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une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir · 3 years

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random thoughts while i’m re-reading sansa ii and sansa iii.

but i haven’t yet written down properly for the project sansa thing

Sansa II

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold.

Sansa II is about Sansa’s naive outlook in life. In here, she literally sees the world through gold tinted lenses.

The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind . . . and the knights themselves, the knights most of all.

"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies.

The knights, most of all. This chapter should give us Sansa’s true knight, amongst all the false knights.It may even not be a knight, a she begins with this chapter quite idealistic but ends it knowing true knights are cruel (Gregor Clegane), and who wins the Tourney of the Hand is Sandor Clegane, who’s not a knight.

They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last.

Most likely, metaphoric for all of Sansa’s “true knight” candidates, or knights she finds through her journey. The Tourney of the Hand features in narrative order:

The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as freshfallen snow. > Sansa’s tenure in King’s Landing. These knights follow Joffrey’s orders in abusing Sansa.

Ser Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but beneath it he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion's-head helm and a golden sword. > Jaime Lannister stands apart from the other kingsguard, as he ignores Cersei’s orders to find Sansa and instructs Brienne to find her, giving her a lion’s head golden sword. He’s actually portrayed as a fool in this chapter, could be Dontos Hollard.

Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. > Petyr Baelish is narrativelly connected to giants.

Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. > Sansa’s tenure at the Vale.

Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. > A winged knight, still at the Vale.

The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand. > A priest of R’hllor and the wall, along with a flaming sword in hand. We can think of Jon at the Wall, but we can also think of Brienne and Thoros of Myr proper as well considering the end of ADWD.

END PARAGRAPH. Chronologically, this fits the narrative. It may suggest these knights are the ones that shape Sansa’s journey. I’m not convinced of this because of how many other knights are mentioned after this.

The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. (...) His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one. (...) It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it.

As many have theorised, this may foreshadow Harry Hardying’s death. Indeed this guy dresses exactly like him, pretentiously with the Arryn coat-of-arms. Interestingly, Sansa says that she’d care if he meant something to her. Around the time Harry is likely to die, Jon is dead at the Wall. Sansa won’t care about Harry, but she’ll care about Jon.

Ser Loras (...) was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.

The ideal knight, dressed in blue, with the rose thematic. Interestingly, he fights against a Royce and wins. There have been many essays about Loras paralleling Jon here.

However, Brienne also dresses in blue, she wears a blue armour, and whose childhood features a bad memory about a Ser Ronnet offering her roses but was actually mocking her behind her backs. Jon is also thematically linked with blue and roses through his mother, who loved blue winter roses.

It is my conviction Sansa’s true knight is Brienne, not Jon.

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." (...) She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off. When Sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. (...) "You must be one of her daughters," he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look." "I'm Sansa Stark," she said, ill at ease. (...) "Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away. By then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the king decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee.

If we take this all in a chronological order, we have all the knights listed, then Loras Tyrell (Brienne, who started looking for Sansa in ACOK / ASOS), then we have Littlefinger seeing someone else in Sansa but she’s sure of whom she is (Petyr taking Sansa to the Vale, as Alyane Stone), the night comes (winter).

Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sat beside his queen. (...) She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate. He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion's heads(...). Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again and send her weeping from the table.

A raised dias over everyone else (Wall), Joffrey in blue (Jon as a “Stark”), Sansa is afraid he’ll turn hateful and send her away. This is actually legitimate fear, as Sansa would go to the Wall, yet still afraid Jon would send her away. Jon actually thinks doing this to Arya somewhere in ADWD, the Wall is no place for a woman. It’s also in chronological order with the previous paragraph’s interpretation.

Instead, Joffrey’s perfectly civil, but we must remember he’s Jon’s anti-parallel so whatever’s written about the former reflects in the latter either as a parallel or an anti-parallel and that’s kind of though to figure out.

He raised his hand to summon a servant with a flagon of iced summerwine, and poured her a cup. (...) The servants kept the cups filled all night, yet afterward Sansa could not recall ever tasting the wine. She needed no wine. She was drunk on the magic of the night, giddy with glamour, swept away by beauties she had dreamt of all her life and never dared hope to know. (...) And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. (....) A thick soup of barley and venison. Salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Snails in honey and garlic. Sansa had never eaten snails before; Joffrey showed her how to get the snail out of the shell, and fed her the first sweet morsel himself. Then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay; her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. And when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate. She could see from the way he moved that his right arm was still troubling him, yet he uttered not a word of complaint. Later came sweetbreads and pigeon pie and baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and lemon cakes frosted in sugar, but by then Sansa was so stuffed that she could not manage more than two little lemon cakes, as much as she loved them. She was wondering whether she might attempt a third when the king began to shout.

This is similar narrative to Sansa I, especially becomes it features the “return of the trout” and the queen imagery. I proposed in my post on Sansa I that its subtext was about Sansa becoming queen and that Joffrey was a stand-in for Jon, and that their day together foreshadowed the northern campaign. I also mentioned Joffrey’s behaviour could be seen under two different ways, either parallel or anti-parallel, especially when Joffrey is a little shit.

Entrées: no fucking idea, but apparently it involves Jon offering a “snail in honey” to Sansa. I’m... I don’t know.

Fish Course: To remember from Sansa I: “ It was a day for adventures. They explored the caves by the riverbank, and tracked a shadowcat to its lair, and when they grew hungry, Joffrey found a holdfast by its smoke and told them to fetch food and wine for their prince and his lady. They dined on trout fresh from the river, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before. "My father only lets us have one cup, and only at feasts," she confessed to her prince.”

I proposed it was interesting because it included conquering the riverlands (exploring the caves by the riverbank would be checking out riverlords for their cause, tracking a shadowcat to its lair would be chasing the lannisters back west, and dining on trout meant taking Riverrun). This time, “her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within.” can be seen as foreshadowing a siege of Riverrun that goes well

Meat Course: To remember from Sansa I, Joffrey is humilliated and consequently never forgivies Sansa, so she’d never be a successfull queen married to her (if he was planning on that at all, since he jumped so easily to Margaery). I proposed that Jon as Joffrey’s anti-parallel would be humilliated in battle but he’d move past it (this is basically what happened in the Battle of Winterfell, he got humilliated and he saved her arse, and even expected him to be angry with her but he went all targ sibling on her forehead instead).

In here, we see what I proposed for Jon to go past it reflected, as Joffrey serves Sansa the queen’s portion, smiling as if all is forgiven despite the source of humilliation being present as “She could see from the way he moved that his right arm was still troubling him, yet he uttered not a word of complaint.” Nice guy Snow, thank you very much.

Dessert: No idea, but a few infamous ones are featured. The pigeon pie present in the purple wedding, cinnamon apples in one of Bran’s banquets (the one he’s given the king’s portion as well), and lemoncakes (three of them), magic number.

Sansa started as Joffrey laid his hand on her arm. "It grows late," the prince said. He had a queer look on his face, as if he were not seeing her at all. "Do you need an escort back to the castle?"

The nice atmosphere is broken because Robert is a dick and fights with Cersei. Joffrey then decides to be a dick as well. This also featured in Sansa I, a boy and a girl fighting, then Joffrey makes a dick of himself.

"You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

Hopefully, that’s a metaphor for Aegon telling Daniella to go fuck herself, he’s the king of westeros and she does not tell him what to do. I did those dragon posts where Rhaegal (representative of Jon) seems to take take offence of Viserion (Aegon) getting trolled repeatedly.

Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. "Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "Small chance of that." He pulled her unresisting to her feet. "Come, you're not the only one needs sleep. I've drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow." He laughed again.

Joffrey didn’t take Sansa back to Winterfell, but Jon did.

Sansa III

This chapter is completely “useless” at first glance, except for Sansa and Arya’s second squabble, which is when Ned has the ephiphany that Joffrey isn’t Robert’s kid. Other than that, it features a recap of the chapter before, two Sansa and Arya squabbles, and Ned’s "favoritism” (not really, just guilt over his sister) over Arya. So what is this chapter’s for outside of that? The subtext of course.

"Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies." "Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me." (...)

"Stop that weeping, child," Septa Mordane said sternly. "I am certain your lord father knows what is best for you."

Urgh. lmao.

Ned promises Sansa a high-lord, who’s brave, gentle and strong, that he is no aemon the dragonknight. The latter is the “easier” one, because Jon will remembers much later that he used to say he was Aemon the dragonknight in childplay. Just one out of all that, doesn’t seem promising, eh?

After this, there’s Sansa and Arya cluing in Ned over Joffrey being a bastard aprading as the heir to the Iron Throne, which is the anta-parallel to Jon. As I said in Sansa I post, this could be foreshadowed in the sisters squabbling over Rhaegar’s rubies. It comes in chronologically order, the motifs of the fight at the Trident are similar to what’s used all over GOT, etc etc. So Jon is here again (he was present in that segment in Sansa I as one of Rhaegar’s ruby), for some reason.

Going back to the beginning of this chapter... the conversation is kind of odd, it goes all over the place. They talk of what happens in there, then Sansa randomly remembers a dream for no reason, and wanders in her mind over this and that. It’s kind of schizophrenic writing... unless it’s kind of awkward because it’s meant to say something else in the subtext... So...

“He wouldn't send Ser Loras," Sansa told Jeyne Poole that night as they shared a cold supper by lamplight. (...) Her father's decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she'd been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan's stories come to life. (...) And then Father had refused him! It had upset her more than she could tell. She had said as much to Septa Mordane as they descended the stairs from the gallery, but the septa had only told her it was not her place to question her lord father's decisions.

There have been plenty of essays comparing Jon to Loras Tyrell. This is especially important in Sansa II / Sansa III because Loras is wearing blue (odd choice, as his house colours are green) and roses, thematically connected to Jon’s mother. Ned thinks the kid is too young to be a hero, which is an interesting paralell to him refusing Jon to go to the Wall at first because he was also too young. We can also look at Ned taking Jon as his bsatard son, as taking away the chance to be the song hero. He went from a prince of roses (urgh) to a bastard.

That was when Lord Baelish had said, "Oh, I don't know, Septa. Some of her lord father's decisions could do with a bit of questioning. (...)" (...) He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow."

Ned’s decision of taking Jon as his bastard will be questioned of course and the truth will come out. Life’s not a song and Lyanna made Ned promise to protect Jon, because Robert would have killed him if he had found out. But Jon has a song, the song of ice and fire. Shut up Littlefinger.

"Ser Ilyn's the King's Justice, not Ser Loras," Jcyne said. "Lord Eddard should have sent him." Sansa shuddered. Every time she looked at Ser Ilyn Payne, she shivered. He made her feel as though something dead were slithering over her naked skin. "Ser Ilyn's almost like a second monster. I'm glad Father didn't pick him." "Lord Beric is as much a hero as Ser Loras. He's ever so brave and gallant." "I suppose," Sansa said doubtfully. Beric Dondarrion was handsome enough, but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two; the Knight of Flowers would have been much better. Of course, Jeyne had been in love with Lord Beric ever since she had first glimpsed him in the lists. Sansa thought she was being silly; Jeyne was only a steward's daughter, after all, and no matter how much she mooned after him, Lord Beric would never look at someone so far beneath him, even if she hadn't been half his age.

(...) "I saw your sister this afternoon," Jeyne blurted out, as if she'd been reading Sansa's thoughts. "She was walking through the stables on her hands. Why would she do a thing like that?"

Instead, Ned chose Beric Dondarrion. There have been plenty of essays that compared Ilyn Payne to Ramsay Bolton (dead eyes and taking over the Stark legacy, etc), and Beric Dondarrion to Jon Snow (dresses in house targ clothes and was ressurrected by a priest of r’hllor, etc). The fact that Ilyn Payne is brought up by Jeyne Poole of all people and after an intermission with the white hart dream, she also mentions Arya, therefore it could be a heartbreaking nod to fake!Arya plotline.

As we also know, Ramsay and Jon have been locked into a bizarre war of wills up north, precisely over fake!Arya. Likewise Beric dying in the middle of his “mission” for the Starks and then ressurrected by a priest of R’hllor, Jon also died while he was going to retake Winterfell and save fake”Arya and its likely he’ll be ressudrected by a priest of R’hllor. In the show, Sansa took over fake!Arya storyline.

It’s interesting to note Beric is awfully old at “twenty-two”, because that’s Jon’s age give it or take it at ADWD if the timeskip between ASOS and AFFC / ADWD have happened (he’s seventeen or so then). It’s worth noting that Beric is said to be “brave”.

“I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart," she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. (...) "He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me." In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though.

This one is interesting, because it’s sandwiched between the Ilyn Payne and Arya Stark, which could be a mention to the northern tug of war between Ramsay and Jon mentioned above. As we know though, Jon is one that would fit Sansa’s dream, because not only he protected the direwolves who are magical beasts, he took the white direwolf for himself. “Only touch them and not harm them”, dare I say... gentle? Not only that, the anti-parallel btween Joffrey and Jon is fuelled further since Jon took Lady (and later, he’ll be brigning the white wolf Ghost) back to Sansa while Joffrey took her away.

"There was a black brother," Sansa said, "begging men for the Wall, only he was kind of old and smelly." She hadn't liked that at all. She had always imagined the Night's Watch to be men like Uncle Benjen. In the songs, they were called the black knights of the Wall. But this man had been crookbacked and hideous, and he looked as though he might have lice. If this was what the Night's Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon.

Yoren of the Night’s Watch and it’s self-explanatory, since Jon as a member of the Night’s Watch is even mentioned in this segment. It’s also worth noting that Sansa fantasises the Night’s Watch to be men like Benjen Stark, the black knights of the Wall... dare I say... strong?

It’s also worth noting Sansa’s disilusion with the Night’s Watch comes after a segment that may foreshadow Ramsay and Jon “fighting” over fake!Arya, then Jon being murdered and ressurrected. Which fits eprfectly with Jon’s own disillusion with the Night’s Watch that he felt in the beginning of AGOT but also in the show when he got ressurrected. Not a happy panda.

“And later these two brothers came before him, freeriders from the Dornish Marches, and pledged their swords to the service of the king. Father accepted their oaths . . . “

The Dornish Marches are slightly north of where Jon was born, at the Tower of Joy. Bascially, the next town towards the north is located at the Dornish Marches. In the show, Jon basically pledged his sword to Sansa (Ned’s narrative heir) as well, there’s even a close-in on his sword before they re-meet at Castle Black. Strangely, Sansa IV features Sansa believing Ned’s plans to take her back to Winterfell and the promised match is a hedge knight which is a freerider without a knighthood.

So, in summary, Sansa reports on three men “auditing” Ned. Loras Tyrell, the true hero, which Ned refused and could correspond to Jon as Lyanna Stark’s son due to the narrative uses of blue and roses and refusal. Beric Dondarrion, Ned’s chosen hero, and could correspond to Jon and Ramsay’s tug-of-war with Arya. Finally, Yoren, and could correspond to Jon defecting the Night’s Watch for being disillusioned after being killed by them, something that was rpesent in the show’s foreshadowing all the way back in season 3. Not only is the story presented chronological, after Beric being “brave”, Sansa randomly recalls the white hart dream (”gentle”) and Jon as a black kngith of the wall (”strong”).

So, Jon could actually be lurking in the subtext of that bizarre conversation between Sansa and Jeyne Poole.

The kitchen yielded no lemon cakes, but they did find half of a cold strawberry pie, and that was almost as good. They ate it on the tower steps, giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets, and Sansa went to bed that night feeling almost as wicked as Arya.

The dessert again.

The next morning she woke before first light and crept sleepily to her window to watch Lord Beric form up his men.

The men preparing to war. Still goes on well chronologically with the conversation before. It had stopped at Jon quitting the Night’s Watch and pledging to Sansa.

"Liar," Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers. "Go ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace." She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. "You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said.

So from the subtext from Sansa I and Sansa II, I’m convinced Sansa will become queen MUCH sooner than in the show. This squabble over here is interesting, because Arya calls her “your grace” as if she was already queen. So in the subtext that may correlate to that.

This of course, comes with a very strong imagery of wedding consummation. Sansa is wearing a white dress, that gets stained by blood orange juice (red in colour) at the lap (crotch area). Are they related?

The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. "I hate her!" she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night's fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.

In addition, this white dress has red blood, but it also has black fire when it’s thrown into the ashes of the hearth. The words of House Targaryen are fire and blood, the colours are red and black.They’re all there, in this white dress. So it's a Targaryen (virgin, ehem) wedding dress... for Sansa. There are only two male left for that to happen and only one of them has been lurking in the background.

And after this, comes Ned’s covnersation about Sansa’s true match. So Jon’s all over the subtext, of a chapter with wedding consummation imagery and Ned Stark’s promise of the “true one”. Why, if not to marry his arse to Sansa? I do not know.

#return of the trout #this is important because i care about the riverlands #jonsa heavy

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allycryz · 3 years

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WOL Challenge #7: Want

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompts Here]

Early Shadowbringers spoilers, companion piece of sorts to Day 4: Outrage

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Nerys x Haurchefant

Summary: Nerys and Haurchefant’s reunion on the first. Sometimes, bodies and minds don’t cooperate and even though you’re horny and can’t keep your hands off your lover.

(Basically–I wanted to write about how things going “wrong” in the bedroom is not an indictment of your relationship. Sometimes there are a million little factors that get in the way.)

They cannot leave Eulmore fast enough.

Neither speaks as they hasten over dirt roads and dry, brittle grass. Gatetown grows smaller and smaller but somehow, the tiered city only looms more. When will they send someone to hunt them? The way those girls in harlequin motley moved–Nerys saw the training in it. Should they need to, that pair can kill. And quickly.

Reason prevails by the third hill along with the chilling memory of the singer. Her patron’s promise of ascension. She’d had an uneasy feeling before and now, after seeing the tame sin eaters in Vauthry’s chamber…

“They don’t kill where others will see,” Nerys says aloud. “Into the sea or fed to their monsters. I think we’ll be alright.”

“...Twelve preserve,” Alphinaud murmurs. “I knew there was something terribly wrong, but I had no real notion. It’s the one place the Exarch hasn’t sent spies.”

“That is telling. About their security and about what could wait inside.”

Alphinaud scrubs a hand over his face. A rare nervous gesture for him, even in front of close friends. He strives to appear cool and calculating in all things. She clasps his shoulder and squeezes. “We’ll figure this out, Alphi. How to help them.”

He huffs a laugh. “Do you know...I actually missed you calling me that.”

“You didn’t like it before? I’m so sorry, I would never have-”

“No, no, please Nerys. I didn’t dislike it so much as...felt it was undignified. But now?” He looks up at her. Smiles. “I’m glad to be with my friend again, and I want her to use it.”

“Alright,” she grins back. Grateful for the spot of warmth after the utter horror behind them. “But if I ever do anything-”

A shadow falls over them.

Nerys’ gaze jerks up as she reaches for her lance. Not a sin eater but something coming from the monstrous cliffs, circling once. Twice. And then it dives down towards them.

Her thighs and calves sing in anticipation, ready to leap. Beside her, Alphinaud murmurs a spell. The dark shape becomes the silhouette of an amaro, becomes a more defined beast, and the rider–

The rider yells something. Unintelligible, and then not. It is her name. It is her name and the voice is–and the rider is–

“Nerys!” He calls again. His blue cape streams behind him as the amaro dives. Unceasing light gleams against his golden armor. To her eye, he looks like a hero summoned out of an ancient tale to offer aid.

“Haurchefant!” She rushes forward and he jumps from his mount, the beast landing seconds later. It’s not clear who touches who first–her arms thrown about his neck, his about her waist. He lifts her off the ground and spins her about, his laughter the purest music to her ears.

Nerys cradles her leather-clad hand against his cheek and kisses him. It has only been weeks for her, but losing him atop everything else had near broken her.

For him, it has been two years. No wonder he kisses her so fiercely, so deeply, the rest of the world falls away. She feels him tremble against her. Tears fall down his cheek.

“My Haurchefant,” she says, wiping beneath his eyes. “I missed you so much.”

“I’ve ached to see you again.” And then he resumes their kiss, crushing her tight against him. It’s possible he will never let her go again. It’s possible she won’t either.

At last he lifts his head and turns to Alphinaud, eyes bright and shining. The young man pointedly watches the ocean with red cheeks. “Good to see you, Alphinaud. It’s been an age.”

“Yes.” Alphinaud clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware you were around?”

“Mm. Playing the diplomat in the settlements above. You can only get there by amaro.” He gestures to his mount. “Luckily, I’m allowed to partner with Yami when I need wings.”

The amaro in question grants them an unimpressed yawn and turns to sniff at the brush and dirt.

“I was only told you were on a covert mission,” says Nerys, arms staying firmly about his waist.

“And so I was. No doubt Eulmore would be displeased to learn of any alliance that doesn’t funnel more bodies their way.”

At that, Nerys shudders. Does he have any idea how right he is? The grim expression says he might. “But you two seemed set out for somewhere. May I offer my aid?”

“We’re for Cracked Shell Beach,” says Alphinuad. “Our rides await us to return to the Crystarium. It is best that we don’t linger here overlong.”

“It’s safe to say we’re not welcome back to Eulmore.” Nerys tries to keep her tone light. Her right hand clenches and then flexes, directing the tension out of her.

“Say no more.” He brushes his lips against her forehead. “To the beach then. Once you debrief, we will catch up.”

“Indeed.” Alphinaud begins walking again. “If you’ll forgive the turn of phrase, it has been an extremely long day for the both of us.”

