.

Touya needs distance from his father to finally explore who he really is, true, but he also needs closure with his dad.

So far, the set up is that Shouto and Enji will have to work together to save Touya:

But the thing is, Enji is not yet written as someone who's ready to do his part. In fact, he kept avoiding Touya in the war itself, enough so that Touya had to chase him down to get that closure.

This tells us that Enji isn't yet in a mindframe where he can contemplate Touya's needs, let alone act on them, act in his son's best interest. Endvr entered this second war with the mentality of a hero.

He's still thinking in terms of how many heinous crimes Touya committed, and thinking of him in abstract terms. Here you can see it most clearly: the mention of Touya doesn't bring up memories of a family member, or even of a person; he's depersonalized into a receipient of Enji's regrets and inadequacies as a number one. When Enji thinks of him, he doesn't see the boy he wanted to have survived the Sekoto blaze, he sees the crimes Endvr should've been able to prevent.

This mindset won't change simply because Touya now appeared before him, demanding his attention. If anything, I see this making Enji feel backed into a corner, pushed to make a choice when he's not yet ready to acknowledge Touya's humanity.

My current prediction is that Enji will fail to acknowledge Touya as Touya, and only face Dabi the villain, until Shouto realizes why this approach won't work and lead the way for a change of pace. So far, neither Enji not Shouto have been successful in "stopping Dabi", and that's precisely because they're stuck approaching him as the family's black sheep, the sum of Enji's mistakes, the consequence of Enji's stubbornness. They need to think of Touya as a person and as a victim first, or their approach will keep failing. What makes Touya a villain is the fact that he felt shunned and abandoned by his kin. If Enji died before he could correct that and show Touya a real change, then I don't think Touya's arc would reach its necessary closure. Touya would simply lose his purpose once again.

But the thing is, Enji's not yet into a place where he can help Shouto save Touya, either, because Enji and Shouto approach him with completely different attitudes. Shouto sees someone he can relate to ("he is me") and someone who is family ("Touya-nii"), so even if he currently doesn't understand Touya's methods and is stuck perpetrating the scapegoating, he does have the set up to eventually sympathize enough to reach a common ground with him. Enji, however, not only still sees Touya as someone to defeat ("a mass murderer" "I cannot fight him"), but also as an abstract evil who is inhabiting the body of who was once his son ("my mistakes took form as Touya and stole so many futures").

So I think Enji will realize why resorting to his hero persona to solve problems won't work only when he sees Shouto approaching Touya as his brother. Then, and only after that, I can see him realistically step up as a father and finally give Touya the closure he needs, acknowledging him as a dad who loves his son, and not a hero who captures a villain. Right now, Enji's too stubbornly focused on soothing his guilt with a work success to begin to acknowledge the needs of others. Hence, death wouldn't accomplish anything. What he needs is growth, and since he's so resistant to it, resistant to admitting his flaws, the only way I can see him growing is if he clings to his methods and fails first, and is then shown a better way by the only son he ever paid attention to, and finally eat his pride and follow in his example. I think Enji needs to acknowledge that he never contemplated a scenario where he could mend things without violence,

And frankly, I think that would be a nice way to make amends to Shouto, too, but this time for real.

Two birds with one stone.

#None of this reflects what I /want/ to happen but it's where I see the story going #I hope it makes sense #Honestly I think enji should've died in the first war arc #But hori wrote himself into a corner by making Dabi's arc reliant on getting closure from enji for that to happen imho #Ali replies #Bnha #Bnha spoilers #Bnha meta #Meta:endeavor #E slur #My post

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ultravioart · 11 months

Text

@harryharson

Ramattra lore/character discussions, and response to tags below:

Race (as in, the social castes invented to enforce chattel slavery, Black, White) is a social construct, only a vague box used by higher authorities to oppress and dehumanize real human beings. To be racist is to enforce that system.

Ramattra is not racist, because omnics and humans are fundamentally different species, not socially constructed differences within one species. Ramattra is speciest you could argue, sure, but not racist. Omnics are fundamentally NOT human.

And that's another thing: his goal is not to punish humans. His main goal is to stop omnic extinction, no matter the cost. His trauma induced desperation and anger and fear is what is driving him into doing more harm, and there is a meaningful story in that, I agree. He doesn't aim for human extinction(atleast, not yet in canon), he wants to prevent omnic extinction. He is fighting against the collective oppressive powers of humanity, not the human individuals. But if freeing omnics means killing individual humans, he will do that. And at this point in his story, he is probably under the view of: if humans go extinct, then so be it. But human extinction/subjugation is not his goal, preventing omnic extinction/subjugation is.

"Excusing one of the good ones" isn't what I meant at all ah :( nor is human racism applicable to the omnic and human tensions because

one: omnics attacked first and can be hacked and forced to murder at any time which is an undeniable and legitimate threat. Humans have every right to fear omnics suddenly becoming violent out of the blue. Omnics are not humans, and cannot be compared to a human racial group without very troubling implications that a race is inherently violent/mindless labor/could attack at any time hivemind, so I personally avoid it as much as possible.

and two: Ramattra sees inaction to prevent omnic extinction as compliance with omnic genocide. It has less to do with him having 'exceptions' and more with him hating any threat to omnics (human or omnic--yes Ramattra has targeted innocent omnics he perceived as threats to omnic existence. The attacks on Paris, Busan, etc. That definitely killed Iris sentient omnics or at minimum traumatized them by destroying homes/killing loved ones).

Omnics and humans work on fundamentally different intelligences. Humans are singular minded, unable to connect brains together. Omnics are individual but also a kind of hivemind (can communicate/connect via the Iris or internet, and can be mass controlled as seen with Anubis)-- similar to ant colonies in a way, they can cooperate in massive numbers all at once. An individual ant intelligence is different from the antcolony super organism intelligence.

Ramattra doesn't hate human individuals, his story explains he hates how humanity(collective) takes no action to stop injustices, and he is wary of strangers who are humans because of his past where humans tried to kill him/killed his kin (this is where you can argue speciest, bc even tho its trauma based, he does have a distrust based on species alone. To me it reads more like someone who is wary of dogs after a traumatic dog attack, rather than an inherent hatred of all dogs. I say this because he is absurdly polite with most humans in voice lines, and we know he can be mean if he wanted to.)

He also hates omnic individuals that encourage "waiting it out" (Shambali pacifism) when that plan is doomed to lead to extinction. He hates the groups that are not helping to stop omnic extinction.

The metaphor here is that Ram doesn't hate the ants(individual humans), he hates the super organism antcolony (aka humanity as a whole, the larger structures that cause/enable omnic extinction). It's equivalent to hating an oppressive government, but not hating the citizens. Citizens could be supporting/enabling oppression which is bad, or citizens could be actively trying to stop oppression which is good. That's how Ramattra would see it.

The issue here is that humans aren't like omnics, they can't 'hivemind' like omnics. That's why people may think Ram is being anti-human but really it's his trauma burning out his patience to the point his focus is on "prevent omnic extinction" over "saving individuals" now. Meaning he will kill omnic individuals(hacking to force control them to fight and die) AND humans individuals alike in the name of preventing omnic extinction. Which YEAH that's badbad. But the point here is that it's not the same as "die all humans."

His "suffer as I have" and other lines are him expressing the traumas he has faced, not that he actually wants an exact eye for an eye. It's more of a "no, i will not turn the other cheek like the Shambali do, I will speak to you in a language you understand: violence. If you punch me, I will punch you viciously so you will either understand the pain I have gone through and finally stop hurting me, or fear me enough to never dare hurt me again." rather than an "equal exchange of loss"

It's also good to note his relishing in being feared/hated seems to be a new trait. Echo asks him how it feels to be called things like Ravager, and he said it used to bother him but then jokingly says it now gives him 'this warm little feeling inside' --he is SUPER bitter about rejection, and often shows his discomfort with being alone, or having people leave him.

His journey was this:

Mindless warmachine who sent mindless omnics into war against humanity. (After gaining sentience he probably feels guilt/trauma for this, even though he wasn't in control. Survivors guilt.)

Wake up due to the Iris, survive the traumatizing targeted slaughter R-7000s faced from both humans and omnics, end up as one of the last remaining R-7000s. Traumatic: loss, isolation, blamed for something he couldn't control, labeled a violent threat.

Learn of Aurora and try to find her to understand his purpose, end up traveling to Shambali monestary, become a monk, try to comprehend existence and coexistence with humanity. Meet Zenyatta, discuss humanity's shortcomings, make meaningful connection, finally finding a dear brother, someone who understands unlike Mondatta. Then one day Zenyatta almost dies at human hands due to something Ramattra did. Ramattra is traumatized, fearing loss.

Realize the Shambali's pacifism is not working and this path is doomed to lead to omnic extinction. In anger, fear, desperation, drive, Leave the Shambali and his found family, and take violent action to free kidnapped omnics from anti-omnic human captors around the world.

Realize most omnics are waiting to be saved by the Shambali, instead of saving themselves. The Shambali are giving omnics false hope, and dampening resistance efforts. Create Null sector with new dear friend Nameless, to inspire omnics to stand up and fight for liberation instead of sitting and waiting to be killed.

With trauma fueling the desperation to save as many as possible, become too hasty, too fast acting, he was warned by team mates but went ahead anyways, because if they took London, one of the worst places for omnics as a stronghold, it would show the world omnics are capable and inspire omnics globally to rise up and resist-- and the attempt of violently liberating omnics failed in London. The dear omnic Lanet that warned him it was too hasty died in the attack, the Shambali are calling null sector illogical terrorists and discrediting thier efforts, and overall omnics are condemning null sector. This was the opposite of what was meant to happen. More loss, more rejection, more being labeled a violent threat, more trauma. The Shambali have the upper hand, and Ramattra believes the Shambali are dooming his people.