“Forgiven,” says Haurchefant with a glance at the undying light above. He clicks his tongue and Yami leaves his foraging to stand beside him. Elezen and beast escort them to the shore.

Nerys feels some of the dread and horror eke away as they walk, their hands brushing against one another.

A long day indeed. Their report takes time, weaving the state of Stilltide and Wright into all the details they might remember from Eulmore. The harlequins, the meol, the singer, the entitled lord surrounded by Sin Eaters. Haurchefant is a steady presence at her side, his hand pressed against the small of her back.

Alphinaud’s findings are more limited, having been occupied with the Chais. But with pen and paper he is able to sketch near accurate renditions of the layout and positions of the guards. He recalls the naivete of some servants versus the abject fear he witnessed in the shopkeepers and merchants. Those people were not beholden to individuals with fickle tastes. How many servants had they seen come and go?

“Tomorrow,” says Nerys. “I’ll find Alisaie. As it stands, I need some rest before I leave again.”

“Of course, of course.” The Crystal Exarch nods. “I’ve arranged a suite for you at the Pendants. Pray, go eat and rest. Just tell the Manager your name and he’ll take care of things.”

She nods. “Thank you. Haurchefant, I’ll tell them to expect you?”

“Yes, love.” He kisses her, chaste and gentle before their audience. “I won’t make you wait too long.”

As promised, the Manager brings her to one of the largest suites she has ever seen. Far larger than some apartments in Revenant’s Toll. She must look like a fish, gaping as she does. He smiles and rises to every inch of his considerable height.

“The Exarch asked for my best, dare I assume you like it?”

“I do,” she says, walking over to the long dining table. Nerys could easily host a supper party here. “May I trouble you for the time?”

Her chronometer is wildly out of sync with this timestream. On her way here, the streets had seemed more empty but a city rarely sleeps. A truth both here and the Source.

The Manager glances at his own device. “Fifteen minutes past the eleventh bell. We keep the shutters closed for our new guests but they are free to open them as they like. Can I get you anything?”

“It looks like there is plenty of food and drink for the next few days. Ah, my companion Lord Haurchefant will come through shortly. He’s allowed to know where my room is.”

“Oh! That’s right, he is another from the Exarch’s homeland…” The man looks thoughtful. “Such a nice man, from what I remember. I’ll point him in the right direction.”

Blessedly, he does not linger. Nerys immediately avails herself of the restroom and then strips off her leathers. She is unbelievably parched and feels dirty, despite her mandatory shower at Eulmore. The perfume they provided is still too cloying upon her. First will be another rinse, and then drinking a carafe’s worth of water to make her feel whole again.

It hasn’t been that long for her since she saw him. Not really. They had been separated far longer–during the campaigns in Ala Mhigo and Doma. But that had been different. She knew he was safe in Thanalan, under Urianger’s watchful eye. He had fought during their final push, that harrowing night with Zenos and Shinryu. Even then–it was different knowing he battled alongside Aymeric and Lucia.

But when Maxima returned with him as still and waxen as the others, breathing but unresponsive…

Something broke in her that day, against the Ascian wearing Zenos’ corpse. It was not one thing but likely a host of cracks and fissures from near-constant struggle and battle. But if there was one moment that started the chain reaction...it was seeing Haurchefant trapped in his own body.

Having him back feels like the day after her harrowing experience in The Vault. Letting herself into his room and finding him alive and, if not hale and whole, at least recovering. The relief of it threatens to send her crashing down if she thinks too long on it.

Sometimes, Nerys wonders if there is something wrong with her. One person is not meant to feel this much, to have emotion so fierce it seems to course all through her. Years of learning to keep it below the surface only does so much. It doesn’t stop her from experiencing it.

She steps out of the bathroom in a robe and Haurchefant is there, slicing up an apple at the long dining table. He still wears the golden armor and cape–a design, she realises, is very close to what the Crystarium guard wear. Though she has seen none with that color of plate.

“You could have changed clothes,” she says. “You still can.”

“Ah but…” He rises. “That would have prolonged returning to you. And maybe I want you to see me in my ‘official’ uniform again.”

Nerys walks towards him, taking in the sight, He is always lovely and she suspects he always will be. Fortemps men age extremely well. The ensemble does add a certain...magnificence to him. He might be a prince in such armor, if they still had such titles in Ishgard. “You look amazing. You said you were forming alliances?”

“Mm.” He meets her in the middle of the room, wrapping arms about her. “The dwarves of Tomra are excellent smiths. I thought to impress them with meticulously crafted armor. Different from what I might use to treat with the Night’s Blessed.”

These are all terms she doesn’t know outside of the Exarch’s explanation of where her friends are. He speaks them with such ease, as if he is a son of the First and not a visitor who arrived two years ago.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” She asks, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

He smiles. “Oh plenty. For instance, I cannot keep my hands off of you.”

“Good.” She releases his cape from his armor and watches it pool on the ground. “Then don’t.”

Thus permitted, Haurchefant kisses her as fiercely as he did in Kholusia. His armor presses against the fluffy white material of her robe, her exposed skin, and she doesn’t care. It is a welcome prod against her fatigue along with the aching need clenching at her center.

He tilts up her chin and presses a hungry mouth to the underside of her jaw, to her throat. She shivers as his gauntleted hands cradle either side of her neck. Haurchefant knows she cannot abide pressure at her throat stronger than a bite or kiss. Cold metal laying atop her shoulders is different.

Nerys doesn’t know what it means that it’s affecting her so. That can be worked out later. She wants him now.

Haurchefant tosses her belt aside and pushes the robe open and off of her. It lays gathered their feet along with his cape. “Give me a moment, love. I’ll have this armor gone.”

“Don’t bother.” Nerys slides her hands to his belt, finding familiar straps and catches. Armor is armor, most of the time. She’s well-acquainted with removing certain pieces for a fuck after a battle. To her disappointment, he does remove the gauntlets but leaves the rest. In the moment he promised, she frees his cock.

“The bed.” He says, voice urgent. Punctuating it with a harsh, brief kiss. “Go lie down.”

“My lord.” She rushes to cross the room. He is like a shadow, just behind her by a step as she moves. Watches her lay down for him. When he adjusts her–draping her legs over the side of the bed and sliding a pillow beneath her–she is breathless.

Haurchefant is often bossy with her in bed. Including one memorable afternoon in Ala Mhigo, when he tied her to the cot and ordered her to be quiet. (Tent walls are thin, after all). What drives him now is as fierce as she has ever seen, a consuming hunger that rages just below the surface.

Nerys swallows, throat still unbelievably dry. Water will wait till after. Everything can wait till after. Her tongue grazes her cracked lips. “I missed you.”

“You…” He plants his hands on either side of her, his greaves grazing her shins. “I wished for your arrival as often as I dreaded it. I wanted to see you and yet, I did not want to drag you across worlds for another conflict.”

Haurchefant shifts his balance to one arm–the non-dominant hand–and slips his fingers between her legs. She has no idea if the scars from the Vault transferred to this body, though she sees the telltale signs of fatigue. The pain must still-

Nerys sighs as he spreads her folds, two fingers easing into her. “You know...I would cross all rifts to find you.”

“I know.” His lips brush her forehead. “And I know you will face whatever comes and win, as you always do. Even so, would that I could grant you a reprieve.”

“This,” she says, spreading her legs wider. “This is respite. This is what I need.”

He creates such need in her, an ache that demands satisfaction. Especially with the intent look in his eyes, the passion trembling just below the surface. The kind of intense, overwhelming desire that keeps her awake at night until she reaches for her toys.

His touch is direct and purposeful. All the right movements, the right pressure–he remembers it all. Nerys tilts her head back, eyes closing as she sinks into the feel of it. The building in her. A slight cramp forms in her left calf and she lifts that foot to rest on the bed, rocking in motion with his fingers.

It’s there. It’s right there. She just needs to push further in that direction and he’ll have her in pieces.

“Haurchefant.” Nerys lifts her head. “I need you.”

It is as much for him as it for her–he is tense with the force of holding back his passion. Relief crosses his noble brow and he nods, slipping his fingers out of her. The sight of his tongue tasting the slick on them sends a new flutter through her.

“At your service,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand around himself. He takes a moment to find the notch before pressing in, slow at first and then all at once. The angle is...she shifts herself until it feels right, sighing. Draws her other foot up. Turns out her hip more so her bent outer thigh touches the mattress. Better, but...

Still as a cat, he looks down at her. Holding himself in place, unwilling to move though the need in his cerulean gaze is almost painful. “Is this alright?”

Nerys nods. “This is alright. I’m alright. Let me…”

She lifts both feet, resting her ankles on his shoulders before extending her legs. She is tall but so is he, not much further to go. Much better. This is a position she knows and one she always likes. Especially with him in armor like this, fierce and strong and overpowering.

“Go on,” she urges, rocking against him. "Please."

He requires no further coaxing and begins moving inside her. Nerys grips at the sheets, sliding her hips in tandem with him. There. Right there. If he just drives at that spot...

Even his finger on her clit can't distract from the returning cramp. She flexes her foot a few times, annoyed with herself. She has him back and he is a magnificent, golden knight before her; and her body creates obstacles. The growing cottony feel of the inside of her mouth. The warnings of a headache along the too-tight muscles at her nape and temple.

Nerys bats these annoyances out of her brain and sets her focus to him. The thick, hot length of him sliding into her. The gentle and insistent pressure of his thumb. The blazing blue of his eyes as he looks at her like she is a precious treasure.

It's there. She can see the edge of relief.

She can also feel her body refusing to move past this stage, the artful touch at her clit moving from delightful to numbing.

"A moment," Nerys gasps. "Sorry, can we…"

"Anything. Anything." His voice is a near growl in contrast to his words. He seems liable to fall apart at any moment.

"Just-fuck me right now, no hands," she says. Sometimes the nub needs a brief reprieve before she can come.

The hand at her clit disappears, splays instead on the bed beside her head. His hips snap back into motion and she gasps at the jolt of it.

Twelve. She is slick and needy and has wanted this for weeks now. The feel of his heavy cock. The utter surrender to him, a man who owns her soul and heart and-

"Shit!" The cramp blossoms at once into a throbbing, consuming pain. Too much to ignore. "Sorry, sorry, it's not you, my leg-"

Haurchefant trembles above her, leashing his desire. It takes him some time to speak. "Per...perhaps a different position? And I'll remove the armor."

With other men, this is the point she would have carried on and faked her climax. But he would not thank her for such deception. Too empathetic by half, too much of a gentleman.

"Just...put my legs down and finish in me." She says at last, frustration prickling at her eyes and throat. This is their reunion and she can't even-

"My heart." Reverent, gentle, he slides her legs back down. His breath is so ragged. "I can-"

"Please." She adjusts herself against him. "Let me do this for you? You're trembling."

He sighs. There is a faint shudder as he holds himself back. "I am not so green I can't control myself."

"I know. But I'm saying you don't have to." Nerys tightens around him. "Come for me, please."

Haurchefant shudders as her inner walls clench around him, stuttering out a breathy moan. One nod, then he moves in her again. The leg has a brief spasm and for a moment she fears it will be too much-

And then he slides deep into her, shuddering and filling her and gripping the blanket by her head so tight he might rip it. The feel of him falling apart re-kindles some of the heat in her. It is not satisfaction but it is nice, seeing him like this.

Haurchefant kisses her, a mindless, fierce claiming of her mouth. She groans as he stutters inside her with the aftershocks.

"Nerys, dearest…" He whispers like a prayer. The tone and the care in that settles her. The love in his eyes settles her.

The armor does come off. Another time, they’ll figure that out. It was...well it isn’t funny that she’s had sex when both parties were armored but this was beyond them. But it’s a cousin of humor, at least.

And at least she can smile. Keyed up as she is, it is a blessing to feel some contentment about the whole thing. And Haurchefant is gentle as he cleans her up, warm hands soothing over her until she relaxes. Carefully kneading at the interfering calf.

They lie naked in the cool, crisp sheets. Skin against skin, calmer now. Haurchefant slides a hand through her hair. "By the by; I should have said this, the moment I saw you. You look utterly beautiful with this new cut."

Warmth flares in her cheeks and chest. "You like it?"

"Mm. Exceptionally pretty." He kisses the tip of her nose. "Somehow you are the Most Beautiful Lily in Ishgard no matter what you do with it. As well as other countries and worlds, naturally."

"Oh now you're just exaggerating." She kisses his shoulder. Her stomach chooses then to growl, loud and angry.

"...beloved," says Haurchefant, brow creasing. "When last did you eat?"

"Far too long ago," she admits. "I was going to eat and drink but...well, you put your hands on me and that was that."

He sighs and sits up. "I even cut up fruit for you before I became a distraction. Come, let's take care of you."

Nerys slides her arms around him. "I like the sound of that. Do you have to leave the Crystarium again any time soon?"

Haurchefant smiles, eyes a little sad at the notion. “Likely. Let us make the most of this time, ere we must part again.”

“I can do that.” She relaxes in his grip, curling up against his warmth. For the first time that long, interminable day: peace settles upon her.

#seaswolchallenge #nerys eluned #haurchefant greystone #wol x haurchefant #duskwight elezen #duskwight warrior of light #dragoon warrior of light #alphinaud leveilleur #crystal exarch #///////explicit fic #ally writes

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mckinlily · 4 years

Text

shalluraweek day 1: stars/sky

Summary: stars/sky Shiro had a celebrity crush.

read on ao3: here

“Sure you’re not freaking out, Shiro?” said Keith, his voice bland and amused.

Shiro realized he was repeatedly doing and undoing the Velcro on the back of his (one) fingerless glove and quickly put his hands behind his back. Behind him, someone—probably Pidge—snorted.

Shiro breathed and looking around, forcing himself to take in his surroundings. Small office, lots of sound equipment, his and Keith’s guitars against the wall, air conditioner that made that annoying hum. Keith was nearest him, slouched in his leather jacket in a way that made Shiro wonder if he and Keith made it as a punk duo on Keith’s emo vibe alone. Sprawled across the couch was Lance, their PR and social media manager, sipping on a smoothie and clearly snickering at Shiro. Pidge was fighting Lance’s legs encroaching on her space on the couch. She worked on post-production with Hunk, a musical genius who played an impossible number of instruments and had a knack of fleshing out every song idea Keith and Shiro had into a massive hit, and helped Lance out where PR became technical. She was also definitely smirking at Shiro. Really, Hunk was the only one of them not actively laughing at him, and that was because his expression was worryingly close to pity.

Why did Shiro like these people again?

Oh yeah, because his band and the team behind it had become something like a second family.

And sometimes “family” meant “incredibly annoying.”

Shiro resisted the urge to fiddle with one of his piercings. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly.

“Yeah. Suuuuurre, you are,” drawled Lance.

Hunk shot Lance a look, clearly chiding him for not being sympathetic. He looked back to Shiro. “You really don’t need to be nervous.”

“Sure he does,” said Pidge, grinning over her glasses at him. Besides Keith, she has known Shiro the longest, and Shiro could see the blackmail in her eyes as she looked at him. She took on a sing-song voice, “It’s Allura.”

Just the look in Pidge's eyes was enough to make Shiro blush.

“Ugh, why are you like this?” Keith threw his hands in the air. “You sing your heart out to thousands of people an audience, take the lead in interviews, talk openly about being bi and having PTSD on YouTube, but having a conversation with one singer—”

“She’s not just another singer!” objected Shiro, scandalized. “She’s Allura. Do you have any idea the kinds of records she’s broken? Her latest album—”

“Yeah, yeah. We all know about your massive crush on Allura,” laughed Lance.

Shiro huffed. “That's not it.”

They didn't get it. It wasn’t just that Allura was totally hot (breathtakingly beautiful more like) or an incredible musician (which she definitely was) or had a voice that when she sang would make even sirens weep in jealousy (though she definitely did). She also was the kind of social activist Shiro dreamed of learning how to be. A political refugee who climbed her way to the top from nothing, she used her massive following to push for social change and speak out against inequality in all its forms. The way she handled personal attacks—on her race, her gender, her sexuality (pan, as seem on the flag in her Twitter profile)—with grace, dignity, and yet absolutely no apology left Shiro in awe. He respected the hell out of her, ever since the first time he saw a video of her neatly dissecting the intersection of racism and sexism in the music industry, and privately considered her one of his personal heroes.

And she was coming to the studio because someone thought it was a good idea for them to collab, and Shiro didn’t know how to deal.

“Okay, okay.” Lance rolled off the couch, picking up a can of whatever sugary death drink they were supposed to be promoting and opening it to hand to Shiro. “Time to chill out. Take a sip of our ‘paying for Pidge’s new sound system’ drink and remember you’rean internationally known star, too. It’s going to be fine. I planned it.”

“Oh, and that’s never come back to bite us before,” said Keith.

“Excuse you, I made Grumpy Cat Keith a meme! It’s was a stroke of marketing genius!”

Shiro opted to ignore Lance and Keith’s bickering, choosing instead to take a sip of the dubious promotional sports drink—

“I mean, worst come to worst, we could always use the footage to make another meme campaign if Shiro completely falls on his face.”

—only to immediately spit it out again. “Pidge!”

“Sorry,” smirked Pidge, unrepentant. Then her eyes fell on his shirt that he’d spilled his drink all over. “Oh. Uh. Actually sorry.”

Shiro looked down at his chest with mounting dismay. Of all the days to wear a white shirt (this was why he wore black: it wasn’t depressing, it was practical). The promotional drink was an unnatural red and splattered over most his front. It wasn’t something that could be hidden and Shiro could already tell the color wasn’t coming out.

“We could try rising it?” said Pidge, and she honestly sounded contrite.

“Dump the drink over all the shirt?” Keith offered.

“Hold on,” said Hunk. He started rummaging behind the couch. “I think Shiro’s vest from the Toronto show is in here. I know that shows off your prosthetic a lot without anything to go under it but—”

“That’s fine. You’re right: it’s probably the best option. Lance, when is Allura supposed to show up?”

Lance glanced at his phone. “Uh, now, actually?”

“All right. Not much time.” Shiro forced the panic to stay out of his voice. “Hunk—”

“Found it!”

“Good.” Shiro grabbed the back of his shirt, getting ready to pull it over his head. It had stuck to his chest where the drink spilled and was starting to feel sticky.

“Um, guys?”

Shiro yanked his shirt off, turning as he said, “Yeah, Pidge?”

But it wasn’t Pidge who answered.

“Oh my.”

Oh no.

Oh no nononononononono.

Allura—superstar, perfect, idolized Allura—was standing their doorway, blocking the way for the rest of her entourage. Shiro pressed his crumbled shirt to his chest in a vain attempt to preserve his modesty. Which was helped not at all by the way Allura (unfairly hot in skin-tight silver jeans and an adorable crop-top) was staring.

Staring. At him. Shiro. Who could feel that last of that godsforsaken drink drip to his bellybutton.

They both started talking at once.

“Sorry—”

“So sorry—”

“—I was just—”

“—Of course! Abs—I mean! Absolutely—”

“—you too—wait, that’s not—”

Pidge’s cackling laughter put a stop to their train wreck, but only gave more time for Shiro’s blush to attempt to melt his face off. Fortunately (or not so fortunately?), Allura didn’t seem to be faring much better.

“Should we give you two some privacy?” asked Lance, all waggling eyebrows.

“No, you should not,” said Allura, drawing herself up and doing a nice job of returning to professionalism considering Shiro was still half-naked and drowning in mortification. She brushes her hands on her pants. “Let’s return to business.”

Her assistant snorted behind her. “Like you can talk business when you just ogled his chest for five minutes.”

“Romelle!”

Well, at least Shiro wasn’t the only one mortified now.

“We’re here to discuss a collab, which is what we’ll do,” said Allura. But she met Shiro’s eyes looking sheepish and a tiny bit shy. "Unless..."

“Could I buy you a drink after this?”

That was not what Shiro intended to say.

But, holy crow, if Shiro had thought that pink crop-top looked hot on Allura before, it had nothing on the tiny, confident smirk growing on her face. “Hm. Are you referring to the one on your chest?”

Shiro's mouth continued to run without his permission.

“I was thinking we could work up to that.”

Keith pretended to gag behind him, but Shiro didn't care because Allura, freaking I-don’t-need-a-last-name-I’m-like-Beyonce Allura, was flirting with him and Shiro was pretty sure if he tried right now, he could fly.

“Ugh, gross. Gross! Hunk, don’t look!” said Pidge, scrambling to put her hands over Hunk’s eyes. Meanwhile, Lance was smiling like a shark.

“Perhaps we finish this up first?” said Allura. The way she was smiling at him made Shiro feel like there were tiny supernova going off in his chest.

“That—that works.” Frankly, Shiro was astonished his words still worked at this point.

Allura clapped her hands together with an authoritative “All right!” and yep, Shiro was in love. “Enough of this. Let’s get down to business.” She strode further into the room and consequently closer to Shiro. “On one condition,” she said, tapping Shiro’s chest.

“Yeah?”

“You keep that shirt off.”

Well.

Shiro felt his own smirk blooming on his face. He could work with that.