Ramattra then made the point of no return: he states he is willing to force omnics to fight and die against thier will if it means it prevents omnic extinction. He is willing to do what Anubis did. Nameless and Zera leave him, they will not deny omnics free will. Again, he lost those dear to him. Again, he is alone. Again, he is seen as a violent threat. And his people are dwindling by the hour, so he radicalized his views once again.

Ramattra, isolated, desperate, traumatized into defaulting into base R-7000 coding (lead omnics into war against humanity), agrees to join up with Talon if it means omnics will not go extinct.

#Ramattra #omnic #omnics #genocide mentioned #racism mentioned #the violence discussed is OW canon #omnics are not human so i don't like to compare racism with omnics bc.#omnics are a threat bc hacking can make them violent at any time. omnics attacked humanity first. its not the same.#as human racism issues.#Also no hate intended i just take these things serious so i try to discuss it seriously.#slavery mentioned #text #long text #overwatch 2 #overwatch #ow #ow2

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crossdressingdeath · 7 months

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Enver Gortash has informed me that some of our family's ancestral torture racks we thought long lost - those of the make first crafted by Brother Eler, no less, are now on display in the Gate's Hall of Wonders for all the unwashed Baldurian public to gawp at! I shall savage the museum's guards fighting along with this Chosen of Bane, and restore the racks, along with the bones of little Brother Toop so tastelessly presented in a glass cabinet. If they think the Bhaalians are some tourist attraction, we will give them a show, and it will be the perfect test of this supposed Chosen's mettle in combat.

Thanks to this post I now have the text discussing the Hall of Wonders heist! Or possibly the Hall of Wonders killing spree followed by theft. Seems like Durge killed a lot of people while they were there, not that I can blame them under the circumstances. I mean, they seem to be more upset by the tastelessness of the display than the fact that the Hall of Wonders is displaying their dead brother's body, but that's still like. don't just display people's bodies. Them being significantly more upset by the unwashed masses getting to see their ancestral torture racks than their brother's body being on display is hilarious (the concept of ancestral torture racks is hilarious in general. Their family being pioneers in the construction of torture racks is also hilarious), but there's definitely quite a lot of very real and very justified anger at their family being treated like some sort of sideshow attraction there. It's also kind of wild when you consider that according to the official Forgotten Realms canon Gorion's Ward was either an important figure in the city or had very recently died fighting an enemy of the city while the Hall of Wonders displayed the corpse of one of their kin. Like... guys. Maybe read the room? Maybe not a great time for displaying the corpse of a Bhaalspawn like it's a fascinating scientific curiosity.

It's also interesting that Gortash was the one to inform Durge about this. They were clearly in contact before this point, but it seems that this is the first time they actually worked together; I think Gortash chose his planned target very carefully. It was extremely fortunate for him that the Hall of Wonders happened to be displaying a bunch of Bhaalist goods that Durge would very much like back, enough to team up with Bane's Chosen to see it done. And conveniently it's also something that Bhaal would likely also want to see done enough to tolerate Durge working with a Banite to do it. It's embarrassing, letting the masses gawk at Bhaalist goods like they're just a tourist attraction! It cannot be allowed to stand! Although it's odd that they're calling Gortash Bane's Chosen when Gortash's memoir notes say that the two of them were named Chosen after the Hall of Wonders heist, when they came up with the plan for the Crown of Karsus. Most likely the writers just didn't compare notes, but in-universe either one of them was wrong about when the other one became Chosen (if that's the case most likely Durge was Chosen from the time they met and assumed Gortash was also Chosen because obviously the head of the temple is Chosen while Gortash assumed Durge wasn't Chosen before Bane named him Chosen because you have to do something really impressive to be Chosen and they mostly just hung out in the sewers and murdered people pre-Crown) or Gortash intended to lie about the order of events in his memoir. Also I am now picturing the ghosts of Durge's fallen kin hanging around the torture racks in the museum and being horrified to see their sibling spending time with a Banite and enjoying it. Highly irregular behaviour!

Also, because the Hall of Wonders is in Baldur's Gate and we're never given a date on when this happened I find myself wondering if any of the companions went to see this exhibit. Most of them were in the city at one point or another or at least had the opportunity to go there, it's not impossible that they went to the Hall of Wonders in between the exhibit being set up and Durge and Gortash wrecking the place. I'm kind of loving the mental image of it coming up somehow and one or more of them talking about how fascinating the exhibit on the Bhaalists was (probably Gale, if anyone was going to be fascinated by an exhibit on a murder cult it'd probably be Gale, the nerd. Also with him being the only one to really comment on Durge having been Bhaal's Chosen it's just extra fun if it's him) and Durge choosing violence (either out of a desire to be a little shit or genuine anger) and just going "I'm so glad the stolen treasures of my family and the corpse of my brother were so entertaining for you." It's fun watching the others squirm just a little.

#bg3 #durge #bg3 spoilers

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thenewgothictwice · 1 year

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Forough Farrokhzad, "Window", translated by Elizabeth T. Gray jr.

"A window for seeing

A window for hearing

A window like a well

that ends deep in the heart of the earth

And opens out into this expanse of recurring blue kindness

A window that overfills the tiny hands of loneliness

with its nightly gift, the perfume of generous stars

and from there

one could invite the sun to the geraniums in exile

One window is enough for me

I come from the land of dolls

from under the shade of paper trees

in the garden of a picture book

from the dry seasons of barren friendship and love

in the dusty alleyways of innocence

from the years the letters of the colourless alphabet grew

behind the school's tubercular desks

from the moment the children could write

the word "stone" on the blackboard

and the panicked starlings flushed from the ancient tree

I come from among the roots of carnivorous plants

and my brain is still overflowing

with the terrified voice of the butterfly

they crucified in a notebook

with a pin

When my trust hung suspended by the thin rope of justice

and all over town

they were chopping up the heart of my lamps

when they bound the childish eyes of my love

with the black blindfold of the law

and from the agitated temples of my desire

spurts of blood were scattering everywhere

when my life was nothing more

nothing more than the tick-tock of the wall clock

I realized I must, I must, I must

love madly

One window is enough for me

A window on to the moment of awareness and seeing and silence

Now the walnut sapling

has grown tall enough to tell its young leaves

the meaning of the wall

Ask the mirror

the name of your saviour

Isn't the earth, trembling under your feet

lonelier than you are?

The prophets brought their prophecy of desolation

with them into our country

The ongoing detonations

and the poisoned clouds

are these the reverberations of holy verses?

O friend, O brother, O my kin

when you arrive at the moon

write the history of the mass murder of the flowers

Dreams are always

thrown down from the heights of their own naiveté

I smell a four-leaf clover

that has grown on the gravestone of worn-out meanings

Was the woman buried in her shroud of waiting and chastity

my own youth?

Will I again climb the stairs of my own curiosity

to greet the good God strolling on the roof?

I sense time has passed

I sense that "the moment" is my share of the leaves of history

I sense that the table is an illusory gap between my hair and the hands of this sad stranger

Say something to me

What does one who grants you the kindness of a living body

want from you in return but an understanding of what it means to feel alive?

Say something to me

In the sanctuary of my window

I am one with the sun."

#forough farrokhzad #from my book collection #literature

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mostlydeadallday · 2 years

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Lost Kin | Chapter XX | Our Last Meeting

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: suicidal ideation, referenced murder, memory loss AO3: Lost Kin Chapter XX | Our Last Meeting First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter Notes: Surprise! Quirrel snuck up on me, and what was supposed to be a brief encounter became an entire chapter as I realized how well his and Hornet's stories mesh together. I cannot wait to explore this further, so Quirrel will definitely be returning. Big shoutout to House_Of_Knives for beta reading this chapter, lampfacedstudios for the idea of cricket!Quirrel, and zoestarlings and verdeltiathedead for the awesome new fanart!

○

The air grew cooler as she flew.

The scent was stronger now, too. Hornet paced herself, unable now to go as fast as she had, though the desire still beat beneath her shell. Exhausting herself meant she would only be more vulnerable if she met with trouble, though there were precious few husks that traversed the lands near the Resting Grounds. The infection seemed suppressed here, a timeless stillness weighing down like a heavy hand. The influence of the moths, perhaps; they had always been adept in things of the Dream. There was a reason, after all, that the dead here stayed buried.

These graves had quickly filled once the infection began. Once space ran out, the bodies of nobles and common bugs alike were disposed of in pyres, at first singly, then en masse as the plague hit its height. Shellwood for burning had run short, at the end.

She had dug graves for the vessels, though. She had dug them wherever they fell, in lush soil or loose ash, in packed dirt or springy loam. Once their shades had effervesced, restored to the void from which they came, she could be sure there would be no returning.

Hornet growled, the sound rattling painfully in her throat, and yanked her needle free with a vengeance, loose rock cascading down from the crack where it had stuck. Her hands trembled. She tucked her weapon under her arm for a moment to press them to her stomach, smoothing out the aches and tremors. The flight across the lake would be a long one—and a miserable one, too, if she fell in because she fumbled her needle.

Get it together.

She sighted the final throw out of the dim cavern, swooping through the doorway and landing on a bed of rushes on the lakeshore, blinking hard until her eyes grew accustomed to the shine of light on water.

When she saw the other bug, she nearly stumbled. He had turned to look at her with a wide-eyed stare from his seat at the shoreline, the gleam of the lake casting the smooth curve of his mask into shadow. His shoulders slumped a fraction, though he did not seem startled. Hornet felt, somehow, that she was not who he had been waiting for.

There was a nail stuck in the rushes at his side.

He did not reach for it.

The bug—a cricket, she could tell from the scent and the long thin legs folded beneath him—cleared his throat. “Ah.” His voice was smooth and gentle, cultured, in a way she had not heard in centuries. “I… had not thought to see you again.”