#shallura #shalluraweek2020 #mckinlily writes: VLD fic #can't follow a prompt to save my life but i'm going to try

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bread-elf · 4 years

Text

DWC 2020 - Day 4

May not be suitable for all readers, viewer discretion is advised

Broken

Mist of Pandaria, pre Siege of Orgrimmar If you want to play, come and find me… Jiroki suddenly became acutely aware of the scents around her, of burning gunpowder and charred flesh. Ash filled her lungs and she coughed herself awake, tearing her heavy eyelids open to try and gauge what’s around her. Through moist eyes she blinked away the blurriness as best as she could, though after a few seconds she wished she didn’t. The sky had started off as a bright and sunny day, but now smoke filled the empty skies above her, black and grey colored streaks tainting the air. Her body felt heavy, and she struggled to push herself up. Plate armor wore her down as she propped herself onto her elbows, chest heavy as she can feel her usually tight and neat bun of hair falling apart. The blue tabard with the Lion’s sigil she wore diligently had been torn asunder and defiled with sweat, blood, and oil. Her helmet had been long lost in the fighting along the way, but that had not been a factor in the way the appendage of her ears felt like they were severely battered. Hissing in through her teeth she reaches up to try and tentatively touch one, but decided against it, she had more pressing matters on her mind. Come and find me.

A taunt lingered in her mind as she rolled herself over, and she first gasped and nearly choked on her own coughing fit when met with a startling sight. A robotic golem, much like the ones common to Westfall, lay right in front of her, its gaze affixed on her while its body had been torn asunder by a large lance jutting out of it. It lay dormant, broken, but it stirred many questions in her mind as she began to push herself up onto all fours. “Hel-Hello?! Anyone?!” On her knees she finally takes a look around. Many other golems lay in similar circumstances, but that only explained half of the scents she could currently smell. The rest came from mangled and scorched bodies, identified by their smaller size and the same blue tabards she wore. “No- no!” Scrambling to the nearest one to her, a vaguely familiar shape of a man, grabbing hold of his shoulder and rolling him onto his back. “Arathon! Arathon?!” A young human with auburn hair, now muddled with blood as a gaping wound dripped on the side of his head. He had recently just got engaged, but Jiroki had pressured him into coming on this mission since she was his second in command. She shook him a bit, hoping perhaps that it was not too late, that the pink mush leaking from the side of his head was just a dust in her eyes, but her efforts are in vain. Glancing around she takes better not of the other bodies around, and a particular name nearly makes her entire being cease to exist. “Gelt- GELT?!” Jiroki pushes herself to stand but nearly crumples as she cries out in pain that takes her by surprise, looking and seeing that a chunk of plate had been torn off her leg, and had torn her calf to shreds. A trail of blood had followed her as she had crawled over here, and it continued to follow her as she forced herself to stand and limb along the carnage, desperate for any living souls. The side of her face felt wet, but she ignored it as she began her search. The battle took place in the Hinterlands, a mission to chase down a notorious individual that had once been a part of the cavalry unit she had partnered up with. Jiroki, being a part of the infantry of Stormwind’s militia, had many long debates with her Marshal, commander of her unit who currently had gone to the campaign in Pandaria, a campaign she herself couldn’t go to in fears that the mysterious force known as the Sha would consume her for her anger. Something to be rightfully fearful of, given how she is. So with her infantry men that were left behind, they had kept themselves occupied and helped stabilize other fortifications in the King’s name, and found themselves getting to know a cavalry unit stationed in the Blasted Lands. Though both cavalry and infantrymen alike lay scattered in heaps of corpses around her with the wreckage of golems. “ANYONE?!” Nearly hopping on one leg she explores the field of carnage carefully, the battle having been a wide berth in the lands. “Call out! Whistle! Something!” Her voice cracks, no one is alive. Only her. The side of her face still felt wet, and in frustration she wipes the moisture away with a gauntlet, only to be surprised by the sight of her own blood splattered on her gauntlet. A vague memory creeps into her mind, moments before she blacked out, how she had survived. A small blade of cold steel, dragging delicately across her skin. Her ears twitch, picking up a sound, and she glances back over her shoulder towards a hacked sob. Shuffling in that direction she keeps her silver eyes as wide as she can as she glances around, and the moment she sees a hunched over figure shuddering she nearly sprints. “Swadley, is that you?!” Seeing the small human hunched over, the girl barely having reached adulthood recently. She sobbed hysterically, fiery red hair spilled out of her helmet, or was that blood? Jiroki nearly collapses as she tries to get to her, but by the strength of will manages to keep herself from falling onto her knees until she’s behind her. “Amber-” Cutting herself off as she realizes Amber is holding someone, and she drags herself around to see who it is. Jiroki’s stomach drops as she sees the body of Gelt’s daughter, Eilynne. Around Amber’s age as well, she dressed in mage battle robes as her curly blond hair framed her head that Amber carefully cradled, her gentle face looking peaceful as ever while her robes seeped of her entrails that had spilled out by whatever had caused her demise. So close to becoming disheveled, Jiroki looks up at Amber, so far the only other living soul she’s found, but it sparks a bit of hope. “Amber; have you seen Gelt?” Amongst all the bodies she had not seen this man, a man who had so carefully pried open her heart. “I can’t find him, everyone is-” Her words hang in the air, not having the will to finish, but also realizing that Amber wasn’t paying attention to her words. The young human continued to hyperventilate from the trauma, vibrant green eyes staring straight ahead of her and not even having glanced to Jiroki at all. The elf decides to follow her gaze, and her stomach riots. “Gelt!” A saw blade had seared through his torso and severed both arms, one laying nearby as the other is lost in the carnage. The saw blade in question currently resided in him as well, protruding from his legs as if it had been left there as a landmark. Jiroki couldn't believe the audacity of the display his corpse had become, unsure of if this was actually the first human she has ever loved. But his hazel eyes look the same as they stare unliving to the sky, the roots of his dark brown hair had begun greying out in age, that little scar he had since he was a child over his left eyebrow from a stumble he took. Jiroki hadn’t even felt herself as she moved closer, everything in her core squeezing tight as her jaw clenched. She could no longer ignore the riot in her stomach, turning herself away from his body as she started to heave whatever remnants were leftover from hours ago. Jiroki felt her chest begin to crumble, her form shaking as the heaved sobs force their way out of her gut, trying to pant for air but finding none as she’s short of breath. This time she could feel fluid sliding down both cheeks, now shedding tears that mingled with the blood and soot on her face. So close to breaking. “J-J-J-” Hearing the stutters of Amber, Jiroki turns her head, slowly and nearly without life. But she notices that Amber is clutching something else to her chest, which with a trembling hand tries to extend out. A green glow emitted around her fingers of whatever she held tightly. Suspicions begin to stir in Jiroki that make her come closer, extending her own hand to accept whatever it is that Amber wants to pass her. A fel green stone drops into her hand, immediately sending the hairs on the back of Jiroki’s neck standing. Turning it in her hand she could tell it wasn’t a health stone, though unintentionally she smears a bit of her blood onto the stone. Right away it begins to light up and Jiroki almost chucks it, but a swirling mist forms inside the rock catches her attention, causing her to stare into it as a figure forms. “Well, well, it seems you’ve woken up.~” A taunting voice speaks from the fel stone, and Jiroki sees a face that makes her blood boil. A human woman with strawberry blonde hair and lips red as blood, her face having a snarky sneer as the message continues on. “I left our mutual friend alive to give this to you. I certainly couldn’t kill her like the others, she was always the nicest to me, and the cutest.” Her voice takes on a sickenly sweet mock, and out of the corner of Jiroki’s eyes she can see Amber huddle forward. “I’m sure you’re going to look darling once my scars on you heal up. The game still stands.~ You know what to do.” A flashback runs through Jiroki’s mind, moments in combat before her world went dark. Fighting with a golem that she managed to sever its leg off with her glaive, but then something from behind nearly obliterates her leg. Collapsing onto the ground her glaive slips from her hand, and a crushing force lands top of her. A different golem had snuck up and pinned her down, but that wasn't nearly as alarming as the pair of slippered feet that casually walked around Jiroki’s head, a woman dressed in robes kneeling down beside her head. Jiroki’s helmet gets removed and tossed aside, and a soft hand roughly grabs Jiroki’s chin and tilts it upward. “Ellie-” Jiroki sneers, the strawberry blonde woman giggling as battle happens around them. “You could have avoided this you know.” Ellie’s other hand reaches forward to begin gliding her fingers along the elongated ear of the elf. “This wasn’t any of your business. But now it’s too late. I’ll need to set a firm reminder for your lover boy.” “You won’t get away with this!” Jiroki struggles to get up, trying to call forth her inner magics for a way of escape, but she feels the magic being siphoned out of her like breath being drawn for her lungs. The woman just cackles, wrapping her hands around Jiroki’s ears. No words are given as fel fire is conjured, and Jiroki screams in sheer agony as her ears are burned. As it goes on Jiroki’s vision starts to fade, trying to grasp onto consciousness as the pain rivals some of her most severe injuries. Eventually it stops, and her throbbing ears can barely hear the sound of a blade being drawn from a sheathe, the cold steel being dragged along her cheek in a crisscross. “Heheh, but I already am getting away with it. Once I kill off the rest of my enemies, that is.” Making her mark of an X on Jiroki’s cheek, letting the blood weep from the skin. “But, if you want to play, come and find me.” Jiroki’s brought back from her mind as fel stone fizzles out, losing its color and becoming a dull grey. Just now noticing how much her hand is trembling, her grip tightens on the rock, it begins to crack. Amber’s sobs bring her attention; at least one person is alive from all this, and she needs to be taken from here. “Amber…” Conscious of Gelt’s body near her she Jiroki does her best to ignore it for the time being, coming closer to the small human. “We have to go.” Amber’s sobbing gets worse at that, reluctant to leave Eilynne’s body. Jiroki manages to push herself to stand and come beside Amber, bending down and trying to coax Amber to let go. She starts to struggle, Amber crying hysterically, but Jiroki realizes that the human had many cuts and gashes in her armor as well. Wrapping her arms around her waist, Jiroki hoists up, and the body of Eilynne slips from Amber’s grasp as she starts to wail and struggle. Amber only stood about five feet in height, much more shorter than the elf that reached seven feet, yet Jiroki found her strength taxed while moving her. Hoisting the human up with unsteady legs she gets Amber hanging over her shoulder, stumbling a few steps backwards and risking a fall, but she manages. Amber kicks and wails and tries to squirm off, but she’s just a broken and weakened mess as Jiroki still has just an ounce of strength left to carry out this task, hanging on by sheer will and anger. “I’m going to kill her...” Jiroki talks to herself as she limps along the bloodied grounds, Amber’s hysterical cries ambience in the background. “I’m going to tear her heart out…” Trying to take Amber out away from all the carnage and into an open field for air, and from there she can at least gain their bearings. A caw from the air catches her attention, lifting her head up to look. High up above a gryphon looped in a circle, a dwarf on the back that surveyed the area. It must have been one of the Wildhammer’s sent to scout what had caused all the smoke and fires on the ground. Jiroki stops and waves her hand up that was holding Amber steady for leverage, trying to catch the dwarf’s attention. Once Amber was safe, games could be played. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After all was said and done it became clear that revenge can’t fill a void in her chest. Jiroki sat in a chair outside of Gelt’s former house in Stormwind, dressed in comfortable robes and a glass of lemonade on a table in front of her. It remained untouched, Jiroki just staring out blanky in front of her towards the cobblestone streets. Devoid of emotions she just sat, but from the open door stepped out a Highborne. “Alright, I just finished folding up the sheets… It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” Long silver hair bound back while his own beard had been braided to keep from flourishing, Sasil had nearly been stuck to Jiroki’s side ever since her return, helping tend to her injuries and whatever business she had to settle. Him speaking caused her ears to twitch, and it sends a dull and painful reminder of the bandages wrapped around them. “Hm…” Jiroki had nothing to say, nothing she wanted. Sasil adjusted his rolled up sleeves, uncharastically in loose linen and simple trousers as he had set to help clean the fallen cavalry's house today for Jiroki. A quick glance made him notice Jiroki hadn’t touched her lemonade, and he tries a different approach. “There does happen to be a slight chill in the air…” He states. “Perhaps some tea would be more fitting? Do you want me to make some jasmine?” Coming up and gently brushing his hand over the back of her hair. “If you want.” Dismissive, not reacting to his touch at all. His silver brows knit together, but he goes ahead and steps inside to start brewing some tea, nothing else he could do but try. Jiroki remained still for a time longer, eyes lazily spotting a small butterfly landing on a potted plant with budding flowers. Eilynne had planted those, she had watered them diligently every day. Moving from her spot she glued herself to for hours she stands, leaving her drink unattended as she steps into the house. It had become barren, only large pieces of furniture and kitchenware remaining as most of the personal belongings and decor had been packed. Jiroki didn’t have the will to go through them, nor did Gelt and Eilynne Weissgron have any living relatives to contact, let alone a unit to report back to. Sasil tood in the kitchen, a kettle already over a stove top as he looked through different tea blends that were in the house, turning as he noticed Jiroki going towards the stairs. “Jiroki-?” “I’m going to lay down for a bit.” Bare feet gently pad up the wooden steps as she makes her way up, leaving Sasil down below. “Ah- ok! I’ll- I’ll be here…” Letting his words fall flat, brushing his hand over his head as he lets out a sigh. Jiroki could have walked with her eyes close to the bedroom where Gelt used to be in, one she had shared with on special nights. But it looked so different now, boxes filled with his belongings and some with decorations. For a split second the thought occurred to her that perhaps they were just moving, moving to Ironforge like he had hoped to one day. But the daydream was smothered out by the cold reality. Walking forward she makes her way to the bed. The blankets had not been packed yet, and his scent still lingered in the room, but she nearly tripped as one of the floorboards bent at an odd angle. Quickly stepping back she looks down to see it partially lifting up from the rest, and it was then that she realized she had nearly forgotten about his secret cubby. “Don’t tell Eilynne, but I keep her mother’s heirlooms in here. I don’t trust banks.” The middle aged men had beckoned to Jiroki once upon a time, having crow’s feet yet still had a youthful mischievous glint in his eyes. Jiroki knelt herself down and gingerly pulled back the floorboard, seeing the box hidden beneath. Reaching down she plucked it out and held it on her lap, deciding to go through it. Inside rest a savings bond written to Eilynne that she could cash in when of an older age, a small ring box that held both Gelt’s and his deceased wife’s wedding rings, and a jeweled locket that would have been passed on to Eilynne. Jiroki didn’t know what to do with the savings bond, but perhaps the other items could be buried with Gelt and his daughter. But there was a different small box that Jiroki didn’t remember seeing, pulling that out and setting the rest down. It looked like a ring box too, but she couldn’t recall him showing anymore then what she had thus so far seen. Opening it up, when she looked inside she nearly felt her body tear in on itself. A single ring, a shining silver with Darnassian rune work lining all around it, a studded diamond perched atop that shimmered like it was brand new. On the inside of the band was the tiniest of engravings, but stood out the most for her. G & J. The ring fell onto the floor with a gentle clatter as Jiroki gripped the sides of her head tightly, trembling and started to heave up sobs to the point she started gagging. Overcome with grief she tries to run away from it, so much so as to stand up and physically move away from the ring meant for her, but she nearly topples over a standing mirror. Turning in shock she sees herself in her reflection, ears wrapped up in bandages and another patch right over the mark that Ellie had left on her cheek, where a scar would form. The very same face that led so many to death, she takes the opportunity to exact her vengeance on her own self and punch at her reflection, causing the mirror to shatter with a loud crash. From downstairs Sasil immediately bolted up the flight of steps and to the room, just in time to see Jiroki hurl the rest of the standing mirror towards the wall. A hand shoots out and with his arcane capabilities the shards and furniture piece are pulled away from her, and he’s quick to dash in and catch her falling form. “You’re ok, you’re ok!” He gently chides as he pants, having exerted his talents much more quickly than he was prone to, but that meant nothing to him as he held Jiroki to his chest. She wailed into him, fists weakly striking at him before she just gives in to her grief, mourning loudly and clutching to the Highborne. Sasil soothes Jiroki’s hair as she laments, there in the room with so many memories packed away. Knelt by the broken pieces of the mirror, Jiroki lets herself break as well. (( @daily-writing-challenge )) (( Amber is my alt! Shout out to all the other player characters involved in this! This was set in the time somewhere between events of MoP and way before Warlords released, with guilds no longer active! I hope they’re all doing well. )) (( I also had been fighting vertigo all day, so halfway through this is when editing stopped, sorry for any inconsistencies! ))

#stories

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owlespresso · 4 years

Text

Tremble, Duck & Weave

It's a cold night when Aymeric de Borel trims the unnecessary fat from Ishgard's governing body and seizes that power for himself, but the day that brings you into the city is surprisingly warm.

Reader is the Warrior of Light. This is an AU.

The pairings are as follows: Urianger Augurelt/Reader, Aymeric de Borel/Reader, Haurchefant Greystone/Reader, Estinien Wyrmblood/Reader. Also on my ao3, which can be found HERE.

The archbishop summons him at an unfathomable time of night. The office is dimly lit, the wrinkles of the man’s gaunt face illuminated by a lamp rested in the corner of his room. The door creaks as it gently clicks closed behind him. He looks the same as ever, beard and face much too long, eyes sunken. Aymeric, in the back of his mind, wonders if he too will look this way, when age drains him of his beauty like the dark of night drags the sun below the horizon.

“Aymeric,” Thordan VII smiles and his face shifts grossly with it. He was never meant to smile, Aymeric realizes for the umpteenth time, “Mine apologies for calling for you at this time of night.”

“It is no trouble at all, Father,” he stands spine straight, shoulders squared, expression soft but impassive. How he’s been carefully molded and taught to stand, to look, to be, “I have faith that this matter is of the utmost importance. My sleep can wait.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Thordan VII replies, as though he doesn’t constantly demand it, “We’ve received news from Coerthas—” he erupts into a string of spluttering coughs that he muffles first into his hand, and then into his sleeves. The bitter cold has never done him any favors. Especially not now, when it’s started settling in his bones and tearing its teeth into his soft, wrinkly hide, “The Warrior of Light is on their way to the city gates.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A meeting they attended with their cohorts in Ul’dah went awry. From what I understand, a military coup or something of the sort was staged and they were caught in the crossfire, injured near terribly. They are accompanied by an elezen boy named Alphinaud. I believe you’ve met him? Child of Louisoix, member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. They are coming to seek succor. They’ve proven to be our shield against the Dravanians, so I am granting them asylum,” that made Aymeric’s eyebrows raise. He had turned in reports on his meetings with the vaunted Warrior and their companion, but never had he expected his father to actually read them.

Never had he expected his father to pay attention to something he had painstakingly tracked and hand crafted.

“I presume you would ask me to give them shelter?” his meetings with you had always been between times of great strife and the subject matter usually revolved around whatever opponents you would be thrown at next. As far as he was concerned, it was a relationship that revolved purely around business.

You were used as one might wield a spear or sword, tossed in the way of whatever monster or god saw fit to threaten Eorzea’s city states. It was a pitiful existence, he believed, to be used so mercilessly by people who couldn’t defend themselves or do anything to assist you.

“Heavens no,” Thordan VII huffs in amusement, “The Fortemps bastard has their full trust and will be taking care of them. I wish for you to keep a careful watch on them. The Scions are renowned for their campaigns against our Ascian allies, and I will not have them get in the way of the plans I have labored over since I took up the honorable position of archbishop.”

“Ah,” Aymeric says, recalling the dozens of meetings where those ominous, robed figures flanked his father on either side, wearing their crimson masks and wry, smug smiles, “Is that truly wise? I’m sure you’re aware of the Ascians… unfortunate track record with the way they treat their allies. The Garlean’s Baelsar is testament to that.”

His voice is smooth and stable. His gaze is steeled as it always is when he steps foot inside here, this office which feels more like a gladiator’s arena than an office. Yet, his stomach tosses and turns because never has he dared to argue with his father. His father, who has towered like a giant over him for his entire life. It’s not something he regrets, not even as silence lapses between them and fills the air.

“Should all go according to plan, no longer will we need to live in fear of them,” Thordan says slowly, exploratively, “All I do is in the name of Ishgard’s liberation, Aymeric. I thought you would have understood that by now.”

“I understand you enough to know that you are… overestimating yourself,” the words claw themselves out of Aymeric’s throat, his mouth, and they feel like sandpaper.

Then Thordan VII’s eyebrows nettle into a scowl at his meager defiance. It makes his blood boil. How long has his father gone unchallenged? How long have his suggestions and commands only been met with a chorus of resounding yeses?

“I’ll not hear that from the pitiful welp I raised, the child who has never stood in my shoes,” his voice raises, face gnarled with offense. His calm, patient veneer finally lapses, exposing the ugly, festering mess that lays underneath his skin. Long has Aymeric waited to agitate him this way, and the satisfaction outweighs the trepidation of breaking free from all he’s ever known.

The floorboards behind Thordan’s desk creak. The aged elezen jolts and whips around, another series of coughs rattling his form as a figure, clad in inky black and deep crimsons steps into the dim light. The newcomer clutches a slender, freshly-sharpened glass. The tangy scent of blood and metal hits the air.

“Bold words for a man within striking distance,” Estinien’s voice rumbles deep and low, armor clanking with each slow, purposeful step.

“What is the meaning of this!?’ Thordan VII grips the arms of his chair as he thrusts himself to his feet, stumbling, hands resting flat against the table’s surface as he whirls around and attempts to scramble to the side. His eyes are wide, the fluster that had dusted his cheeks twisted into something terrified. The visage of a cornered animal.

Aymeric’s eyelids lower as he feels his idee fixe finally culminating. He sees himself, briefly, in lessons on etiquette and literature and all subjects in between. He sees himself knocked to the ground for the umpteenth time as he spars, his father staring down at him from across the courtyard, perched on the marble stairs with nothing in his eyes. He recalls a lifetime of pressure, of watching his father make poor life choices and being told what he should be rather than receiving praise for what he already was.

“You were there for the citizens of Ishgard when they needed you,” he begins and tries to find some words to convey the macabre collage of emotions and experiences, but ultimately fails. His words will never reach Thordan VII, his father, in the way he wants them to, “But now they require someone with a more delicate and refined touch. They need me, father, and you’re standing in the way.”

Thordan VII spits out a bitter laugh that descends into a deep, wailing cough, stumbling over his own ornate robes as Estinien backs him into a corner. Swathes of red and black aether swell around the dragoon’s form, a fantastic phantasmagoria that’s never failed to fascinate Aymeric.

“If you think I’ll just stand idly by and—” Thordan’s beady eyes stare up, his fear betraying him. Estinien smells it and his nostrils flare.

“I know,” Aymeric says and Estinien shoves his lance forward. Simultaneously, as though their minds are perfectly wound together and connected. The metal eats into and slices clean through the flesh. He briefly recalls watching a local butcher dismember a recently-slain boar whilst his father’s servants spoke to a merchant, eyes wide with awe and fascination as living matter was broken down into subsistence.

Blood splatters against the polished wood, fortunately missing the carpet. Aymeric remembers the price of that carpet.

“Beautiful work, Estinien,” he says softly, stepping over to Thordan VII’s body and kneeling. His palm lights with sacred blue energy as he works to seal the incision that the spear had so accurately made, the corpse clean of the evidence.

The archbishop’s eyes are still wide with fear. There is nothing better Aymeric would like than for as many people as possible to know the man had been helpless in his last moments, but it won’t do to have suspicion cast upon them. He does his father a final favor and shuts his eyes for him, just as Estinien sweeps back across the floor, to the window here he had entered. A frosty breeze sweeps into the room as Aymeric bundles Thordan VII’s body in his arms.

“The evening watch should be changing by now. They won’t see you,” he informs his companion helpfully, rewarded with a grunt as the dragoon heaves himself over the sill and jumps into the night sky, leaving not a trace behind him. Fitting. Estinien has never cared for their quibbling little politics. He answers to whoever promises to sate the hunger of his steel, to whoever waters his crops with draconic blood.

When he leaves, he takes his warmth with him. Silence settles over the room. He feels as fragile and trembling as the icicles which cling to the gutters.

He could linger in this space, Aymeric realizes, cling onto the normality that existed a mere half-hour ago. He could pretend Thordan’s responsibilities hadn’t just been hoisted upon his shoulders, allow his status to stand still if only for a precious, few moments.

But Ishgard is outside these gold glazed halls and he won’t keep them waiting for another moment. He nudges the door open with his arm and steps into the corridor, seeking the first chirurgeon he can flag down.

The news of Thordan VII’s death floods the streets mere hours later. Perished due to the sickness that had held him in its clutches for the past sixth months. He fought valiantly against the virus until he could no longer, and left ser Aymeric de Borel, his sole son, as his heir.

The sunlight streams in through the window, the curtains bunched to their sides.

He had slept a mere four hours, barely able to shake off the clinomania in order to clamber out of his bed. Nobles and servants flanked him left and right, the entire city sent into a buzz over the news of his ascension. Only now, when the sun was beginning to touch the city, did he get a moment of peace.

“Milord?” or not. He opened his eyes to look at the timid servant who peered into the room. The meager sunlight caught off her flaxen hair, which was tied into a tight bun. Stray strands dipped down to her forehead, “The Warrior of Light is here, and they are… grievously wounded. Several chirurgeons—”

“Have ser Augurelt attend to them personally,” he ordered, voice gentle yet resolute. She blinked, but nodded quickly and vanished, gently shutting the door behind them with a resounding “yes sir!”

Again, he was left to his silence. He shut his eyes, willing the tension of the night and fear of the upcoming day away for just a moment. Having Ishgard’s head astrologian tend to your wounds would send a message to the citizenry and the nobility who were aware of your presence. You were a valuable resource, an individual worth protecting. He would not see you harmed whilst within the city’s walls.

And anyone who defied that firm, incredible message would have to answer to him.

#aymeric #aymeric de borel #estinien #estinien wyrmblood #ffxiv #Final Fantasy XIV

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ecto-american · 4 years

Text

White and Nerdy

Holiday Truce Gift for @idiot-cheesehead-archenemy based on their request for Vlad’s slice of life outside of the Fentons.

On FFN and AO3

Summary: Contrary to belief, Vlad does have hobbies other than spinning in a fancy chair with his cat thinking of evil plots. For example, every Tuesday he dedicates the day to hanging out with his best friend as they both indulged in their crippling, long term addictions: World of Warcraft, with a pinch of Dungeons and Dragons.

Rating: K+

Warnings: Some cursing

Other Notes: Everybody is gay or trans, and you can't stop me.

Running a multi billion dollar empire was stressful, to say the very least. And of course, when you own those businesses, it was easy to work as much or as little as you pleased. Not that Vlad ever found himself taking off too much from work. No, no. He loved running his empire, the meetings and decisions. Whenever he took too much time off, the halfa found himself restless. Vlad craved a full schedule, and he needed things to look forward to.

Though of course, he wasn't all work and no play. There was one day of the week Vlad always, with the exception of business trips, took off or would take easy: Tuesdays. Tuesday was raid day.

And on that Tuesday morning, Vlad paid no mind as he could faintly hear the front door being unlocked and closed. His best friend, his actual best friend (NOT that fool Jack), had keys and was permitted to come over whenever he pleased.

Vlad continued his morning routine lazily, carefully shaving and grooming his beard to his preferred style. Brushed and styled his hair in it's normal ponytail, and he dressed himself. Any other day of the week, Vlad would be putting on his Italian brand name custom suits, always freshly pressed and ironed by a maid. But today was raid day, and so he instead was wearing sweatpants and an oversized Packers sweatshirt. He slipped on his football slippers, and he went downstairs to his computer room.

Not his office, which was expensively decorated with only the most fine and formal, shelves lined with important titles. His computer room, which was expensively decorated for a whole other reason. As he opened the door, he smiled at the shelves full of figurines of his favorite characters, accessories adorning the walls. He knew that most would have a stroke, since he never kept anything in the original box, despite having the entire collection of figurines, statues, busts, everything that would make the most dedicated fan drooling. That was simply stupid in Vlad's eyes, it was made to be admired and displayed, not kept in a box. If any were to break, he could simply buy another, no issue.

They lined shelves that were all over the brightly lit room, with cabinets below that held their boxes. While he didn't keep them in boxes, he of course, still kept them. There were also some books, mostly related to the lore but also game guides and manuals.

He admired his collection for a moment before turning his attention to the middle aged man getting comfortable in one of the three computer setups Vlad had, the far left one. All the setups were, of course, only the best and most advanced, with each desktop having three monitors and leather chairs. Each desk was a large U shaped one, set pressed to each other and near the back wall for the outlets.

"Hey, morning!" Edward Lancer greeted him warmly. Both men were morning people, clear by their chosen professions and schedules. Ed was in his own lounge wear, sweatpants with crocs and an old college t-shirt. "I brought McDonald's." He gestured to the bag that was left on Vlad's desk, alongside a cup of coffee clearly from Vlad's own kitchen.

Had it been any person other than Ed, Vlad would have been mortified over McDonald's. But even billionaires couldn't resist their breakfast, and it was only on Tuesday that he was able to privately indulge. Ed never judged.

"Thank you!" Vlad replied brightly. Ed had his own meal in front of him, sitting facing away from the keyboard as he took his time eating. Vlad joined him, sitting at his desk and doing the same, allowing them to talk face to face as they ate.

"Are you ready to fight the dragon later?" Ed questioned as he cut up his pancakes. "Since we're resting, I've been trying to figure out what spells I should prepare for the day to fight it." Vlad snorted, shaking his head.

"Knowing Harriet, she'll likely make the dragon a red herring that goes down with ease and dick us over with the actual boss that'll be invincible to half our party because it's immune the attacks that destroy the damn dragon," Vlad replied before taking a big sip of coffee. Burning hot, but delicious. Ed chuckled in amusement.

"She's always made it fair though," Ed replied. "Her boss battles are never unbeatable."

"Yeah, but she makes every campaign some Water Temple level meets 90s point and click mystery game difficulty and outrageous puzzle solving," Vlad grumbled.

"I like it, it's good critical thinking practice," Ed replied. "I've used some of her puzzles in the games I DM for the students. Really makes them think rather than just attacking everything. I swear, one of my students, Nathan, he just loves rolling to attack every NPC I make."

"Sounds like a ninny," Vlad said as he took a bite of his greasy fast food. The best part about the summer was Ed not having to teach. They could dedicate the whole day to hanging out. Of course, Ed took up a summer job, but he was able to secure Tuesdays off.

"A bit, but a good kid," Ed always spoke fondly of his students. "You should come in sometime for a game, it'd be fun."

"I think I might," Vlad agreed thoughtfully.

Of course, going to Casper High was always hit or miss. Daniel was there, and it was always nice to be able to check in on the little badger. But as mayor and a billionaire that funded several scholarships, it would be nice publicity to go and have some face time with kids. Many of his high school interns had graduated and left for college, and he was in the market for some new ones. Might be able to find some promising new future employees too. Hm, he'd have to see where he could fit a Casper High visit into his schedule when school began. Vlad would worry about that another time.

"How's their gay club?" Vlad questioned. "You guys just formed one, right?"

"It's got a steady group of kids who come in, very good kids. Many have supportive parents now," Ed explained. The teacher had paused, giving a small sigh. "It's a double edge sword for me. On one hand, I'm so grateful that so many of them can be who they are. But...I don't know. I hate that we never got to have that."

Vlad nodded understandingly. He poked at his breakfast, feeling hunger temporarily leave him as those depressive memories came back.

"I'll forever be thankful that Mother wanted to apologize and make amends before she died," Vlad spoke. "But I'm sorry she missed out on so much because of what I had to do to become happy. At least she passed away recognizing me as her son."

The last memories of his mother was depressing. Elderly and sick with cancer, even with all the money Vlad began to throw at her once she reached out to him after nearly twenty years of refusing to speak to him. Whether his sister wore her down, or it was deathbed regrets. It was an emotional two years, being able to see his mom again.

"Mine's in better shape than me, and they're still calling me by my old name," Ed complained. "I don't think it'll ever change. I try to keep a relationship, cause of the kids, but I don't know if it's even worth it anymore."

Silence hung in the air as they separately mourned for what it all cost them. Of course, it was worth it. Absolutely worth it to be happy, to be comfortable and finally as they should be, but it didn't make the cost any less harsh of a price to pay.

"Their generation will be better," Vlad said firmly. Ed nodded in agreement. "Please let me know if any of them need binders or anything of the sorts."

"I will. I've been thinking about starting a clothing drive for them," Ed explained. "I can probably get the school on board with it if we market it as for the lower income students too. Dressing how you want makes a big difference."

"You get the details sorted out, and I will absolutely financially back you," Vlad promised. Ed smiled.

"Thank you. I may start working on that to propose for this school year," Ed mused.

For the bumbling oaf that Jack was, Vlad had to admit that he was a very loving and caring man. A bit too caring, honestly, it was a bit of a flaw. He had immediately accepted Vlad, and later on his own son. It always warmed him to remember that Daniel had two parents that had immediately gotten him everything a young trans man could ever need. No hesitation, no questioning.

Ed took a final bite of his breakfast before humming happily. He wiped his hands as he pushed to toss his empty containers into the trash can.

"Enough being sad, let's raid," he suggested. Vlad hurriedly took his last two bites before nodding in agreement.

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The raid was broken up with greasy Chinese takeout for lunch, brought to them by a staff. Another guilty pleasure Vlad rarely indulged in. Then, of course, it was a return to games before they changed into their normal attire, sitting down to a home cooked dinner by staff. By the time they were finishing up, their other guests had begun to arrive for the evening plans.

Vlad always hosted the game. It just always made the most sense. He had the most room in his house, nor the distractions of family. Not that he disliked Lance nor Ed's children, they were great, but there was nothing that ruined the immersion of dragon slaying quite like teenage dramatics. And he thought that playing with toddlers in the house was frustrating.

The four sat in yet another room in Vlad's mansion that he had dedicated fully to the hobby. A large round table with Harriet Chin sitting furthest from them. A DM folder that separated her papers from there, just low enough that the halfa could see her smirking to herself as she reviewed her plans. Ed sat to her left, with an empty seat in between them. Another empty seat in between him and Vlad, and yet another separated Vlad from Lance Thunder.

Vlad honestly didn't really know the man that well yet. He was one of Harriet's coworkers that she had dragged into the summer game, as Vlad and Ed needed a third person in the party for this campaign. Their normal fourth and fifth friends, Joe and Frank, were spending the summer with their daughter and their newborn granddaughter. He already missed the pair terribly, especially Frank. Frank would often join in on their World of Warcraft adventures. But Lance was gay, and that made him okay enough for Vlad to accept him into their little queer circle with little complaint.

"I wouldn't get her a car unless she had good grades," Vlad gave his two cents into the conversation. Something about Lance's daughter wanting a car. Lance nodded.

"That's what I've been saying, but Alan keeps saying that if Star had her own car, she could begin driving herself to the library and to school to study, but I just don't buy that," Lance agreed. Vlad knew by now who those people were. Alan was Lance's husband, Star was Lance's daughter from his first marriage. Vlad had seen pictures of Star before. She was a spitting image of Lance. "She's more interested in being with her friends."

"And what does Rene think?" Ed questioned about the ex-wife's opinion. Lance shrugged.

"She doesn't think Star needs a car," Lance replied. "Public transportation isn't bad here, she can always borrow one of our cars, and lots of colleges won't let you have cars as a freshman anyway. So it'd be sitting in the driveway in a year or so for a year anyway."

"Star's going to be a junior, right?" Vlad questioned. Lance nodded. Vlad mentally went over his garage of cars. "When she's able to have a car on her college campus, I'll happily give her a good deal on one of my cars if she has good grades. I'll probably be retiring one of my cars by then. Of course, it's not going to be some beat up piece of junk." Lance's eyes widened.

"I'll definitely keep that in mind," Lance smiled warmly at him.

"Vlad sold my oldest, Ophelia, a car about five years ago. Car still runs like it's new," Ed spoke up.

"Ophelia just began graduate school, didn't she?" Harriet questioned, finally speaking up. She had been nose deep in her campaign notes. Ed nodded.

"She got in at the University of Chicago, full ride," Ed beamed with pride, and Vlad was very proud too. Ophelia, his precious goddaughter, was like a niece to him. Very smart, quick-witted and the only one who could match Ed's passion for literature. Of course, Vlad provided her with that full ride scholarship, as he did with her younger siblings, and eventually he would do the same for Ed's remaining two when they got to that point. No niece or nephew of his was going to college with student debts. "George is set to graduate soon too, this is his last year. Before med school anyway."

Ahh, little Georgie. Vlad got to spend a lot of time with him. He was one of Vlad's interns at Axion Labs. A strong willed boy, good head on his shoulders. Sometimes a little too honest, but the world needed more people like that. Whenever the billionaire stopped by Axion Labs, he always paid a visit to his favorite intern. It was always those times he spent with Ed's children that Vlad regretted not having his own.

"So how's the cat, Vlad?" Harriet asked, giving a small smirk. She could always seem to sniff out his emotions. Damn journalists. They were a bit too observant. Vlad rolled his eyes.

"How's yours?" he asked back. She chuckled.

"Bandit's the happiest boy alive, I just got him a nice new cat tower," she replied. Vlad nodded.

"I just had a new cat house for Maggie built," Vlad told her. Of course, he was never going to admit to his friends, most of them knowing the ghost huntress, that he named his cat after a long term crush. "It's going to be installed in the next week or so. You should bring Bandit over then. Maggie loves him."

"Oh I might," Harriet hummed happily. "It's been a while since Bandit got to hang out with Maggie."

"Does anybody want a drink before we begin?" Vlad questioned.

"Can I have a glass of rosé wine?" Harriet questioned. The billionaire smirked.

"Of course," he replied. He glanced to Ed and Lance.

"Uh, just gimme a beer, you know what I like," Ed shrugged. Lance thought for a moment.

"I may just have some wine too," Lance spoke.

Vlad nodded, and he stood to go to the intercom on the wall. All of the rooms in his house had it for his staff. He pushed it, and he requested the drinks, alongside what he knew to be choice snacks.

Almost as soon as Vlad had sat down, a male staff member came with a tray. It was full of cheese and crackers, popcorn, chips and fondue. Another staff member came with drinks and glasses.

Vlad picked up a beer like Ed, cracking it open and taking a long drink. Of course, in any other company, he'd indulge in wine. Beer was not something one could normally drink at a formal business function, and so he always took advantage of the times he could freely have some.

They began. A small discussion, and as the billionaire expected, the dragon went down easy. Suspiciously easy. Harriet gave the group before her a mischievous grin just over her DM folder. Vlad didn't like this, or that look in her eye.

"So you guys defeated the dragon," the reporter replied slyly. "But there's no loot to collect on him. The dragon dissolves and melts away. Everybody roll for perception and add your stuff. Then tell me what you got."

Oh, he definitely did not like this a single bit. Vlad eyed her coldly as he picked up his dice. Ed and Lance did the same.

"Visual or hearing, I'm missing an eye so I'd have to roll disadvantage otherwise," Ed reminded her.

"Hearing!" Harriet chirped. He nodded.

"Uh, sixteen then," he replied.

"Ten," Lance said.

"Twenty-two," Vlad spoke.

"You hear nothing," Harriet told Lance, pointing to him. She moved her finger to Ed. "You hear a small noise, two voices. But they're a bit muffle, you can't quite make out the entire conversation. But you do hear some words. The general jist of the conversation you can make out is that these individuals have realized you killed the dragon and are here." Harriet pointed to Vlad. "You! However, you can hear everything. It's a rough voice of a masculine figure telling somebody to prepare for battle, somebody has killed their precious dragon. They're going to detect your thoughts to determine your next movements before making their next move."

"I cast detect magic," Vlad replied. Harriet's eyes sparkled.

"It failed," she announced gleefully. Vlad internally groaned, and he could see Ed looking confused. "So what will you guys do."

Lance scratched his temple as he stared at his character sheet. He was not just new to the group, but to the game itself. The weather man studied his sheet for a moment as he tried to think. He took a long sip of his wine before speaking.

"Well uh, I think my guy is just gonna look for the treasure, cause I didn't hear anything," Lance said slowly. "And I'm still really interested in the promised gold."

"I tell him to not, because we should be careful," Ed spoke up quickly. "Because of what I heard."

"You tell your party what you heard?" Harriet questioned. She had leaned back in her seat, a leg over the arm of the chair as she held her beverage. The lesbian lightly swirled her wine in her glass before taking a long drink.

"Yeah, I tell my party what I heard," Ed clarified.

"And I'll tell them what I heard," Vlad agreed. "Because I need these people alive to keep me alive. They're my meat shields." Harriet snickered.

"So the prince never mentioned anything but a dragon being in here," Ed said slowly. "It must be another adventuring party trying to get the treasure. Prince Yamum said he did send several people to collect the family amulet."

"I say we kill them," Vlad suggested. Ed looked at him in disapproval, and Vlad shrugged. "My character's selfish. He doesn't want to share the loot with this party, and he doesn't want to share the rewards for returning the amulet."

"I agree," Lance said slowly. "My guy doesn't want the competition."

"No, no!" Ed said sternly. "We are NOT killing him, he may have useful information for us or be able to help."

"There's two voices, so that's a five way split between treasure," Lance pointed out. Vlad glanced to see Harriet's reaction. She was grinning like a fool, with that distinctive sparkle in her eye. She was absolutely up to something, and she looked like a true super villain. Evil plots forming her mind. Vlad trusted her with nothing, and yet he admired this chaotic evil lesbian. Harriet was his villain goals.

"Harriet, I swear on your grave," Vlad began his threat, only to stop with a frown at Harriet's devilish giggle.

"The individual detects your negative and violent thoughts," she announced cheerfully. She finished off her glass, shifting to have both legs over the armrest, her back against the opposite one. "And they have deduced that you're a threat that needs to be taken care of. Congratulations, boys. You're encountering the real boss." Vlad scowled.

"I knew you were going to do this, you always pull some weird bait and switch thing!" Vlad complained. Harriet smirked. "Lemme guess. It's a, it's a, god what would be the worst thing to fight right now." Vlad racked his mind for a possible enemy. "A rakshasa? Probably with a shield guardian too."

Harriet's smirk only widened. And Vlad knew he was correct.

"Roll for initiative, bitch."

#my phics #phics #holiday truce 2019 #idiot cheesehead archenemy #vlad masters #mr. lancer #lance thunder #harriet chin

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four-loose-screws · 4 years

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FE4 Suzuki Novelization Translation (Gen II) - Chapter 4

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Chapter 4 - Divine Blade Balmung

The cave was exactly where Shannan had been told it would be: a little ways up the east side of the rocky mountain where the Aed Shrine was located.

He walked inside, led by the light coming from outside. The cave was small, and believed to have formed naturally. About ten meters in, he hit a wall, and could not continue going straight.

"We've reached the end of this path, so we'll go right. Then, there will be a small gap in the rocks at about waist height. That's the entrance to the secret shrine. When the Loptr Church was outlawed, the church's followers lived in hiding in the underground level of this shrine. But they probably didn't live down there all year round. When they came out, they would use this path. But since there's no need for any of that now, no one comes through here." The man explained to Shanan, then looked his lean, toned body up and down. “Big people can't make it through here, but someone of your size should be fine."