Again?

Hornet swallowed, with difficulty—her throat was painfully dry. Her grip did not shift on her needle. She cast back in her memories, bewildered, for an impression of that face, and it came to her that she had seen it, once before, though she could not say how long ago. That bug had worn a second mask, a familiar one, atop his head like a strange hat. She still remembered the pulse of magic through her needle, the sting in her hands and the rumble in her skull when she struck it.

He did not wear it now.

She wondered if he, too, was thinking of that meeting, however long ago it was. It seemed so, for he made to stand, unfolding himself slowly, eyes never leaving her, their many facets glinting topaz-blue.

If he meant to fight her once again, he was more reckless than she thought. That mask no longer protected him. Tired as she was, she could more than best a common bug.

Her shoulders slumped a fraction, though she did not relax her stance. Dread crept over her shell like a many-legged thing.

She was a warrior. A protector. She had fought her whole life. She did not waver, did not hesitate. She did what she had to do and did not—

Did not—

She did not want to.

It was a pitiful wish, a childish cry, and it had always fallen on deaf ears, had been ignored so many times that she thought it silenced forever.

She did not want to fight. She did not want to kill. And it had never mattered.

Even tired and careworn and heartbroken as she was, even haunted by the memory of her siblings—so many deaths, so many little bodies—she could not afford to quit. She was meant to keep living, to give all of herself for the heritage she’d never be able to earn. She was the daughter of the Beast and the Pale King, and she owed debts she’d never repay. And when she grew weary and when the days grew long, she reminded herself that she was not her own, that she was born for a purpose, that she had a job to do.

She would kill this bug. She would kill him if he so much as reached for his nail.

But he didn’t.

He touched his right hand to his chest-plate and, without a waver in his gaze, bent forward at the waist, barbed ankles crossing in a perfect court bow. His voice was steady but subdued, nearly reverent, when he spoke again. “Princess.”

Hornet deliberately did not breathe. She forced herself to stand firm, though everything in her wanted to leave. Only when she could be sure she would not falter did she answer.

“Few there are who still know me by that name.” She sounded hoarse, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Throwing her shoulders back, she lifted her chin and stared him down. “Explorer you claimed to be, once. Yet I knew then that you were more than that.” She paused, letting her fangs gleam beneath her mask, and his head ducked a fraction—acknowledgement, but not fear. “It seems you know it now, as well.”

“So I do,” he mused, and the words tasted bitter in the air. He straightened from his bow and stepped deliberately to the side, parallel to the lake’s edge, away from the nail.

So he did not intend to repeat his mistakes. Good.

She settled, letting her needle’s edge fall a trace. It was a desperate thing to hope, but perhaps she would not need to kill.

Not today.

“My name is Quirrel, though I could have told you that at our last meeting.” The admonishment in his tone was feather-light, but she felt it all the same. “What I could not have told you is this.”

He took a deep breath, and his stare was distant, and something in the tilt of his head and the drape of his long hands looked as though he had lost part of himself, rather than finding it. “I am—I was employed at the Teacher’s Archives.” His voice, too, had lost something, some surety, some steadiness that she hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. It sounded older, cracked and weathered like the stone roads in the Crossroads. “I was personal assistant to the Madam herself. To—to Monomon.”

She did not know what it was like to lose one’s memory. She had always been cursed with the opposite: too many memories, too much history weighing on her shoulders. Too many things clamoring to be part of her, too many lies and truths and promises. She tried not to think of the unnaturally long years she had lived, knowing that peering into that depth was what led some to cackling madness.

What would be the greater pain: to lose and then find yourself again, or to never be able to leave yourself behind?

Comfort was not in her nature. She was rough lines and sharp edges, grit and sand and the harsh wind off the cliffs. Whatever she offered would be inadequate; it always was. And yet sometimes she could not help but try.

“The wastes are not kind,” she said, low and level, shifting to gaze over his shoulder at the smooth expanse of the lake. “But I can imagine that returning would be more difficult still.”

Quirrel huffed. He, too, looked out at the water, letting the silence rest for a long moment before he answered. “I never asked for it to be easy.”

The unspoken truth hung between them. That nothing about life in this kingdom was easy. That it always took more than it gave. That it required more from you, and more, and never stopped asking.

Life anywhere was never easy or fair.

Life in Hallownest seemed intent on proving that point.

The cricket shook himself, his focus returning from the distance, from the luminous fog that rose in twists and curls from the water. “But my troubles must pale next to yours, princess.” There was a rueful smile in his voice, held forth as an offering. “After all this time protecting these ruins, to now be faced with the very thing you sought to prevent. To know that you were right, to try to keep me from this place.” His empty hand clasped, as if feeling the ghost of his nail hilt. “I almost wish that you had.”

“What do you know of it?”

Her voice finally cracked on the sharp question. She coughed, then inhaled hard and coughed again, and again and again until she could not breathe, fighting not to double over, specks of light spinning in her vision.

Blindly, she fumbled for her water flask, only to feel its damning lightness in her hand. She had grabbed it along with her other travel gear, but had been too distraught to think of refilling it before she fled.

“Here. Wait.” A cool hand alighted on her shoulder. She flinched weakly back, needle jerking up, but meeting resistance as Quirrel’s other hand stopped her—not gripping her wrist or impeding her movement, merely held above her arm, halting her reflexive swing. “Allow me.”

His hands left her for a moment as she stood frozen, breaths coming short and ragged between jags of coughing, eyes squinted nearly shut against the tears gathering in them. She heard a lid unscrewing, then he was prying her empty flask away and pressing a full one into her hand, and she was so desperate to soothe the tattered agony of her throat that she lifted it without thinking, guzzling half of it fast enough to make nausea rise in her gut. She swallowed and pressed her wrist to her dripping mouth, reveling in the air flowing unimpeded through her lungs.

When she could breathe evenly again, she lowered her hand and held out the flask, and Quirrel took it, and stared at her a moment before noticing that she was still bristling, still gripping her weapon so tightly that her chitin creaked, and he stepped back to a respectful distance, out of reach.

She barked a harsh laugh, still more of a cough than anything else. Here she was, accepting water from a stranger without testing it first, allowing him to touch her, letting him call her princess, and she could not even bring herself to be sorry.

Perhaps there was something to be said for company. The miserable weight of guilt had lifted for a moment—but she no sooner noticed it than it fell back over her, as if the City ceiling had opened and dumped all the rain down on her at once.

“Answer me,” she said, more harshly than she would have liked, but it was out in the air now, echoing and fading off the tunnel walls, and she could not take it back. “What do you know of the Dreamers?”

Quirrel paused in the act of screwing the lid back on his flask, then continued, deliberately, without looking up. “You recognized the mask I wore when we first met,” he said. “Besides being the Madam’s assistant, I was also her confidant.” He sighed silently; his rounded shoulders rose and fell. “She asked something of me. Something I could not refuse.”

Hornet thought of her duty, of the things she’d never thought she would have to do, of the last time she had seen her father. She could not have spoken, even if she had had anything to say.

Quirrel stood with his head bowed, the flask held stiffly in his hands, and continued, though his voice went flatter with every word. “She entrusted me with her mask, once she was Sealed. She sent me far beyond the reaches of this kingdom, into the wastes that would take all memory of her. She asked me to ensure that her Seal never broke.”

The silence when he finished was its own answer.

After a long, long moment, he went on again, not looking up. “I know not what has happened, but I cannot help theorizing.” He tucked his head farther still, the beaded ties of his bandana slipping free and dangling beneath his chin. “The Dreamers are fallen, the Seals broken at last. The Black Egg has been breached.”

“And the Hollow Knight is free,” she finished, in a near-whisper.

His head jerked up, and he fixed those glinting eyes on her. She found them near-inscrutable, almost as much so as her sibling’s, though perhaps she had simply been alone for too long. She could read a battle, a map, a landscape, with perfect ease, and yet the emotion in Quirrel’s eyes was as obscure to her as the darkness of void.

“You know this?” he said, careful and quiet, wary as footfalls in Deepnest.

“I do,” she answered, and could say no more. She looked away, allowing him to think her cryptic, mysterious, rather than just choked with emotion. He already saw too much, already smothered her with an empathy she had not asked for. He didn’t need to know that she had fled here to escape her own thoughts, that she wasn’t fast enough to outrun her own remorse.

She heard a hiss of breath, a shaky inhale that seemed to rasp against the smooth silence. “Then—the plague—”

“I know not.” To his wordless, apprehensive exclamation, she said, “I have seen no signs of the infection spreading further. But I was… otherwise occupied. I have been unable to make journey to the temple until now.”

She had far darker stains on her record than hiding the truth. But still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes.

He did not seem to notice, staring off into his own private distance. He laughed, once, incredulous. “Why should it matter?” The question was directed inward, she could tell, a private query she did not need to answer. “When this world is dead and gone, when all sacrifices have been for naught.” He did look at her, then. “What here is worth saving? Why do I still find that I care?”

She couldn’t answer that. Not for anyone but herself.

And so she didn’t.

“I have never been overfond of scholars.” Hornet stuck her needlepoint in the rushes. This bug did not seem inclined to make for his nail anytime soon, given that he still stood deliberately out of reach of it. Besides, holding her weapon at the ready for this long was beginning to make her arm shake. “However, I find myself in need of one in this instance. You said you could theorize. So theorize.”

“The Madam was the scholar,” Quirrel said stiffly. “Not myself. I could never—”

“By your own account, she is gone. Along with every other Dreamer. Do your best.” Hornet ground her teeth, resisting the urge to flash her fangs again. “How did the Seals come to break?”

Quirrel twisted the flask between his hands, unhappily, and she stifled the urge to lift her needle again, to force him to tell her. At last, she would know what had happened to her mother. At last, she could put her suspicions to rest.