Just as the man had said, when they got on their stomachs and crawled through the hole on the right, they were able to make it to the opening. The rocks surrounding the opening were smooth to the touch.

'It has to be here.' Shanan pushed his belongings through first, then himself.

The narrow opening was only about two meters long. At the end was a much larger open space than he thought there'd be.

Once he'd made it through, he was surrounded by total darkness and didn't move for a while.

He didn't hear, nor sense anything.

When he felt it was safe, he lit a small candle.

The path, wide enough for the two men to easily walk next to each other, shined in the light.

"When we come to a fork in the road, we must turn left, as that will lead to the underground shrine. It will be different from the path we've traveled so far, as it's made entirely of stone. Since we have a light source, you'll know it when you see it. The treasure room is the farthest room down that path. I saw Balmung in there. There's no lock on the door, but there might be several mages standing guard."

The first time Shanan had heard this, he thought it was a trap.

The man had claimed he was an ex-priest of the Loptyr Church who fled because he didn't agree with the horrible things they were doing. To avoid their pursuit, he needed money.

'Even then, thirty gold coins is too cheap for a job like this, isn't it?'

However, after thinking it through, Shannan finally decided to try and see where the lead took him, even if it would be to a dead end.

'If he's telling the truth, then that's the best case scenario, but even if it's a trap, that's just one move he could make. As one of Sword Saint Od’s sayings goes, ”When one makes a move, they always let their guard down.” Since he's trying to use Balmung as bait, the likelihood that he either has it, or at least knows information about it, is high. That will be when he lets his guard down, and I should attack him at that moment.’

As a descendant of Sword Saint Od, Shanan knew all of his sayings. Shannan also believed that he understood, though the intense training he’d subjected himself to, what most of them meant. However, he knew that he could not grasp the last saying if he did not obtain Balmung.

This is that final saying:

"If you are within light, become the light

If you are within darkness, transform into darkness

And within nothingness, is the truth."

He intended to figure out the meaning. However, he wouldn’t know what would happen when he obtained the holy sword, so he couldn’t understand it yet.

There was also one more reason he went with the man's movements.

And that was because Seliph had raised an army, and if they did not recruit Crusaders with legendary weapons, they would not be able to defeat the empire.

'We might be able to take back Isaach, but chances are, we'd lose if we went any further than that. Thracia has Heavens Lance Gungnir, House Friege has Holy Thunder Tome Mjölnir, House Dozel has Holy Axe Helswath, and Arvis has Holy Fire Tome Valflame.

And if someone among the enemy can wield Black Magic Loptous, then we won't stand a chance. So even if I am risking danger here, then I should go along with the enemy's movements and see what happens.'

They walked for about an hour, then finally reached the entrance to the shrine.

There wasn't a door, nor any people, but the path was dimly lit by a magic spell.

'This is the real trap.' Shanan sensed, but had no intention of turning back.

He walked into the shrine at his normal pace.

After taking five steps, he heard a creaking noise come from behind him.

He turned around, and a huge rock fell down between the cave and the shrine, blocking the path.

But since he'd predicted that there might be a trap, he didn't panic.

He confirmed that the path was completely blocked off, put the lantern and his supplies on the floor, and unsheathed a steel sword.

'If the exit is blocked, then I should continue forward.'

There were various doors on both the right and left sides of the path before him. Fearing that he might be attacked from behind if he walked too far, he only continued forward after he had checked each room to see if anyone was inside.

He didn’t find anyone, and finally came to the furthest door. To the right was a staircase going up.

He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and flew inside.

He saw a mage, sitting at a small desk, in the corner of his eye.

He took a big step and used the force to attack. The mage didn't even have enough time to stand up.

Shanan immediately checked his surroundings. There was no one else in the room. Next, he noticed that there were items that could be considered treasure in the room, confirming that it was indeed the treasure room.

And so, he began to search.

There were both many valuable and rare items inside, but no swords.

'If this is a trap, then of course it wouldn't be here.'

He abandoned the treasure room and returned to the hallway.

He didn't know what he should do next, but knew that in order to attack the enemies while they were still unguarded, he needed to move quickly.

The moment he tried to climb the stairs, he heard footsteps coming down them.

'An enemy has found me already!?’

He braced himself, but the shadow looked like that of a child's, making him decide against attacking. It was obvious they were being chased by something and running away.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed their arm.

"Eeeeek!" The shriek sounded feminine.

"Be quiet! I'm not your enemy!" Shanan hissed, while also noticing the item she was clutching to her chest.

It was a sword, and not just any sword. He remembered seeing the design carved into the handle before.

"Where did you get that sword?"

"I found it."

"Where? In that treasure room?"

"No, in a room at the top of the stairs."

"As I thought. Now hand it over."

"Hey! Are you trying to steal what I worked for? I went through a lot of trouble to get this, so there's no way I'll just give it to you!" The girl said, slipped out of his grasp, and ran towards the secret passage.

"W-Wait!"

She was dressed in men's clothing, and could run very quickly, making it obvious that she was a thief…

However, she had no choice but to stop in front of the boulder blocking the way to the cave.

Shanan caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder.

"Eeek! Stop, or else I'll never be able to be a bride!"

"Don't be stupid! I'm not going to do anything to you! I just want you to return that sword to me."

"'Return…?' So this is yours?”

"Yes. It is the Divine Blade Balmung, that has been passed down in my family for generations. I'm the only person who can wield it. Even if you have it, you can't do anything with it."

"But why us a holy sword in the Aed Desert?"

"It was taken from my father when he was killed during Grannvale's military campaign in Isaach. I was only just recently told that it's here in the Aed Desert. That's why I'm here, to take it back."

"Wait, so does that mean you're Prince Shanan of Isaach!?"

"Yes, I am."

"Wow, really? Yay, I'm soooo lucky!"

"..."

"I've always admired Prince Shanan, and wanted to meet him, even if it's just once… but I didn't think I actually would…"

"..."

"But it really is so cool to meet you!"

"I get it, I get it. Now, my sword, please."

"Oh, sorry. Here you go!"

Shanan took Balmung from her, and slowly unsheathed it.

As he revealed the blade, it lit up with a sparkling light. Then, he started to feel a strange power course through his body and make him feel warm.

'Balmung is finally mine… Ah, what a magnificent power this is…'

His body overflowing with new power, Shannan kept his gaze straight ahead, and said over his shoulder to the girl behind him, "What is your name?"

"I'm Patty! And don't forget it!"

"You're a thief, aren't you?"

"You could say that. But I only target the rich!"

"And you were found, so you ran away."

"Yeah. It was the first time ever for me, so I was surprised. But I wonder why they didn't chase me all the way here…"

"There's no way out of here, so they aren't worried. There’s no doubt in my mind that they are slowly gathering together more people and heading this way.”

"So what are we gonna do?"

"Keep your distance, but follow me."

Shannan gripped Balmung with both hands, held it out straight in front of him, and slowly began to proceed.

When they reached the section of the wall lit up by a magic spell, the torch went out.

"Eeeeek! It's pitch black!"

"You can't see anything?"

"I can, but only the light coming from the sword."

That was all Shannan could see as well. He gently closed his eyes.

'If all I can see is the sword's light, then I'll be able to see any enemy that comes within its range. In this case, I shouldn't rely on my eyes.’

"If you are within light, become the light

If you are within darkness, transform into darkness"

"Listen closely, Patty. We're going to follow the sword's light."

He abandoned his sense of sight, heightening his other senses.

'There's eight enemies. Three of them have swords.'

He pictured the hallway in his mind, and as he proceeded, he felt more and more like he was actually looking at it.

He turned right, and started climbing the stairs.

There were several lights set throughout the stairwell, but if one looked down at the stairs from the very top, they were shrouded in darkness.

When the leader of the mercenaries suddenly saw Balmung's light, he panicked and froze. He knew there should be a person on the other side of the sword, but he couldn't see them because the light was in his way.

The glowing sword slowly climbed up the stairs. It felt like someone was lying in wait for them, but it seemed like that person wasn't concerned at all.

"Die!" The mage standing in the back shouted.

"Hiii-yah!" The lead mercenary aimed as best he could, and swung his sword.

The man's voice and the movement of the air felt as if they were flowing through Balmung.

Shannan felt no resistance, as if he only cut through air, but he did actually slice open the mercenary's abdomen, who then fell down the stairs.

Another mercenary tried to come around from the left, but Shannan sensed his breath, the movement of his scent, the way he quietly stepped on the stairs, and the change in the temperature around him, as if they were concrete items Shannan could hold in his hands. Shannan only had to think, and Balmung moved, cutting down two more mercenaries.

The other mercenaries above him could only see the slight movements of Balmung's light. It returned to its original position in a split second, then started slowly moving up. As Balmung came close to each magic light, they went out, making Balmung's light grow stronger and stronger in the darkness.

The mages couldn't see what was behind Balmung's light, either. So even if they cast black magic spells, all they could do was aim at the sword, which sent every spell back at the casters. The next moment, the sword leapt into the air, and cut them both.

As he and Patty slowly climbed the stairs, Shannan defeated each and every enemy that came near them. He had no idea how many enemies he faced in total. He only knew he had become one with Bulmung, and the moment he sensed an enemy, he could take them out with the slightest of movement.

Then, finally...

He no longer sensed any enemies. After climbing a few more stairs, he could see light through his closed eyelids, so he opened his eyes.

They were already above ground, and in front of his eyes was a big door.

Shannan swung Balmung, and landed gracefully in the blood pooling beneath him.

He placed the Divine Blade in its sheath, then opened the door. It was the prayer room, and inside was a man in bishop's robes. He was surely none other than Kutuzov, wielder of the dark magic spell Fenrir and leader of the Aed Shrine.

'If I go any further, I'll probably be consumed by Fenrir's magic.'

"If you are within light, become the light

If you are within darkness, transform into darkness

And within nothingness, is the truth."

Shannan emptied his mind of all thoughts, then calmly stepped into the prayer room.

Kutuzov had seen Shannan the moment he opened the door, and realized the swordsman was not wearing clothing he'd ever seen before. However, Kutuzov didn't sense any ill intent, so he did not think he should do anything. He saw Shannan, but did not look at him.

As Shannan came closer, Kutuzov noticed a strange scent. It was the smell of blood. Then, he saw that the man's clothing was stained with blood.

'Why is he covered in blood…? I see, so he is Shannan!?'

Kutuzov panicked and tried to cast a spell.

In a movement so fast his eyes could not catch it, Shannan unsheathed Balmung.

Kutuzov's head went flying through the air before he was even done with his chant.

"That was so cool!!" Patty screamed from the entrance of the prayer room.

Seliph and the liberation army defeated the mages stationed throughout the rocky mountain, and arrived at the Aed Shrine shortly after.

After they had fully seized the shrine, Seliph entered the shrine's underground with Lewyn, who had just returned.

"The descendants of the Loptrian Empire lived here in hiding for a long, long time, because if they went above ground, they would be persecuted and burned alive. But even that doesn't mean they were evil from the beginning. However, many, many years of that treatment turned them into demons."

Seliph walked into one of the rooms in the hallway lined with rooms on both sides.

On the walls was writing that looked like a child's scribbles.

'Please come back someday soon, Lord Loptous.

Please make them suffer.

If you make our wishes come true, Lord Loptous, then we will give our blood to you.'

He guessed those words had been there for over twenty years, but the hatred with which they had been written had not faded one bit.

Seliph was overwhelmed by that hatred. He didn’t know what to say.

"Hate only begets hate." Lewyn said. "You must etch those words into your heart."

"What do you think of my hatred for Arvis?"

"I've said this before, but this fight is no longer yours alone. I understand how you feel, but you must only hate what he has done, or what he is doing, not the man himself. If you do, then it will cloud your judgement.

"You should hate the evil, not the person. You must never forget that."

#fire emblem #fe4 #fe #genealogy of the holy war #nintendo #super nintendo #snes #famicom #super famicom #japan #japanese #translation #novel #light novel #fe4 suzuki novelization translation #seliph

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gamesmasternotes · 4 years

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Timeline Prep

We’re a couple of months away (maybe) from the start of my Dragonlance 5e campaign, and I’ve pretty much got the last of my planning down for it. I’ve got monster lists prepared, Draconians sorted and ready, and with one exception my players have character concepts which we’ve fitted neatly into the world and found the best locations for them. We’ve also established a few stories for their earlier adventures, and I’ve rewarded them with some abilities and special equipment for their efforts. All is good!

My final bit of planning is of course the story.

Dragonlance of cours eis a series of books. A long series. And I plan on taking my player party through Dragonlance Chronicles, the opening trilogy in the series and the start of the grander story. What will happen is that the original characters - the “Innfellows” - will effectively be erased from history. I’m pretty much ignoring all the other books, but those characters will never have been, and instead this new group of player characters will take their place. It is they - totally new and original characters - who will split up to search for signs of the gods, and will meet back up in Solace, and become involved in the War of the Lance.

To make sure I get that right, I’ve gone through the Chronicles trilogy again and made notes of the entire journey, and come up with this rough timeline:

That gives the right sequence of events as they’re laid out for the Innfellows, but of course I won;t be forcing the party down this exact path. There are different things they may become aware of at different times, and they may choose different paths. Anything could happen. What if Vemrinaard defeats them? What if they lose the Blue Crystal Necklace (we’ve replaced the staff with a necklace for narrative reasons)? What if the refugees don’t make it, of Silvanest is lost?

So this is a rough guide mainly so that I know what quests are available, but primarily so that I know what the enemy Dragonarmies are doing at any time. Their movements will influence the party.

As such, I also have this page of notes on actual quests:

So an introductory mission, and then open to wherever the part want to go. They may even go to multiple places in different orders. All will work now that I know where and when everything CAN be.

Thoughts? Have I missed anything from the timeline? Options for side-quests to add?

There are still more side-quests to add, especially as I want to come up with some options for each player character specifically.

Looking forward to starting!

#GM #games master #dungeon master #campaign #game notes #game planning #rpg #roleplaying game #tabletop #d&d #Dungeons and Dragons #5e #dragonlance #krynn #ansalon

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demaury · 5 years

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Some kind of mistake (chapter 1)

Ever since Eliott first came across the new resident of the apartment 320, he made peace with the fact that Lucas 'Big Blue Eyes' Lallemant would, one way or another, turn his life upside down. Thing is, he hadn't expected that Lucas' wife and Lucas' daughter would play a part in it. Because, you know, he didn't know they existed until it was too late. (ao3 link)

SAMEDI, 08:49

It was a Saturday. For some reason, that particular fact in itself stuck in Eliott’s mind.

What was odd was that it didn’t particularly strike him as any different from the other Saturdays. It started off with Sofiane kicking him awake on his couch with a cup of coffee that wasn’t nearly enough to calm the pounding of a hundred hammers against his skull — courtesy of one (or ten) too many drinks from the night before. While he was twisting around in a sitting position and discarding the blanket usually covering the couch, Sofiane sat on the armrest, looking down at him.

“Eliott, c’mon. You know I like having you here but man- you stink.” He pulled a disgusted face as he said so. If Eliott’s eyes weren’t already giving him hell for the sunlight flooding the tiny living-room, he would have rolled them. It couldn’t be that late, considering Sofiane was still here. “Why can’t you just come over when you’re sober for once? That’d make for a nice change.”

A snort escaped past his lips as he was trying to swallow down his first sip of the morning. Sofiane was an actual mother hen, always down to give advises, especially when no one had asked for it — but Eliott wouldn’t have it any other way, and that’s why he always ended up crashing on his couch whenever he was too tired and/or drunk to go home by himself. It was just convenient that Sofiane’s place happened to be located in a particularly lively neighborhood, which meant that more often than not, his place was the closest from where Eliott was finding himself. A waste, considering that Sofiane was rarely (if ever) pulling an all-nighter these days.

“Not my fault you’re always ditching me,” Eliott protested, nose in his coffee. “Idriss too. You guys are the worst friends.”

What kind of friend let you ring at the intercom and didn’t even open the door? Idriss fucking Bakhellal. He was exactly that kind of friend. ‘Dude, I can’t keep up with your shit. I gotta wake up in the morning, just go make some other friends to party with,’ he had told him bluntly.

Was it his fault if all of a sudden his friends had boring jobs and boring lives?

Sofiane gave him a pointed look, before shaking his head as if he had been able to follow his train of thoughts. “I’ve got a job, Eli. Not everyone can afford to get shitfaced every Friday nights and a couple other nights in-between and still keep up with their lives.”

“I’ve got a job too, I’ll let you know,” Eliott retorted, mildly wounded in his pride.

Being overly judgmental was going against everything Sofiane was, although technically Eliott knew there was some truth in it, but after nearly five years of justifying the fact that yes, staying home on his computer was part of his job (and a huge part of it at that, not to say all of it), it was getting a little bit more on his nerves each time someone mentioned it. If anything, he was making more money that Sofiane, and probably more than Idriss as well — EP teacher wasn’t really the starter plan for a millionaire career.

He shifted on the couch, becoming increasingly aware of his wrinkled and slightly damp tee-shirt with every move he made. Maybe Sofiane was right about the smell, after all.

“Yes, but you don’t have work hours like Idriss and I do.”

Eliott shot him an unimpressed look. “You’re a driving instructor, Sof, you don’t treat cancer.” Joke was on him, because after ten years of friendship, he surely knew Sofiane well-enough to be aware that he was as proud to help kids get their driving license as any doctor was to save a life. Twenty years down the road and he’d start lining up on a wall the driving licenses he had contributed to.

Sofiane rolled his eyes. “And you’re still an asshole whenever you’re wasted, nice to see some things never change.” He leaned forward to grab his phone from the coffee table and immediately bolted up. “Shit I’m late. Look, do whatever you want but lock the door behind you and leave the spare key in the mailbox.”

“What’s the point of a spare key if you have both of them in here?” Eliott observed as Sofiane shrugged on a hoodie and fumbled around to grab the things he needed to go — shoes, keys, phone, and wallet— before literally jumping to the front door.

“That’s just a proof you’re spending too much time in here!”, he yelled as he slammed the door behind him, making Eliott wince at the sound.

SAMEDI, 09:51

He stayed put for a couple of minutes, before setting the cup of coffee on the table before him and gathering his things to head out. Usually he didn’t feel so much like things weren’t okay whenever he found himself here, with Sofiane fretting around him — if anything, it made him laugh. But for some reason this morning just wasn’t it.

An awful part of his teenage years had been spent hating himself for not being more like the other kids of his age, with an easy life, healthy hobbies, healthy relationships, healthy self-perception. Yeah, an awful lot of the time, between fifteen and nineteen, he had wished he was more like Sofiane, more like Idriss. More like anybody else. It had started working out for him only after he hit twenty. His meds were on point. He was slowly making peace with the fact that things would never be a 100% easy, and stopped purposefully ignoring the signs when shit was about to hit the fan.

As a free-lance graphic designer, he mostly worked from home, which spared him the prospect of dealing with an asshole boss on a daily basis — and getting fired because of one of his low lows. His sex-life was always a bit of a mess, but not dating anybody was making it a lot easier to juggle between the moment he craved loneliness and those he craved physical contact beyond logic. He was seeing his parents, who lived across town, twice a month, talking with his sister at least once a week, going to his therapist whenever it was needed, and every once in a while, Idriss got invested into a new sport and bugged him enough to join him, or simply to go for a morning run.

It wasn’t a perfect life, but it was healthier than it had been since what felt like forever. For the last five years or so, he had felt reasonably like the rest of his friends and acquaintances. So why was everyone starting to act like 26 was the age limit for all of this? It was as though they had no idea about all the efforts he had put into this in the first place, and sometimes he just wanted to scream his frustrations out.

The bus-ride back to his place wasn’t long, but it felt a lot like it. His phone had died the night before, so he was only hoping that whatever his drunken self had posted on his stories wasn’t shameful enough to make prospective clients run off to the next graphic designer on their list. He had started making a name for himself when he had scored a campaign promoting a new club in the Marais, two years ago, and although his building couldn’t be considered ‘fancy’ by any means, he was making enough money to afford living on his own in a bigger space than Sofiane’s literal shoebox.

Talking about boxes, Eliott thought.

A bunch of cardboard boxes were piled up in the entrance of his building. The main door was hanging wide open, a couple of leaves swirling around under the cool breeze and loud voices echoing inside — far too loud for Eliott’s still inebriated, sleep-deprived brain. He had known that the family of four living in the apartment on the fourth floor, the level below his own flat, would lose no time in being replaced — the moment the two parents had stopped fighting for good was when the dad had left and the countdown had started for a single mom in an overpriced city.

As Eliott walked in, careful not to trip, his eyes fell on three guys apparently waiting for the elevator to reach the ground floor, while holding upward the slatted base of a bed. Young, probably in their twenties. And fucking loud.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” one of them was protesting vehemently, his voice bouncing up against every wall and right through Eliott’s brain as he padded further in. When the guy straightened, the two others almost toppled over under the weight of the bed base. “I signed up for a bunch of books and clothes, I’m not a moving company!”

“Bro, can you just stop whining already?” another one said, adjusting his position with an elbow resting on the wooden frame.

“My point is, why are we doing all of this, and Lucas gets to just… I don’t know, slide them out of the elevator and inside his flat?” the first one complained.

Eliott almost snorted, and if he had been in the mood for conversation, he would have probably told them that they were fucking spoiled. Back when he moved in, the elevator was out of order, which had been a real pain in the ass to move everything up to the fifth floor — Sofiane and Idriss kept insisting that as long as the amount of years he had spent in his flat didn’t equal the number of floors they had to go through, they would never be even.