“There was a vessel,” Quirrel said finally. Hornet felt her chest clench. The guilt pressed down on her again, so thick and smothering that, for a moment, she lacked the air to breathe. A vessel. It had to have been her failure that caused this. Ceaseless years of vigilance, all for naught, all thrown aside in one moment of weakness.

That day in Greenpath. That little vessel in the blue-gray cloak. It had to be them.

Then the word struck her anew, and she startled out of her turmoil.

All these years hunting vessels, and she had never heard anyone call them by their real name. They were most often called travelers or wanderers—words assigned by those who knew not how else to describe them. They were unknowable, almost indefinable, and often referenced with a shudder.

She had not thought anyone but her knew what they truly were.

“A vessel?” she prompted, as gently as she could, though her impatience made her want to snap.

“I knew not what they were at first.” Quirrel seemed to notice himself fiddling with the flask and made himself stow it, reaching round to hook it to his belt. Now, however, he had nothing to do with his hands; he awkwardly crossed his arms instead. “I did not know what to call them, so I called them an explorer, like myself. I… I called them a friend. We crossed paths many times, in what seemed like the most unlikely places.” He shook his head. “They were enigmatic. Purposeful. I wondered if they were driven by a force not dissimilar to what brought me to this place. Yet, somehow, I knew they could not tell me.”

Hornet shook her head, yet when he looked at her, she had nothing to say. The thought of this vessel wandering alone through her kingdom haunted her; had she known that they still lived, she would have done her best to kill them, and yet they had evaded her long enough to do what no other had done.

Break the seals. Free their sibling, at last, from their suffering.

“They met me at the last in the Archive; we were both called there, I think, though whether by the same voice, I cannot say.” His hand came up to brush the top of his head, at where the mask had been last she saw him. “It was as if… as if the Madam herself reached out from the Dream, and spoke to me.” He choked and swallowed, and his voice was shakier when he went on. “It was her choice. She asked me to do it. And… and I did.”

He fell into silence again. She allowed him a moment—really, she was allowing them both a moment, for she was not sure she could speak any better than he could.

“Perhaps this was inevitable,” she said finally, nearly inaudible over the murmur of the water. “Perhaps this would always have happened. Nothing truly lasts forever, though my father did his best.” Despite herself, bitterness laced her tone like acid, and Quirrel looked up, his shoulders dropping once again.

“I apologize,” he said, retreating behind those courtly manners she had glimpsed a moment ago. “I—I do not wish to overburden you with my troubles, princess.”

“My name is Hornet,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Before the Sealing, before this bug had been sent away, she had been known only by her titles; her naming ceremony had come afterward, when she completed her adult molt. Eventually, all those titles fell by the wayside, as did those who knew her by them. She had been simply Hornet ever since.

Her mother had never known the name that was given her.

She winced, then. Neither had her sibling. She had never told them. She had never bothered to introduce herself. Did they even know her as their sister? She’d thought they recognized her, but only based on their obedience and their hesitance to harm her. What if they were only obeying her because of some long-held instinct? Because it was what they had always done?

What did she really know of them?

Almost nothing.

Quirrel nodded, accepting. “Hornet, then. I… apologize.”

“There is no need.” She waved off his regret, returning to the more pressing matter. She had lingered here long enough, despite the conflicting allure of speaking to someone—anyone—who knew of the old kingdom. She had to shove aside the grief now, bury the guilt; she could no longer afford the luxury of falling apart, and Hollow needed her.

Hollow needed more than her.

She fixed the cricket with a sharp look. “You know of vessels. How?”

“The Madam was instrumental in their creation.” Quirrel’s hands tightened, nearly to fists, before he seemed to consciously release them. “My memory is still… incomplete. But I remember that the king often consulted her on the matter. The theory, at least, was sound. The practice appears to have been lacking.”

The dispassionate way he said that made her neck bristle, but she didn’t let him see it. A scholar’s remove was all it was; at least he could speculate levelly on this, though anything related to his Madam—to Monomon—seemed to stir up feelings he could not adequately hide.

She could use a level head. And someone with more knowledge than herself.

But she didn’t have time to linger.

“A vessel saved this kingdom,” she mused. “And a vessel doomed it. The blame lies not with them, but all who may have answered for it are no more.” Hornet paused. Quirrel was listening, head cocked slightly downward. When he did not interrupt, she went on. “The Hollow Knight lives, though grievously injured. They are under my care in the City of Tears.”

The confession was harder to make than she had anticipated, and she hated how unsteady she sounded. She straightened her spine and put more force into her words. “If it is purpose you seek, this kingdom may still have use for someone who remembers.”

Quirrel’s hands clenched again, and this time, he didn’t let them go. He stared at the rushes under their feet, his voice harder than she had yet heard it. “I should think I’ve been of nearly enough use in my lifetime.”

She hesitated. She had not thought he would resist; she had dug in, expecting soft, yielding earth, and met stone.