Oh fuck no, he thought.

That meant he had five goddamn flights of stairs to go through before crashing onto his bed.

Just what he needed.

“So following your logic,” the third one, a blond guy with glasses, chimed in, “Lucas should be here, dealing with the heavy shit, while you’re randomly shoving everything in his living-room until we can’t even open the door.”

“Exactly!” the first one exclaimed, then he met the look of his two friends. “Wait no- Not exactly but-”

“I can’t believe he’s allowed to vote,” the guy with the glasses muttered with a loud sigh, “congrats Baz, you made me lose faith in the democratic system.”

The fact that he threw his hands up in the air as he talked, and that the bed base once again threatened to fall to the ground under his other friend’s protests, offered enough of a distraction for Eliott to reach the stairs without having to go through a conversation he had no emotional interest in.

The pressure of being one among a million other people was nothing compared to the pressure of being known from everyone in a small town. Eliott was fine with being lost in the crowd, especially in a town where people considered it a flaw to be over-sympathetic; that was definitely something he could get behind. It was easy to just coexist with other people without seeking any further contact with them than a polite nod whenever they let you use the elevator with them, or when they held you the door out of habit rather than politeness — that made for less people asking annoying stuff from you when you couldn’t deal with it. He scrambled his way up through the floors, occasionally reminding himself that he could go through the last two flights of stairs without puking. It wasn’t exactly easy, considering that going through the mess that was the fourth floor gave him the impression of being the character of an online platform game. When he made it there, the technological wonder that was an elevator had managed to get the bed base up the fourth floor before him.

Eliott heard a grunt before he actually saw anything, then he saw the bed base move before he saw the person behind it. A boy was pestering to himself, sliding between the bed base and the wall of the elevator to try pulling it out from the outside, rather than pushing it out from the inside. The frame made an agonizing screeching sound that reverberated through the whole building and had Eliott wincing, but the guy had apparently made peace with every single living soul hating him because he didn’t stop — only slowing down as the meters added to the actual weight of the object. Eliott liked to think of himself as someone at least more observant than most, but it didn’t take a genius to know that the number of smaller boxes waiting by the front door was multiplying the number of chances for something bad to happen.

And as Murphy’s law stated so well, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

The guy walking backward didn’t get to see the box near his foot until he tripped over it, letting out a ‘fuck’ as he lost his balance and the bed base toppled over him with a loud, metallic sound. It took Eliott an extra-second to get in motion — really, it wasn’t like shit like this happened every day. The guy was struggling to get out of what looked ridiculously like a wooden cage all of a sudden.

“You okay?”, Eliott enquired, startling him.

“Never been better,” he gritted out.

Eliott smirked to himself and leaned forward to grab the slats and lift the bed base off, before sliding it up against the wall while the guy was laboriously rising up on his feet.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, rubbing his forearm. “I guess some people don’t get the point of teaming up to get shit done faster.”

Eliott cocked an eyebrow. “Let me guess, the other three downstairs are yours?”

“There might be no more than me at the end of the day if they keep up like that.”

Sassy, Eliott noted. He liked it. For the first time he was actually indulging in a little bit of staring. Not much. The barest minimum, really. First of all, despite having been told him countless times that he looked younger than his 26 years old, he had troubles believing that this guy was an actual grown-up, but maybe it had to do with the fact that he was rather short, or the way his hair seemed disheveled beyond repair — and, again, Eliott knew a stuff or two about messy hair. What caught his attention was the two, big blue eyes suddenly staring back at him.

Wide.

And blue.

Very, very blue.

A very dark shade, one of those that even Photoshop had no trouble making pop — which didn’t happen often. Call it a professional quirk, but it was a nice thing to see. There was a bit of an awkward silence, only broken when the elevator dinged behind them, offering Eliott enough of a distraction for his brain to fall back into place, and preferably out of the gutter before he started overanalyzing the wonders that his skinny jeans made to his lower body.

“See? I told you he would be just fine,” the voice of one of the three guys from the hall echoed behind them. “Our Lulu is the best.”

Suddenly the big blue eyes were not focused on him anymore, and Eliott didn’t know how to feel about it. He was just awkwardly standing now, caught between people he didn’t even know fifteen minutes before. That wasn’t the definition of how he wanted to spend his Saturday morning riding out his hangover.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I almost died!”, Blue Eyes protested.

“I told you this would happen,” another one muttered.

Eliott shook his head to himself, and started to retreat towards the staircase while they were busy throwing insults at each other.

Maybe Sofiane was right.

Maybe he was too old for this shit — whatever that was.

#skam france #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #elu #elu fic #mine #*#*skm #my fics

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stillthewordgirl · 5 years

Text

CaptainCanary fic: With Eyes Wide Open (ch. 2 of ?)

In a world where Rip Hunter never formed the Legends, Leonard Snart is trying to mend his ways and work with Team Flash, though sometimes it’s easier than others. Meanwhile, Sara Lance is gradually dealing with the blood lust left behind by the Pit and trying to get used to being a hero again herself. When they encounter each other one day in Central City, it seems like a match that just might be meant to be.

But nothing with these two is ever easy.

This is going to be an accidental pregnancy fic, one in which both contributors to said pregnancy decide to continue their relationship and do their best with it. If you don’t like such things, be warned.

It’s not mentioned in the first two chapters, though. Just setting the stage.

Many thanks to Pir8grl! Can also be read here at AO3 and here at FF.net.

About a week later

Laurel Lance, Black Canary (retired) and district attorney, is quite thoroughly focused on some papers on her desk when her sister breezes into her office, a smile on her lips and a light in her eyes that hasn’t been there in a very long time.

“C’mon, it’s a gorgeous day. Your baby sister is taking you to lunch,” she informs Laurel, who blinks at her in surprise. “You work too much.”

Laurel laughs a little, reaching out for her cane and getting to her feet. “OK! OK!” She pauses a moment, studying Sara. “When did you get back in town? Last I knew you were still in Central.”

But Sara’s out the door already, and all Laurel can do is follow her.

They go to a café down the street, the sort of place that’s all about local ingredients and many vegan alternatives—not usually Sara’s sort of place at all, but she says breezily that she thought Laurel might like it. They get sandwiches and drinks, and Laurel takes a sip of her fancy blueberry lemonade while studying her sister’s face.

Sara, taking a bite of her sandwich, catches her at it. “You’re staring,” she points out after a moment. “Are you OK? Sorry, I know I should have called…”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Laurel shakes her head. “Sara. You just seem a little…you seem more…”

Her sister, taking another bite of her lunch, rolls her eyes. “I’m fine,” she manages when she can speak again. “A little what?”

“Different. In a good way.” Laurel picks up her own sandwich, pauses. Wonders if she should bring it up.

“You know,” she says tentatively, “Iris did call me…”

Sara rolls her eyes, taking a drink of her iced tea. “Gossip.”

“She was concerned about you.” Laurel takes a bit, chews thoughtfully. “Does this…good mood…of yours have to do with the crook?”

It wasn’t, she thinks, so much that Iris hadn’t trusted this Leonard Snart than that she’d just been very curious about the way the two had hit it off and how Sara had vanished with him—and that she’d known all too well what kind of trouble their combined skill set could cause. All Laurel had been able to do was say that they hadn’t heard from Sara, and no news was probably good news.

(Predictably, that hadn’t set well with Iris.)

Sara smirks at her, clearly unrepentant. “Reformed crook,” she corrects. “And no.” But then she glances down at her plate a moment, thoughtful. Laurel waits. Her sister’s expression seems more reflective than anything else, maybe as though she’s starting to see herself through an outside lens

“Or…not just,” she admits, finally, picking up a stray piece of tomato from the plate. Then she looks up at Laurel, and the other woman sucks in a quick breath at the look in her eyes.

“He gets it, Laurel,” Sara says quietly. “In a way the rest of you don’t, no matter how hard you try. What it’s like to try to…to come back from where I’ve been, to try to fit in with the side of the angels after all I’ve done.”

Laurel wants to try to argue, to say that she gets it too, or she’s trying, but something in Sara’s voice stops her.

“Is this…serious?” she asks carefully.

Sara hesitates just a fraction of an instant, so briefly that anyone besides Laurel probably wouldn’t have noticed. Then she laughs, a sound that’s deliberately casual to Laurel’s ear, and smiles at her.

“No,” she says, looking into her tea. “Of course not. But I’m enjoying it.” Another brief pause. “He…he makes me feel alive, Laurel.”

Sara continues, tone lightening even as Laurel digests those amazing words, delivered from the sister who’d been dead and then alive but soulless. “And the sex is amazing.”

Laurel gets the picture and throws up her hands, laughing and choosing not to pursue the matter. “Too much information!” she declares, throwing a napkin at Sara, who throws it back. “OK. You moving to Central?”

Again, a very slight hesitation. Then: “No,” Sara says, but not like she’s truly sure about it. “No. But I promised to be around more often, help out Team Flash.” She picks up her sandwich again. “It’s nice to be somewhere a little different. And I’m sure you won’t mind having your apartment to yourself a little more.”

And the Leonard Snart portion of the conversation is clearly done.

Leonard is…content. Even…happy?

Is that a word that’s ever really applied to him? He’s not sure. He’s been proud, been smug, been relaxed or pleased or focused or energized by a successful heist.

Happy? That’s for kids. Some kids, anyway, not the children of Lewis Snart.

But.

He thinks that right now, he is. Happy. How odd.

He and Sara hadn’t left his apartment for three days, in part because they were enjoying themselves—and in part because the increasingly curious and appalled messages on their whereabouts and activities from Team Flash were amusing. Then they did emerge, to get food and fresh air, but they didn’t tell the others just yet.

Leonard took great pleasure in showing Sara parts of his city for a day or two. They had lunch at the waterfront. They visited the museum, legally this time, taking a look at the jewelry exhibit they’d avoided during their nighttime excursion. (The head of security, looking profoundly nervous, shadowed them the entire time, to Leonard’s great amusement.) They watched the stars from the rooftop of the apartment building.

Then they visited STAR Labs. It’d been quite amusing to stroll into the Cortex with Sara and see Cisco Ramon turn multiple different colors as he stared at them.

The rest of Team Flash had been seemingly determined not to ask. Or stare. Or even allude to their clear suspicion that Sara and Leonard had hooked up. And were, as far as they knew, still hooking up.

Which they were, of course. But letting the others wonder was even more fun than confirming anything.

After about a week, Sara heads back to Star City to check in with friends and family--and, she makes a point of noting (a question in her voice) to grab a few more changes of clothing. They dance around the topic a little before she confirms that she’d like to return to Central, and to continue staying with him a bit, maybe in a few weeks.

And while Leonard waits for her to return, there’s nothing that says he can’t continue to torment Team Flash a bit more.

“Iris!” he drawls as he saunters back into the cortex one day, just after quashing an attempted robbery at Central City Bank (amateurs, they could have hurt someone), and seeing Barry’s wife sitting behind one of the computers, apparently alone. “Greetings. Excellent article on those mystery donations to the mayor’s campaign. Well done.”

Iris looks up at him, and Leonard stops in his tracks. It’s fairly usual for him to needle her about her articles (his words are actually quite sincere, but for some reason, Iris rarely takes them as such, so he’s not above using that), but these days, he doesn’t usually get that kind of death glare.

There’s a noise from the side, and Leonard glances over, too, to see Caitlin—in her Killer Frost guise—ghosting out from the corridor. Her eyes are chilly—no pun intended, for once—and her expression is just as serious as Iris’.

Leonard spreads his hands out before him, unwilling to take a step back despite a certain hindbrain instinct telling him to do so, and glances around.

“Ladies,” he says smoothly. “I’m not sure what I’ve done lately to earn this…rather drastic amount of ire…but, please, tell me.” He waits a beat. “I’ll try to make amends.”

Iris studies him a long moment, then nods. She taps the pen she’s holding against the desk. “Tell me, Snart,” she says shortly. “What are your intentions?”

Leonard stares at her, then glances at Caitlin/Frost, whose expression doesn’t give him any hints, then back at Iris.

“What?” he asks a bit blankly.

“Toward Sara,” Caitlin tells him, moving closer. “She’s been back in Star a few days now. And her sister called Iris.”

Iris continues to study him like he’s a bug she found on the floor. “Confirmed a few suspicions,” she adds. “So, we felt the need to…have a talk.”

Ah. “You’re getting all protective of the former assassin?” he asks, trying for joking, knowing it doesn’t quite work. “Really?”

“Yes. Yes, we are,” Caitlin tells him fiercely, stepping toward him. (Leonard resists the urge to back up again.) “Because she’s been through a lot and she doesn’t need you deciding to…to…steal her heart like it’s some kind of piece of jewelry, just for the fun of it.”

His chin goes up at the remark, indignation stirring at the very idea. “I wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t you?” Iris asks drily.

“No!” Leonard takes a deep breath as both women stare at him, apparently a little surprised by his vehemence.

Crap. He’s going to have to talk about…feelings…just to get them off his back. And, to be honest, because he’s slightly pleased by how protective they are of Sara, he finds he really does want to reassure them.

So, he looks up and meets Iris’ eyes, then looks at Caitlin, trying to look sincere, uncertain how well he’s doing at that.

“Look. I don’t talk about this crap,” he tells them. “But I’m not trying to…steal anything, and I have no intention of hurting her. I…” He stops. Considers. “We’re having fun. This isn’t some…deathless romance or anything ridiculous like that.”

Or is it? But he’s sure as hell not telling them that.

Iris tilts her head at him. “No? Sara’s sister’s concerned,” she tells him. “Says she hasn’t seen Sara this happy in a long time.”

The words bring a rush of…something. Leonard feels his lips curve a little at the thought, though he immediately tries to scowl again, narrowing his eyes at Iris.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” he asks.

Iris starts to retort, but Caitlin, who’s been watching, holds up a hand. They both glance at her, and Leonard’s struck by how serious she looks, how intently she’s watching him.

“It is,” she says slowly, still watching, “if you’re not going to treat it carelessly—or vice versa, of course. Because you are too, aren’t you? Happy, I mean. With Sara.”

Iris makes a noise, but Leonard considers Caitlin for a few moments. What had she seen that led to this question?

But… “I am,” he tells her quietly. Not ready to say more.

Caitlin nods, then glances at Iris. The other woman looks uncertain for a moment, then sighs.

“Don’t hurt her, Snart,” she threatens, pointing the pen at him. “I swear…”

Leonard glares back at her.

“I can tell you that I won’t do so intentionally,” he says a bit stiffly. “Now, can we please not tell Ramon or Barry about this conversation? I do have an image to maintain.”

“What’s it worth to you?” Iris flings back, but she does smirk a little. Leonard nods once, then turns to go…and runs right into his sister, who’d apparently entered while he and Iris were enacting their stare down.

Or maybe she’s been here longer than that. Because Lisa’s staring at him with a look he can’t quite read, uncertainty and disbelief and an odd anger in her eyes. And finally, Leonard does take a step back as he’s faced with that look.

Lisa advances a step, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t know Sara Lance well,” she tells him, tone low and intent. “But if you hurt her, if you do anything, anything at all that reminds me of…of Lewis…”

Now, that stings. Leonard starts to retort, but Lisa pokes him in the chest with a finger, making him step back again. And again.

“I. Will. Geld. You,” she says, enunciating every word. “I swear to god. We’re finally making something good here, and if you hurt that…all because you couldn’t keep it in your pants…”

What the hell? “What on Earth makes you think that I would ever…” Leonard responds heatedly, only for Lisa to turn abruptly and stalk back out. Caitlin gives him a helpless look and follows her, and Leonard turns to look at Iris.

Who looks just about as confused as he feels.

Sara intends to stay a few weeks in Star City before heading back to Central, but after only a week or so, she gets bored.

At least, that’s her story. It’s even somewhat true. But in reality, she also misses a crook…former crook… who just so happens to live in that other city.

Misses his snarky sense of humor. Misses the gleam in those amazing blue eyes. Misses that deep well of intelligence and compassion he tries to hide. Misses the instinctive understanding they’d shared.

And misses the incredible sex. Yeah, that too.

It seems to be a good idea to have transportation of her own, now, so Sara buys a new motorcycle, something sleek and with decent gas mileage, on a bit of a whim, throws some clothing in a backpack, and heads out toward Central again. She feels a little guilty for merely leaving Laurel and her father a voicemail before doing so, but…she’s an adult. And her dad doesn’t need to know about Leonard. Not yet, anyway.

She’s trying not to think much about introducing the two, and under what circumstances that might happen. She’s telling herself this is an entertaining fling, that’s all. Something to help her feel human again. Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Sara stops partway there to grab a bite to eat and call Leonard, belatedly thinking that he might have other things going on. Maybe he’s even out of town himself? Still, Caitlin will undoubtedly let her crash there, and even if…

Leonard answers the phone on the second ring, with a seemingly pleased and enticingly low “Sara?” He listens to her tentative questions about his location, confirming that he’s still in Central, and then as she tries to find a tactful way of admitting that she’s on her way back weeks earlier than planned.

But his response, quite frankly, is all she could have hoped for.

Fortunately, no one pulls her over on the rest of the way into Central, despite the new land-speed record she may well have set. Leonard meets her at the door to the apartment, his mouth on hers immediately as she drops her bag and kicks it out of the way, reaching up to put a hand on either side of his face. His hands land on her hips, steering her inside as he nudges the door shut behind them.

Afterward, Sara dozes while stretched out beside him, apparently tired from her drive from Star City in addition to their activities. Leonard, head propped on his arm, watches her rest, feeling a little creepy about it although he really doesn’t want to get up and leave. He can’t help thinking over the little “shovel talk” Iris and Caitlin had given him, and Lisa’s addition, which had apparently surprised them all.

He can understand Iris and Caitlin. Sara’s their friend, and while they’ve allowed him into Team Flash as he’s turned his coat and started helping, there’s still a small thread of uncertainty there. But Lisa…

The reference to Lewis…it still stings, badly, but Leonard’s more interested in figuring out where on Earth it’d come from. Lisa knows perfectly well that he’d hated the man every bit as much as she did and probably more—hell, Leonard was the one who’d killed him, and he has no regrets.

So why is his sister, with whom his relationship is as good as it’s ever been as adults, suddenly comparing him to Lewis?

“We’re finally making something good here, and if you hurt that…all because you couldn’t keep it in your pants…”

Lewis…Lewis had liked women, Leonard thought, mostly as toys and possessions, never as people in their own right. Leonard had tried to keep Lisa from seeing that too much of that, and frankly, Lewis had found the company of a small girl (and then a teenager) too irritating to spend much time around her. (All the better to help Leonard keep her safe, at least.)

But now, he had to wonder how much she’d absorbed of how the elder Snart had treated women. Enough to think that the younger one would do the same? Even though he’d never treated his sister that way?

He glances away from Sara, sleeping, gorgeous, badass, smart, funny Sara. Even thinking about Lewis in her presence is disturbing.

No, Leonard had never treated Lisa that way. But Lisa had never seen her brother with a significant other, not of any gender. The few more serious relationships he’s had never became established enough for him to introduce anyone to her.

He sighs, eyes on Sara, tempted to reach out and trace his fingers down the line of her spine as she sleeps, resisting because he doesn’t want to wake her. She looks peaceful. He should let her have that.

There’s Mick…but Mick is something else entirely. Both of them have always flinched away from defining anything (partner, brother, soulmate of sorts...). Leonard still flinches away from the thought, especially now, when whatever their relationship is might never recover from his “hero” turn. It’s never been physical, but that doesn’t mean it’s not...wasn’t...oh, hell.

At any rate, Lisa seems to think that if her brother’s with a woman on a more serious basis, he’s going to revert to Lewis behavior. Which is disturbing on so many levels, and probably speaks a lot about her strange, on-again, off-again relationship with Ramon, but that’s not particularly something he wants to think about.

Not until he has to, anyway.

When Sara wakes, relaxed and refreshed, she stretches slowly as she remembers where she is. The sheets, gray flannel, smell like Leonard’s scent of pine and mint, and she turns her face into them, breathing in deeply and smiling. He’s not there at the moment, but she can hear the faint sound of someone moving around out in the main area of the apartment. The noises are slow and unhurried; there’s nothing untoward going on.

This is the closest any place has felt to home in a while, she thinks suddenly, surprised at herself. And she’s known this man all of...what, two weeks? And for one of those, she’d been back in Star City.

But Laurel’s apartment, where she’s been staying, is fine, but...it’s Laurel’s, not Sara’s, not really. They have completely different styles, completely different preferences for their surroundings and just about everything else. Sara hasn’t wanted to get her own place, though, not until she figures out what she’s doing next, and Laurel says she doesn’t mind, but...

She’s thinking too much.

One of Leonard’s T-shirts is big enough to hit her mid-thigh. Sara ambles out of the bedroom, stretching again, glancing around to see Leonard perched at the counter between the apartment’s small kitchen and the living room. He looks up from the book he’s reading and Sara smiles to see the reading glasses he’s wearing. They seem a bit incongruous on the badass, larger-than-life Captain Cold, but just right on Leonard Snart, the man with hidden depths.

And they look pretty hot on him, too.

Leonard’s gaze is appreciative as she strolls toward him, and he puts his book down and turns toward her, eyes lingering on the hem of the shirt before slowly lifting to her face. Sara stops just within reach, and his hands settle on her hips, thumbs stroking gently through the soft and slightly worn gray fabric.

“ Evenin’,” he says, studying her expression, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “Rested up?”

“Evening?” Sara glances at the clock, then, disbelieving, out a window. “Ugh. Didn’t think I’d slept that long.”

“Well. You were…worn out.” The words are a purr, and Sara, grinning, leans forward to kiss him--an activity that could very well have led them both right back to bed if Leonard hadn’t pulled away after a moment. She makes a noise of slight disappointment, but mostly in jest, and they regard each other in silence a moment with all the slight awkwardness of any new…well, whatever this is.

Finally, Leonard clears his throat. “You sticking around a bit?” he asks, glancing away momentarily. “I mean. Not just today. You’re welcome to…I’d like you to.”

Yeah, they’re both feeling their way through this. Sara nods. “I’d like to, too,” she confirms slowly, watching him. “I was a bit bored in Star…” Oh, that’s great, Lance, make it sound like he’s just the lesser of two evils. “…and I missed you.”

And that makes her sound like a stalker. Sara winces, but Leonard simply chuckles, a low, amused sound, though something deeper, she thinks, flickers in his eyes for a moment.

“Missed you too,” he admits, and it’s both a confession and a statement of…surprise? Wonder? “Though…you should know…”

His voice trails off, and Sara sees a spark of mischief in his eyes. “…your friends gave me a sort of ‘shovel talk’ a few days back,” he concludes, looking through his eyelashes—those totally unfair eyelashes—at her. “So, I’m hoping you might talk ‘em down a little. I like portions of my anatomy unfrozen, thank you very much.”

Sara blinks. “Who…” Wait, frozen? “Caitlin?”

“And Iris.” Leonard smirks at her. “Those ladies are scary,” he informs her, leaning back against the counter. “But I promised I would…” A pause. “…behave myself. In some senses of the phrase, anyway.”

It’s pretty obvious he’s leaving some things out, but Sara decides not to address that. (Though she makes a mental note to yell at Iris and Caitlin later.) Instead, she simply smirks back. “Not too much, I hope.”

“Of course not.” Another pause. “Your sister apparently called them…”

Laurel. Of course. Sara lets out an aggravated breath. “I told her…”

“No.” Leonard’s voice is quiet. “Apparently, she told them…that you were happy.”

Sara stares at him. “Isn’t that a good thing?” she asks, finally.

Something about the question makes him smile again. She gets a one-shouldered Snart shrug in response, and another one of those glances from underneath his eyelashes. “That’s what I said. And they ultimately agreed. Just told me to make sure it stays that way.”

Amusement wars with mortification. “Oh.” Sara waits a beat, then puts a hand over her face. “I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

After a moment, she hears Leonard chuckle again. “Oh, don’t do that,” he says, as she feels his hands close around her shoulders. “They mean well. I think. Mostly.”

“Still.” Sara growls, frustrated. “They need to mind their own damned business.”

She feels his huff of laughter stir her hair. “It’s good to have people who care.”

Sara’s about to retort with something snarky again, but there’s something… She tilts her head back just a little and sees the fleeting look of…is it sadness?...there.

“Don’t you?” she asks quietly, before she can think better of it.

There’s another flicker and then he’s smirking at her again, like she’d never seen the melancholy. Had she really?

“Well,” Leonard drawls, looking down at her, “do I care?” Pause. “I do my best.”

Sara starts to poke him in the chest and tell him that’s not what she meant…but then he’s kissing her again, and she loses the thought entirely.

The next day, Team Flash requests assistance from Leonard, as talk in the city has a new wannabe crime lord planning a strike at local financial institutions. As their resident “former” crook, he’s asked (pretty, pretty please) to help them figure out how and where that strike might come, and to help find ways to stop it without bloodshed.

Sara goes with him. They don’t make a big deal of it. As they enter STAR Labs, she promptly crosses the room to talk to Iris; there’s no hand-holding, PDA, or fanfare. But Barry’s face is still red as he explains the situation to the smirking Leonard, and while the color fades as they discuss the issue and Leonard offers very cool, analytical advice, the new…situation…is clearly still on his mind.

Finally, the speedster just can’t help it. He clears his throat, color rising on his face again as Leonard glances at him, but he doesn’t look away.

“So…you and Sara Lance...”

Leonard snorts in amusement. “This better not be another shovel talk,” he says drily.

“No…what? Another?” Barry blinks, then shakes his head. “Um. No.” He clears his throat again. “You’re…uh…a thing?”

“A thing?” Leonard keeps his tone as dry as dust, throttling down the laugh that wants to escape. “Seriously, Allen? Are you gonna ask us if we’re…what, goin’ steady?...next?”

Barry glares at him, but it’s spoiled by the continuing pinkness of his cheeks. It’s really rather cute, Leonard thinks, letting an actual grin touch his lips.

But the speedster doubles down. “Um. No. But…Iris thought…uh.” He rubs his neck self-consciously. “She said…she thought you liked guys.”

Oh, ho. This is too good to leave alone. Leonard gives Barry one of those looks from under his lashes, smirking as the other man blushes even more, although he’ll give Barry credit—he doesn’t back down.

“Ooh,” he drawled, considering his erstwhile nemesis with a widening smirk. “I really don’t…limit myself in that way.”

If possible, Barry turns even redder. “Um. You like both?”

“Barry, Barry. Really? Falling prey to the whole gender binary? How very…restrictive…”

Fortunately for the speedster’s well-being—at least at that moment—Sara chuckles from behind him. “Stop toying with him, Len,” she says, moving smoothly around to sidle up to her lover, leaning in close. “Unless you’re gonna put your money where your mouth is.”

The innuendo is not accidental. Oh, he lov….really likes this woman. Leonard tosses her a grin, keeping his eyes on the nearly incandescent Barry. “I don’t think Iris would like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Barry turns then, mouth dropping open as his wife approaches them all. Iris’ smirk is comparable, Leonard thinks, to his. Oh, this is entertainment.

She winks at him. “That could be fun.”

Barry makes a sound like air leaving an inflated balloon. Sara, obviously gleeful at playing along, lowers her eyelashes at Iris. “Yeah?” she asks.

Iris leers back, just a moment…and then breaks it by giggling. “It’s OK, Barry,” she says, patting him on the arm. “We’re messing with you.” A pause. “Mostly. I don’t know about Snart.”

Leonard shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t poach.” He winks at Iris. “Not without permission.”

The smile she gives him is genuine. “Sorry. He’s mine.”

So is his response. “Lucky man.”

“And woman,” Sara chimes in, leaning against Leonard’s arm—possessively? Yes, possessively. Huh. He kinda likes it.

Barry decides to try to take control of the situation back then, at least a little. “Yes,” he says, speaking up, putting his arm around his wife. “Lucky. Both of us.”

But he’s looking at Sara and Leonard too. And really, Leonard can’t argue.

So he doesn’t.

Sara can’t stop grinning.

She’s happy. She’s actually freaking happy, for one of the first times in...how long? Too long, really, she thinks, watching the newly arrived Harrison Wells argue with Leonard about some sort of anti-crime tech as Caitlin tries to play referee and Cisco, watching, keeps egging them on. Barry and Iris are having some sort of low-voiced conversation not far away, but they’re both smiling, and things appear to be just fine.

Just fine.

She has a place here. She has the blood lust at least under control, at least for the moment. Has a lover with whom she is very well-matched. And while she’s not yet sure what the future will hold...well. Who ever really is?

Yes, Sara thinks contentedly, leaning against a desk and taking a sip of her coffee. Life is good.

Just then, she catches a whisper of noise and a flicker of movement to the side, and she turns her head just in time to see a familiar brown-haired woman stop in her tracks, staring at the scene ahead of her. Then she glances at Sara, freezes—and then whips around to leave the way she’d started to enter.

It takes Sara just a beat to decide follow her.

“Hey! Lisa!” She picks up her pace a little to catch Leonard’s sister as she hurries down the hallway, wondering why the rapid exit. The other woman starts to speed up, then just...slows and stops as she approaches the door, as if she realizes Sara’s not going to quit. She turns as Sara slows too, a curiously still expression on her face.

Sara extends a hand, smiling at her. “I don’t think we’ve really been formally introduced, but I’m...”

“I know who you are,” Lisa Snart says in a low voice, watching Sara from out of the corner of her eye. “You’re the fool who’s messing around with my jerk brother. And you’re going to regret it.”

That’s...not any sort of reaction she’d expected. “Excuse me?”

It doesn’t seem to be a threat, not really...Lisa’s tone is more matter-of-fact, maybe a little sad. But as Sara stares at her, grasping for a response, the younger Snart’s demeanor changes, as if she’s putting on a façade, not so unlike the shell of ice her brother wears when he doesn’t want the world to see what he’s really thinking. (Or even more, feeling.)

“That’s what Snarts do,” she says, faux-lightly, tossing her head and smirking at Sara, an expression that seems to be holding a whole lot more behind its practiced heedlessness. “We hurt people. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes even when we don’t mean to. Doesn’t matter, though. We hurt them anyway. You’ll learn.”

Sara finds her voice. “Your brother...

But Lisa Snart is gone, vanished out the door. And Sara can do nothing but stare after her, wondering what all that was about.

#with eyes wide open #captain canary #the flash #legends of tomorrow #sara x leonard

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yobaba30 · 5 years

Text

~ Tim Wise

1/ If the Dems blow this election it will not be because they were "too far left on policy" or because they "weren't left enough." It will have little to do with policy at all. They are making a mistake caused by traditional consultant theory that does not apply here...

2/ And by listening to influential pundits in liberal media who also don't get the unique nature of Trumpism, relative to normal political movements & campaigns...this election is NOT going to be won by talking about all your "great plans" for health care, jobs, education, etc..

3/ And the reasons are several...Let me begin by saying that I have experience confronting the kind of phenomenon we see in Trumpism, and far more than most. Any of us who were involved in the fight against David Duke in LA in 90/91 know what this is and how it must be fought...

4/ So before explaining what the Dems are doing wrong right now, a little history...In 1990, white supremacist David Duke ran for U.S. Senate in LA, and in 1991 for Governor. He lost both times but both times he won the majority of the white vote (60 and 55% respectively)...

5/ I was one of the staffers of the main anti-Duke PAC at the time & ultimately became Assistant Director. In 90, even though our Director Lance Hill, myself & a few of our founders wanted to focus on Duke's bigotry, ties to extremists and appeals to white racial resentment...

6/ ...after all, that WAS the issue--it was a moral struggle against racism--we had mainstream Democratic consultants who warned us against focusing too much on it. They said that "played into Duke's hands" and allowed him to set the agenda....

7/ So sure, we could discuss his ties to Nazis & such, but we shouldn't make a big deal out of his contemporary racist appeals, per se, bc "lots of voters agree" with those appeals...they even encouraged us to talk about utterly superfluous shit like Duke paying his taxes late..

8/ Or Duke avoiding service in Vietnam, or Duke writing a sex manual under a female pseudonym (yeah he did that)...although Lance held firm that we needed to talk mostly about racism, we did end up talking about some of that other stuff too, sadly...

9/ I say "sadly" because doing that normalized Duke as a regular candidate. Attacking his generic character or bill paying habits (or even discussing his inadequate plans for job creation, etc) treated him like a normal candidate. But he was/is a NAZI...

10/ And none of his voters were voting 4 him bc of jobs, or tax policy or support for term limits, etc. And none were going to turn on him over late tax payments, Vietnam, etc. Indeed throwing that stuff out there & downplaying the elephant in the room (racism) seemed desperate..

11/ It allowed people to say "well if he's really this racist, white supremacist, why are they talking about all this other stuff?" It actually undermined our ability to paint him as the extremist he was/is. And as a result, the threat he posed was not clear enough to voters...

12/ And this didn't just allow him to get votes he might not have gotten otherwise; it also depressed turnout among people who almost certainly disliked him but didn't think he could win or would be all that big a deal if he did. In fact I recall convos with "liberals"...

13/ ...Who said they weren't going 2 vote bc after all Duke's Dem opponent was just a shill for the oil and gas industry, and that was just as bad, blah blah fucking blah...because some lefties can't tell the difference between corporatist assholes and actual literal Nazis...

14/ But we bore some responsibility for that because we got suckered into playing this conventional game and "not playing into his narrative." Anyway, Duke gets 60% of the vote, black and white liberal turnout is lower than it should have been and Duke gets 44% of vote...

15/ In the Governor's race we dispensed w/ all that bullshit. We talked about Duke's ongoing Nazism and the moral/practical evil of his racist appeals. We discussed how that moral evil would have real world consequences (driving tourists and business away, rightly so, from LA)..

16/ Because it was wrong, and it was not who we wanted to be, and it was not who were were. We were better than that and needed to show the rest of the country that...

17/ Now, did this flip any of Duke's 1990 voters? Nah, not really. Indeed he got 65k MORE votes in the Governor's race than the Senate race. But it was never about flipping them. We knew that would be almost impossible...

18/ To flip Duke voters would require that they accept the fact that they had previously voted for a monster, and people are loath to do that. Our goal was not to flip them, but to DRIVE UP TURNOUT among the good folks, many of whom stayed home in 90...

19/ And that is what happened. The concerted effort of the anti-Duke forces (not just us), challenging Duke's "politics of prejudice," and making the election about what kind of state we wanted to be, drove turnout through the roof...

20/ 28,000+ registered on one day alone, between the initial election and runoff (which Duke made bc of the state's open primary system), with tens of thousands more overall: most of them, anti-Duke folks...

21/ When it was over, Duke had gotten 65k more votes than in 90, but his white share went to 55 (from 60) and overall to 39 (from 44) because the anti-Duke turnout swamped him...So what does this have to do with 2020 and Trump? Do I really need to explain it?...

22/ First, trying to flip Trump voters is a waste of time. Any of them who regret their vote don't need to be pandered to. They'll do the right thing. Don't focus on them. That said, very few will regret their vote. They cannot accept they voted for a monster or got suckered...

23/ Duke retained 94% of the folks he got the first time out (and got new people too), as Trump likely will. So forget these people--or at least don't wast time tailoring messages to them. And policy plans for affordable college don't mean shit to them, nor health care...

24/ Their support for Trump was never about policy. It was about the bigotry, the fact that he hates who they hate...Second, as for the "undecideds." ...Not many of these but seriously? If you're still undecided at this point about this guy...

25/ Then there is almost no way to know what would get you to make up your mind...I doubt it's a plan to deal with Wall Street though, or infrastructure, or tax policy...

26/ If anything, I would say crafting an argument that this is an existential crisis for the nation--and making it about Trump's bigotry and who we want to be as a country, would be far more effective in inspiring them to make up their minds...

27/ And what I know for a FACT is that this message--that Trumpism is a threat to everything we care about and love about this country--is what will inspire the Dem base to vote...and THAT is what this election is about...

28/ I'm not saying the Dems don't need policy ideas, but focusing on wonky, look-how-much-I've-thought about-this stuff is not going to move the needle in 2020...

29/ What the left never understands is: we need to stop approaching elections like the goddamned debate team, and start approaching it like the right does, like the cheer leading squad...

30/ The right knows psychology and we know public policy and sociology...great. The latter does not win elections...

31/ People who say the Dems should ignore Trump's race baiting because its some genius political strategy calculated to distract us, are idiots. He is no genius. And if you downplay it you NORMALIZE him. If you make this about policy, you NORMALIZE him. He is a racist...

32/ He is a white nationalist.

He is an authoritarian.

He and his cult are a threat to the future of the nation and world because of their hatreds.

His movement betrays the country's promise.

THAT is the message that will drive turnout. Not debates over marginal tax rates...

33/ Or how we are going to fund schools...And anyone who says we should ignore the race baiting to talk more about Mueller and Russia is an even bigger fool...that's like talking about Duke and late tax payments or other corruptions...it might all be true but is not the point...

34/ Not to say the House shouldn't impeach over that stuff. They should. But the 2020 candidates must craft a message that is not about that.

Trumpism is the threat to America, more than Putin.

And Putin didn't birth Trumpism.

Conservative White America did...

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raywritesthings · 6 years

Text

Wrong Road to the Right Place 7/?

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Oliver Queen, Laurel Lance, Quentin Lance, John Diggle, Thea Queen, Moira Queen, Joanna de la Vega Pairings: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Laurel finds herself curious about the marks Oliver showed her that night in his bedroom - and the tattoo on his left shoulder stands out in particular. When she discovers its meaning, she finds herself questioning everything she knows about the man she doesn’t want to admit she still loves. AO3 link

John was pretty sure this plan had about fifty different ways it could blow up in Oliver’s face. But it wasn’t easy to reason with a man in love.

Laurel was worried about Oliver, so Oliver was trying to do what he could to keep her from worrying. That part, John didn’t so much have a problem with. Truthfully, Oliver’s concern and care for the people he loved was one of the few things that convinced him he hadn’t totally cracked on that island.

The problem was he was going about it all wrong.

Where before, Oliver might have seen Laurel once a week or so, now he was scheduling regular meetups. Lunch, coffee. No dinners yet though that probably had more to do with Oliver’s standing nighttime engagement than anything else.

The first time he’d swung by CNRI to make one of those offers John had tagged along, curious to see how Laurel was going to react.

It didn’t disappoint.

“Hey, you got a minute?” Oliver had asked as he drew up to her desk. Before Laurel had had time to turn around let alone reply, he’d plunked a tall paper cup down onto the surface. “I brought coffee.”

Laurel had blinked at it. “You brought coffee to talk for a minute?”

“Well, I thought we could walk around a little bit,” Oliver continued on blithely. “They let you have breaks here, right?”

“Yes, though typically they like more than a second’s notice.” She’d lifted the lid of the cup and peered inside. “Is this an americano?”

“Yeah, four shots with hazelnut. That’s how you drink it, right?”

“I drank those in college when I had to cram for an exam,” Laurel had told him. “I’ll be up until two a.m. if I have this.”

Oliver had looked down at the floor. “Oh.”

Laurel had sent a look John’s way as if trying to ask what this all was about. He hadn’t really been able to answer.

Eventually she’d sighed and looked back to Oliver. “I can probably take a short walk. There’s a coffee place on the next street over.”

Oliver had looked back up, positive energy seemingly restored. “Great. I’ll buy you a new one. Whatever you like now.”

“I have my own wallet,” Laurel had said as she’d gathered up her purse.

Oliver hadn’t pursued the issue. He couldn’t, not without defining whatever this was — a friendly gesture or a date, he had a feeling the man hadn’t really known. Somehow the short walk there hadn’t been awkward. Laurel had asked about the club renovations, and Oliver had asked about the de la Vegas. They’d touched briefly on Thea’s upcoming birthday party and what she was planning to do as an official adult.

“Honestly, I don’t think she has any plans, even for college. That’s probably my fault,” Oliver had said. “I’m not exactly the best role model in that regard.”

“College isn’t for everyone,” Laurel had replied. “Thea just needs to find something she’s passionate about. She’s already got all the connections she could possibly need.”

“Thea’s passions seem to extend to partying and illegal substances,” Oliver had stated bluntly.

“That’s not the only thing she’s been doing while you were gone. You know she was on the archery team for a little bit? Got kicked off for playing hooky too many times, but she was pretty good. And hey,” Laurel had added as Oliver had held the door of the cafe open for her. “I know a guy.”

“That’s not funny,” Oliver had said as John had struggled to disguise his snort as a cough. That had garnered a wink from Laurel and a frown from Oliver, respectively. John had even gotten free coffee out of it when Laurel had looked to him after she’d ordered.

“Just a black coffee for me. Thank you, Miss Lance.”

“It’s Laurel. And it’s the least I could do, really. I never actually thanked you for your help when the Triad broke into my apartment. I got really lucky you and Oliver were there,” she’d added with sidelong glance at Oliver as she sipped her drink. Oliver hadn’t chosen to comment.

John had tailed their walk back at a respectable distance, not trying to listen in. He didn’t know how they had so much to talk about, what with Oliver concealing whole parts of his life and activities. But they seemed to be making do as they’d been out another five times since.

There wasn’t exactly a good way to tell if Laurel had grown less concerned about Oliver in the meantime, though she did send him the occasional questioning look whenever Oliver’s back was turned. If anything, he wondered if Oliver’s sudden increased presence around her was only making her more suspicious.

Any time John tried to bring Oliver around to the idea of just telling Laurel what was really going on, the man found some excuse to head upstairs to the club and talk to Tommy. So John made sure to follow and hover just in Oliver’s line of sight, a silent reminder that he couldn’t run from this for very long.

Today was one of those times. As a discussion about the restoration process wound down, Oliver glanced at his watch.

“I have to go meet Laurel for lunch. Let me know if there’s anything urgent. Oh, Digg,” Oliver added, like he’d only just had the thought. “Feel free to take a lunch break or something. I should be alright for an hour.”

John didn’t dignify it with a response, and Oliver turned and left the club.

“So are they dating now or what?” Tommy Merlyn asked in his direction without actually looking at him. The laugh in his voice was sharp and discordant.

“It’s not really my business, Mr. Merlyn,” John answered. He went downstairs to avoid continuing that talk.

The one thing puzzling him was what had led Laurel to think Oliver was in a bad spot. She clearly didn’t believe he was the Hood. And other than Walter going missing, there wasn’t too much to raise an eyebrow at on the surface.

So the Walter angle. Did she have some kind of information about his disappearance they weren’t privy to? Or was it a wild guess on her part borne of Oliver’s odd behavior the last few months?

Then there was her mentioning a bad crowd her friend had fallen in with. The only person Oliver had been hanging around recently who fit that description was Helena. But it had been a good month and a half since Helena had been in town, so who had Laurel really meant?