Then again, he was a warrior, much as he might deny it. He had lived dozens of lifetimes, traversed this treacherous kingdom with nary a scratch. Hallownest was not a forgiving place. The soft did not survive.

Hornet had no use for comforting words or warm platitudes. Reality had always stripped them away, reducing them to rags, distilling her beliefs to the meanest truth.

And yet, in saving Hollow, she had acted without thought for consequence or reward, had saved a life that she had once thought best ended, and she was finished apologizing for those actions.

Her sibling deserved better.

Quirrel, too, had suffered. And he, too, deserved more than what this life had given.

She could at least try.

“Perhaps…” She shifted, adjusting her grip on her needle, and started again. “Perhaps something like a life should not be judged solely by its usefulness.” Wincing at how awkward she sounded, she rushed on, regardless. “My sibling is wounded, and though I’ve done my best”—she nearly choked at the thought of what her best had entailed—“I-I know not how to care for them.”

He was silent.

What had driven him to give up his life for this kingdom, for the king’s plan, for the Teacher’s demands? Was it love? Loyalty? She did not know how to appeal to him.

It was duty that bound her. It was duty that had forged this weapon out of her. It was duty that had guided her hand to slay the vessels.

Perhaps what he wanted, after all this time, was to choose for himself. To be asked. To be free to refuse.

Her chest ached at the thought. Such things were not for her. But she could extend them to another.

“The kingdom should ask no more of you. It has no right.” She took a breath. “But… may I?”

He didn’t answer, his eyes still fixed on the pale, muted rushes. He stayed still for so long that she had to resist opening her mouth to push at him, to prompt him into an answer, to throw a stone into the lake just to see the ripples.

She would not. He owed her nothing. Though they shared experience of the old kingdom, their lives had never crossed; the Hallownest he remembered would be completely different from her own.

All she had was the plea of a stranger, a fellow traveler, a wanderer through the world. Some honor-code of the road might compel him, or a scholar’s oath, or perhaps nothing at all. Perhaps he would refuse her and continue on his own path, whatever that might be, and she would have to accept that. She could not conscience asking for more.

Gods, she hated this. Every inch of her shell was crawling as she waited. Why had she asked him? She must be insane. This was precisely why she did not rely on others, why she refused to ask for more than the basest courtesy. She could compel him, she could threaten, but on equal terms, what could she offer?

The gratitude of a dead kingdom. The blessing of an orphan. Nothing that meant more than a moment’s warmth against the cold world.

At last—at last—he laughed.

Laughed?

She stiffened, prepared to be outraged, but he held up a pacifying hand. “No, please. I must apologize. I… I had not thought to hear anything that might stir me from my course.”

Hornet tried to swallow down the bitterness in her mouth, but her words still sounded brittle. “And that would be?”

“Truly—I beheld the end of it.” Quirrel glanced at his nail, at the shining length of it buried tip-down in the rushes. “What more was there to do? Where else was there to go? I meant to return to the wastes. A fitting epilogue, though perhaps a harrowing one. I would forget all I had done. I would not know why I bore no weapon, or why I had wished for such an end. And by the time I had forgotten what brought me there, it would be too late to return.”

Hornet had nothing to say to that. She nodded, once. It was a solid plan. She could not pretend she hadn’t thought of it before.

But again, such things were not for her.

“And now?” she murmured.

“And now…” Quirrel’s hands rose and fell again, empty. “Now I may see a reason to delay.”

She nodded again. Pretty words and court manners failed her, this time; all she truly had to say was “Thank you.”

When he didn’t reply, she pulled her needle free and strode forward, drawing even with him. He reached out, but stopped short of touching her—remembering, perhaps, how she had reacted last time he did so.

“I had hoped to see them again,” he said, and laughed, a little ruefully. “I hoped they might find me here, before the end.” A long breath scraped through his throat, in and out. “But they’re gone now. Aren’t they?”

“It may be.” All signs pointed to one outcome. Hollow was free, and the infection was still rampant. And if the vessel she had spared was indeed the same one Quirrel had met, they were the sole other living candidate that she knew of.

She eyed the distance, sighted her throw out over the water. She had not known until now where she would go; she needed to return to the City, hopefully before Hollow woke, but she could not quite make herself turn back yet.

The Blue Lake was not far from the Temple of the Black Egg. If she was quick. If she made use of a few shortcuts.

She needed to know what had happened. She would find out what had befallen her kingdom, how she had failed it, what she could do to patch its wounds. And now she had another reason, pulling and tugging like a string hooked under her shell.

There was another sibling living. Another sibling behind that door.

What could she do? Likely nothing.

But she needed to know.

Hornet turned to Quirrel for the last time. “If my request is, indeed, reason enough to linger, find me in the City of Tears, in the nobles’ sector.” She drew her arm back to throw, then hesitated. “My house is the one without curtains.”

Without waiting for a reply, she hurled her needle out over the water, trailing a bright strand of soul-silk, and followed it into the silence.

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