She’d been more affected by Oliver’s hospitalization than even his own family. Yet she couldn’t know why he’d really been hospitalized. Or could she? There was obviously something she wasn’t telling Oliver or the Hood, just as Oliver wasn’t telling her the whole truth. They were both just watching the other and waiting.

Whenever that wait was over, John hoped Oliver wouldn’t find he’d ruined a good thing he could’ve had.

—-

She wasn’t really sure what to make of it. Oliver’s seemingly random insistence on spending so much time together might have been a welcome change, if Laurel didn’t know what she did. Since she did, however, she couldn’t help wondering if there was some kind of ulterior motive at play.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a good time with him; they’d always been close even before they’d dated, and truthfully she was always going to like being around Oliver. She certainly didn’t feel as though she was in danger in his company.

And the more he was around her, the less time he had for any sort of Bratva business, so really it was a win-win. Even if she still didn’t know what his status regarding the organization was. Or why they’d taken Mr. Steele and what sort of ultimatum they might have given Oliver to get him back.

Maybe Oliver was seeking her out because he was conflicted. Making that sort of decision, she couldn’t imagine what it had to be like. If her presence gave him some sort of comfort, she wouldn’t begrudge him that. She just wished he’d open up to her, let her actually help him. Not that she had a specific plan in mind.

If she went to her father now, Oliver would be in Iron Heights faster than she could blink. He wouldn’t want to hear any of her arguments about the island and the coercion Oliver must have faced. And that wasn’t even touching on what might happen to Mr. Steele as a result.

Perhaps Oliver’s family was a better option. If Laurel could convince him to talk to his mother, Mrs. Queen might have some idea of how to make a deal with the Bratva to release both Mr. Steele and Oliver. It might cost quite a sum, but if it meant they’d be safe she couldn’t imagine Mrs. Queen wouldn’t do it.

These thoughts loomed large in her mind the night of Thea’s birthday party, but, as seemed to constantly be the case, Laurel was forced to set them aside when disaster struck the Queens again; Thea left her own party while drunk and under the influence of Vertigo and was picked up by the cops after a car accident.

No one had been hurt, but that was where Thea’s luck ran out. Her case was being heard by Judge Brackett, and he was currently running a re-election campaign with a hardline stance on crime. Laurel went to the initial hearing to support Oliver’s family, but she couldn’t see an easy way out of this for Thea.

So she was surprised when Oliver showed up unexpectedly the next morning at her apartment, asking her to see if her dad could pull some strings.

“Laurel, I am working on something on my end, but...if it doesn't work out, this is my best chance to help my sister. Please.”

She did her best to conceal the spike of fear that went through her. Something on his end? What exactly did that entail?

If she knew Oliver at all, she knew he would be willing to do anything for his family, including embroiling himself even deeper in the mafia just to use their resources.

He was waiting on her answer. “I’ll see what I can do,” was the best she could offer. She wanted it to be more, wanted to tell him that it would all be fine and she would take care of it, that he didn’t need to throw himself in harm's way.

“Thank you.” Oliver left her apartment soon after that, and there was something about the set of his shoulders that threw her worrying into hyperdrive. She had to know what he was doing.

Laurel threw on the first clothes she could find overtop of her pajamas and returned to watch through the peephole as the elevator doors shut down the hall, then rushed out of her apartment to the fire door and down the steps. If she could get to her car quick enough…

The door banged against the wall as she raced out of the stairwell and to her parking spot. Laurel started the engine and pulled out of the garage, rounding the building just as Oliver climbed in and shut the passenger door. Mr. Diggle started out into traffic and Laurel followed, making sure to memorize the look and license number of the car in case she needed to put some space between them.

This was crazy. For all she knew, Oliver was going right back home or to the club. She couldn’t follow him and Mr. Diggle around all day. But the further they went the less it looked as if they were headed back to Queen Manor or even the Glades. They were driving towards the warehouse district.

Without taking her eyes off the road, Laurel got her phone out of her purse and dialed.

It was picked up on the third ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Tommy, I need you to do something for me,” she began.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a simple favor?”

“It’s simple on your end. All I’m asking is if I don’t call you back in—” she paused to think it over. They were driving out pretty far by the looks of it. “Two hours, call my dad.”

“Wait, what? Laurel, what are you doing? Where are you?” Tommy demanded.

“I’m meeting a client, and the neighborhood isn’t exactly the safest,” she lied. “It should be fine.”

“Should be? Why couldn’t your client meet you at CNRI?”

“She has young kids and couldn’t get a babysitter. I have to go.”

“Laurel—”

“Two hours. Wait two hours.” With that, she hung up and refocused her efforts on the car three ahead in the line of traffic. It merged into the turning lane, and Laurel had no choice but to glide up right behind it. She’d have to hope Mr. Diggle wasn’t checking his rear view mirror too carefully.

Laurel slowed to just under the speed limit as they left most of the other cars behind. Buildings gave way to a line of warehouses looming large and foreboding on either side of the narrow road. The car ahead rounded a bend, and she stopped just before it for a good thirty seconds. She didn’t want to lose them, but she couldn’t look as if she were tailing them. When she did turn the corner, she just caught sight of their taillights near the end of the lane.

With a sinking heart, Laurel watched Oliver’s car pull into the parking lot of a warehouse that definitely wasn’t owned by Queen Consolidated. She pulled off into the lot before it and waited about ten minutes before reversing back out and entering the lot they’d left their car in. It looked as though she’d gotten lucky; Mr. Diggle wasn’t waiting in or by the car, so there was no one to see her. Laurel parked several spots away and as far from the warehouse as she could.

There were no windows on the side of the building facing the lot. Laurel crept up and stuck close to the wall, leaning to check for any sort of guard first before rounding the corner.

There were a set of windows on this side, so Laurel peered down into the large room. The floor was a level below, so it was hard for her to make out much more than the tops of people’s heads. She could easily pick out Oliver and Mr. Diggle, and it looked as though there were at least two other men in the room, the shorter of whom was doing the talking.

She couldn’t hear anything being said distinctly. As she watched, a third man led a fourth down a set of stairs near the back. The fourth man was forced to his knees once he’d been brought before the others, and more talking ensued. The short man gestured to the one on his knees.

Oliver nodded, then walked around behind and placed his hands at the man’s neck. There was a sharp motion. A second later, the man’s body hit the floor.

A strangled cry left her that she couldn’t hope to stop. Shock, denial, betrayal — she’d believed Oliver was an unwilling participant at worst, that he could never—

But as five heads whipped up in her direction, Laurel realized her mistake. She froze for a crucial second, then her mind worked past the fear and screamed at her to run.

She cleared the corner at a sprint. Two of the mafia men had already raced around the other side to meet her. Laurel swung her purse straight into one of the men’s stomachs whose breath left him all in a whoosh. The second one caught her arm, and she twisted around to ram him with her shoulder.

The first man wrenched her arms behind her back and lifted her. Laurel shouted in protest and tried to hook one foot around his ankle to knock him off balance. A hand was clamped over her mouth to muffle any further sounds so she concentrated all her effort on kicking and lashing out. Laurel heard at least one pained grunt as her limbs connected with whatever she could reach, but the tight grip never slackened, and her feet were never quite able to touch back on the ground.

Dimly she knew the panic was beginning to cloud her judgement, but she was powerless to stop them dragging her back into that room with their boss and Oliver and the man he’d just killed. Her heart pounded wild and erratic in her ears like wings beating in a vain attempt to fly away.

The door to the warehouse slammed, closing her in. Her ankle caught on a railing and the hand over her mouth was dislodged as they fought to stop her from clinging on. Laurel’s captors were calling down to their boss in Russian, she was shouting and yelling again, but one voice rose above the rest, harsh and booming.

“Let her go! Vy ne navredit' yey! I said release her!”

Laurel was forced to her knees, the gasps of breath she took loud in the sudden silence. Her eyes darted from the bald Mafioso to the dusty windows high above them to Mr. Diggle with his ramrod straight back and stoic expression—had he known all this time?—anywhere but the man who had given the order.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Oliver, to see the cold rage and command that had just been in his voice. To have to face a reality where all her fierce hope and belief was in vain.

But then he spoke again, and she nearly didn’t believe her own ears. “Honey…I thought I told you to wait in the car.”

Laurel’s neck nearly snapped with the speed at which she turned to him, absolutely no idea what expression was on her face.

“She is your woman?”

Oliver did not answer for the moment as he instead made quick strides towards her. He held his hands out palms up and for a single second allowed the careful mask to slip, meeting her eyes with a look of open pleading. And Laurel knew, no matter what had just happened in this room, she was not going to die here.

In the next breath she’d reached for him and was pulled up to her feet and to his side.

“So sorry for the interruption,” Oliver finally said, turning them both around to face the other man, the picture of cool confidence again. “I thought I’d made it clear that this was strictly business, but she gets…curious. I’m sure you understand.”

“Perhaps you should have explained the business was with friends,” said the Russian. He gestured at one of the men who was clutching his side, and Laurel hid a satisfied smirk in Oliver’s shoulder. With a hand resting on his chest she could feel his heart hammering underneath the calm veneer he was presenting.

“Again, my apologies. She knows it’s her safety that I value above all else.”

“Then it is best to keep her safe at home. Business is not the place for loved ones and their sensitivities,” the man advised. His mouth twisted into a leer as he added, “Particularly not when she can sing like this one.”

Laurel clenched the fabric of Oliver’s shirt into a fist and forced herself to bite the inside of her cheek.

“Well she is moya krasivaya ptitsa,” Oliver replied, the warm, even teasing tone completely at odds with the way his hand dropped from her waist to her hip and tucked her in all the closer to his body. “I trust that my favor will be repaid.”

“You have proven your interest. We are men of our word.”

They exchanged what she could only assume were goodbyes in Russian, and, with a nod to Mr. Diggle who heaved the dead man’s body up into his arms, Oliver led her back up the steps of the warehouse and into the sunshine. It seemed surreal even now that she was still alive.

For whatever reason, he’d covered for her. Out of sentiment, out of what she didn’t know. But he had just killed a man for the mob, and she had witnessed it, and he knew that.

She had to get away.

Laurel waited until they were out of sight of the warehouse and closing in on Oliver’s car, hers not too far away. She didn’t think Mr. Diggle would try to stop her, but her best chance was to make her move while he was still holding the dead man’s body and couldn’t help the man he worked for.

Oliver took out a set of keys in his pocket and unlocked the trunk. Then Laurel dropped an elbow into his gut and stamped on his toes with her heel.

He gave a shout of pain which was echoed by one of surprise from Mr. Diggle, but she didn’t stop to look back, already running. Her keys were in her hand — but then another hand had closed around her wrist.

Laurel whirled back, but he caught her other hand before she could even think to use it, the keys twisting harmlessly away from him.

“Let me go! Just let me go, Ollie, I won’t- I won’t tell anyone what I saw.” She hated the quaver in her voice, her panicked gasps for breath as she struggled uselessly in a hold she’d known was entirely too strong. This whole time despite everything she knew, she’d never been scared of him, and only now did she realize what a dangerous game she’d been playing.

“What were you doing here?” Oliver demanded. “How did you find this place?”

She had little choice but to answer. “I followed you after you left the apartment.”

“Why?”

“Oliver, you told me you were working on something to help Thea from your end, outside the law. Was I not supposed to find that a little suspicious?”

“What had you suspicious about me in the first place?” He narrowed his gaze. “You’ve been acting different for weeks now. I just didn’t know what you were thinking. But you haven’t even asked me who those people were back there.”

“They’re Bratva, and so are you,” she asserted. Faintly, she heard Mr. Diggle swear. “I noticed your tattoo the night of the house arrest party, and I did some research. I’ve known practically since then.”

Oliver’s grip on her finally did slacken. “You knew?”

“I knew you were mixed up with- with this, I knew it. I just didn’t want to believe you could—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish but neither of them missed the way her eyes fell on the body Mr. Diggle had finally put in the trunk.

“That I could what?” Oliver prompted. “Kill him?”

“You didn’t have to,” she insisted. “I said I’d help you get Thea out of serving jail time. What was the point of that if you were going to murder someone?”

“Laurel, it’s okay.”

“Give me one reason why any of this is okay!”

Mr. Diggle had his arms crossed and looked to be waiting for an answer, too.

Oliver sighed. “It’s really not what you think. Either of you.” Then he reached down and pressed some point near the man’s neck. The man she’d thought dead gave a great gasp of breath, and his eyes fluttered before falling closed in sleep.

“That’s a neat trick,” Mr. Diggle remarked. “You going to teach me that one day?”

“No,” said Oliver. “We’ll need to arrange a new identity for him. Get him out of the city.”

“You just lied about killing him to the Bratva,” said Laurel.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay, so then...you’re working against them?” She desperately needed some kind of confirmation on this, because she still had no idea what it meant now that Oliver knew she knew. “Walter’s disappearance, you being hospitalized over Christmas, the...Bertinelli stuff — that was because you’re against them?”

Oliver was watching her with an increasingly perplexed look. “That wasn’t about the Bratva. I’ve barely been in contact with them since I got back home.”

Laurel stared at him in sheer disbelief. He’d barely been in contact. How, how was that possible with everything that had happened? “Then what have you been doing?”

Oliver’s expression turned a little panicky, and his eyes flitted to Mr. Diggle.

“You gotta tell her, man,” his bodyguard said.

Laurel looked between them, her arms crossing over her chest. “Tell me what?”

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #oliver queen #arrow #john diggle #tommy merlyn #green arrow #black canary #my writing

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mittensmorgul · 6 years

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I’ve seen multiple posts about how 13.21 referenced both Stand By Me as well as LotR (I mentioned it here but I know there were other posts that explained it in much more detail in case anyone doesn’t recognize all the references). And I’ve thrown around a couple of comments on how the episode directly referenced a LOT of the first half of s8 of The Walking Dead but I haven’t seen anyone write anything more detailed.

I intended to wait to see how the rest of the season turned out before writing anything more detailed, because this episode was written long before the second half of s8 of TWD was finished airing and I have no idea if Bobo knew spoilers in advance or if he was only using this as a sort of one-off parallel within this episode alone, but thematically there have been a number of other TWD references this season, from all the zombie comments in 13.06 to the Zombie Mom Witch in 13.12.

Anyway, below a cut in case anyone doesn’t want s8 TWD and current Fear The Walking Dead spoilers.

I mentioned in another post that I was essentially convinced by the end of Sam’s opening dream sequence that something terrible was gonna happen to Sam by the end of the episode... because TWD has been using a similar opening scene for a while now. Both on TWD and also on Fear TWD.

Essentially the “dreamer” is dead in every case (the notable unresolved “dreamer” whose fate we aren’t entirely sure of is Madison in Fear, but she’s now also been featured in Nick’s dream in the episode he died in so...)

But I want to focus on Carl’s dream sequences from the first half of s8. Because there were a number of them through the first eight episodes, and it wasn’t entirely clear that they were dreams at first. They seemed to show flashes of a “happy future” where his family was all safe and healthy, living a normal sort of “apple pie” life in their home in Alexandria. His little sister was older, his father had gone a bit greyer and walked with a cane, Michonne was still with Rick and happily being mom to Carl and an older Judith. Basically imagine a Walking Dead version of Sam’s dream, where they’re all around the table safe and happy and just living.

We didn’t really get a full understanding that these were specifically CARL’S dreams until the episode he was bitten (which aired December 10, 2017, so likely while Berens was working on this draft).

Clearly Sam’s “bite” went down a lot different than Carl’s did. But the part of the AU where Sam was attacked bore a lot of resemblance to the area where Carl and Siddiq had been walking together:

Path through the woods with hungry monsters waiting to eat them. But let me back up for a moment and explain why he was even out there.

Kindness.

He lived in a barricaded little town called Alexandria, who have allies in other groups such as The Kingdom (heh), Hilltop, and a broken relationship with a group of women living hidden in a community called Oceanside. All of these groups have been struggling under the oppressive rule of the Saviors (ie that group led by John Winchester Negan and his barbed-wire baseball bat called Lucille that Dean had in 12.15). At the beginning of s8, Carl’s father Rick had essentially been in what Mr. Mittens politely refers to as “kill mode.” They’d been betrayed and suffered heavily from the Saviors, who rule their territory with an iron fist and a steady campaign of terror and intimidation against any group they see as a potential resource.

(they’re basically awful, okay?)

But Carl is an odd duck. He’d spent quite a bit of time talking to Negan (not entirely by choice, because Negan is generally awful, but also had a weird soft spot for Carl, despite having threatened to force Rick to chop of Carl’s arm the first time they all met... it’s a disturbing show, sorry). Rick has never been able to forgive Negan for what he did (not just the psychological torture and threatening Carl, but also killing Abraham and Glen in cold blood just to intimidate and hurt the rest of them, and Maggie will never forgive him for killing Glen-- i.e. the father of her unborn child).

Which brings us to the people TFW+Gabe met in the woods-- a dark-haired woman called Maggie and a dude carrying a baseball bat. Interesting pair, no? Because in TWD if Maggie ever came face to face with Negan she’d claw his face off with her bare hands.

Okay now back to why Carl was in the woods. Back when Rick had been in Kill Mode, they ran across a man in the woods named Siddiq who Carl had wanted to help, but Rick shot at him to scare him away. Rick wasn’t in a mood to trust anyone, and especially not lone strangers in the woods. Carl apologized and began sneaking food out of Alexandria and befriending Siddiq. This went on for 8 episodes... bringing him supplies in secret and learning about the man. Which is what he’d been doing when they were ambushed by walkers.

Meanwhile back at home, one of the Saviors had turned traitor and was secretly helping Rick and his people escape an ambush (heck there’s so much of revenge and deceit involved in explaining Dwight’s motives here... but basically half the season is about revenge, and the fact that getting revenge is just... not worth it... sound familiar?)

So Carl had been out there in the middle of all this danger and (essentially) warfare to do a good deed for someone. And in the fighting, he’d accidentally been bitten by one of the walkers. (Sound familiar?)

The differences between Sam and Carl’s deaths:

Walker bites don’t kill instantly. It can take days to succumb to the infection unless the bite itself proves fatal, and Carl was bitten on his side (think about where Cas got stabbed by the Lance of Michael).

Carl killed the things that “killed him”

Sam’s bite was to a critical artery. If Carl had been bitten on the neck he would’ve been dead in a minute, but they wanted him to live long enough to get home and prepare for his own death. Sam didn’t get that luxury.

Carl didn’t have a handy archangel to resurrect him. Even if it was awful.

He did get to write letters to the people he cared about-- and to Negan-- and say goodbye to his loved ones in person. Sam didn’t. But Sam came back from the dead to address that in person.

Carl met back up with his family in the sewers (tunnels) under Alexandria after escaping the Saviors’ attack

The thing is, Carl had been the Negotiator. He’d been a sort of diplomat between everyone else and Negan, trying to convince everyone to work together rather than keep seeking revenge and trying to kill each other. Just like he’d been nurturing his friendship with Siddiq, and preparing to bring him back to Alexandria despite Rick not wanting him there.

Meanwhile we’ve been seeing hints about the revenge Sam is eager to take out on Lucifer. We saw Dean’s concern about Sam’s motives for helping Gabriel get his revenge against Loki and his children in 13.20, and Dean wanting to take the horrific burden of vengeance and the utter lack of fulfillment it actually provides off Sam’s shoulders.

It’s interesting that the Negan-coded dude (but not entirely, because his baseball bat didn’t have barbed wire wrapped around it) ended up biting it (pffft) in that tunnel and is never mentioned again. Maggie attempts to offer sympathy to Dean for the loss of his friend, but she gets nothing back from him.

Anyway, Carl left some letters behind (which he writes during episode 9, which didn’t air until February 25, 2018, so two weeks before they began filming 13.21 and likely after the script was finalized) and the contents he shared with Rick and with Negan can be read at those links in their entirety. But here’s a few key points:

You have to find peace with Negan. Find a way forward somehow. We don't have to forget what happened, but you can make it so that it won't happen again, that nobody has to live this way, that every life is worth something.

Start everything over. Show everyone that they can be safe again without killing. They can feel safe again. That it can go back to being birthdays, and school, and jobs, and even Friday night pizza somehow, and walks with a dad and a three-year-old holding hands. Make that come back, dad. And go on those walks with Judith. She'll remember them.

I love you.

Carl

and to Negan:

I hope my dad offers you peace. I hope you take it. I hope everything can change. It did for me.

Start over. You still can.

And at this point I’m singing “It’s never too late to start all over again” in my head.

And while all that was happening in TWD, the Saviors were launching firebombs into their town, as we assume there’s gonna be some more AU Angel “fireballs” hitting in 13.22.

The interesting thing about TWD’s season finale (which aired April 15, or four days before 13.23 wrapped filming), is that Rick finally both lucked out (via a timely bit of backstabbing by Eugene, who’d been considered a traitor when he went to work for Negan and had cost multiple people their lives as a result, but he’d rigged all the saviors’ guns to backfire and kill THEM instead of the people the guns were aimed at) AND took Carl’s message to heart.

He had the perfect chance to kill Negan and get his revenge at last, but he bargained for peace instead, in the face of a HUGE swarm of walkers that could threaten them all if they didn’t work together instead of constantly enacting petty revenge wars against each other.

(but Maggie? She still wants revenge, along with a few quiet others... but that’s for next season. For now, there’s an uneasy truce)

I have no idea what this means for anything else going on in SPN, or what lengths Sam, Dean, Cas, Gabriel, Lucifer, Mary, Jack... and everyone else... will be willing to go to to get “revenge” or to stop AU Michael, but I thought this was an interesting parallel between Sam and Carl in this episode.

#spn s13 spoilers #spn 13.21

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