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opbackgrounds · 4 years

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Alright, friends, you know the drill by now. Here’s Part III of Sarcasticles’ overblown thoughts on sexism in One Piece. If you haven’t already, go read Part I and Part II before proceeding.

I promise after this I’ll be done. By hook or by crook, we’re getting through the point of the original question. To the Anon who originally sent the ask, sorry it took this long to get here, I hope it’s helpful.

Also, I allude to some very, very minor Wano spoilers, so if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing here’s your warning.

Characterization? I Don’t Know Her

What makes a good character?

I’ve spent an awful lot of time talking about character designs, when, funnily enough, it’s one of the aspects I pay the least attention to when it comes to deciding if I like how an author portrays their characters. I personally don’t care for fanservice, never have and never will. But unless it’s particularly egregious, I tend to ignore it because there are other factors I think are more important.

The secret sauce for building characters is hard to define, because a good writer can take a concept that has no right being any good and turn it into something incredible (Oda does this all the time) where bad writers will seemingly slot all the right information in the right holes and still have their characters come out of the developmental oven flat and under cooked.

One of the biggest buzzwords floating around these days is agency. Is a character active in their own story, or are they jerked around by the needs of the plot? Is their voice heard? Is their voice unique, or do they blend in with the background?

This is particularly important, because the term Strong Female Protagonist has been warped into shorthand for “girl who fights a lot and looks pretty doing it”. You can have a girl strong enough to lift mountains and still have her be a shit character. You can write a girl who’s main motivation is to get married and have babies with phenomenal depth. What matters is execution.

The Petition to Call A Group of Rescue Arcs a ‘Damsel’

Both Nami and Robin had to be rescued, their main arcs bearing similarities that are impossible to ignore. But these aren’t copies of one another as much as variations on a theme, and with the existence of Marineford and Whole Cake Island I think anyone would be hard-pressed to say that One Piece’s rescue arcs are a girl’s thing. At this point it’s a feature, not a bug.

Which makes sense given how fundamental the idea freedom is to the series. Hell, the first thing Luffy does after becoming a pirate is free Coby from Alvida’s tyrannical reign. Then he frees Zoro from an unjust authority that would have killed him had Luffy not intervened.

Notice a pattern here?

One Piece is written like Pachelbel Canon, in that a very simple core of ideas are repeated over and over with layers of complexity and nuance added over time, examining the same themes from every possible angle.

And when you look at the Four Big Rescue Arcs -- Nami, Robin, Ace, Sanji -- you’ll see that it’s Ace who’s given the least agency throughout his arc. Nami chose to hijack the Going Merry, repeatedly chose to push away the Straw Hats until she reached her breaking point, at which she chose to ask for help, with Luffy only intervening once she does.

Robin is a little less obvious, but during the post-Water 7 party chapters, Aokiji makes the interesting observation that Robin could have escaped CP9, but chose not to

Remember that before Robin’s backstory was shown, Luffy specifically said he didn’t care if she wanted to die or not, so long as she was with the Straw Hats when she made her decision. No one bullied her into “I wanna live”. It was a choice she made of her own volition after realizing the depths the Straw Hats would go on her behalf.

I know there are people who disagree with me, but Nami and Robin are well-written characters. I’ve expounded enough on my reasoning both here and on my main that I don’t want to spend the time belaboring the point. What I do want is to note that Luffy wouldn’t be able to attain his dreams without them. Nami keeps them on course while also severing as a sort of moral compass for the crew -- remember she was the one who insisted on saving the giant kids at Punk Hazard -- while Robin’s ability to read the poneglyphs is what’s going to get the crew to Raftel.

Robin admittedly doesn’t have the same presence within the Straw Hat Pirates as Nami, but I would hardly call that sexism. Since Water 7/Enies Lobby she’s been pretty content to go with whatever Luffy says, and the fact that she’s literally quieter than anyone else in the crew means she doesn’t get as much focus. I think there could be more scenes with her using her specific skill set, like her investigations in Wano and the forensic anthropology scene in the pre-Jaya chapters, but I’m okay with her being a supporting character.

The East Blue Crew have consistently gotten the most focus of any of the Straw Hats. They are the core of the crew, something Oda admits in a roundabout way in the Color Walk where they all appear together for the first time in a color spread

With the main cast as large as it is, not everyone is going to have the same amount of focus or development. Robin is given a unique voice within the story because she doesn’t overreact the way literally everyone else does. Through her silence, she stands out. I find there to be very meaningful character development when she feels comfortable enough with the Straw Hats to start calling them by name in Thriller Bark, relaxed enough with her friends to comitt her first facefaults in a series lousy with them in both Dressrosa and Wano.

In an ideal world, Oda would better rotate through his cast, much like how Brook was the unsung MVP on Whole Cake Island (where Nami was also excellent in a supporting role) but I don’t think people realize how hard it is to juggle almost a dozen different people in a story that’s bloated exponentially over time. To his credit, Oda has handled his expanding crew better than most writers.

I also find it hard to judge this aspect of the series because the manga’s not done yet. I don’t know how Robin and Nami will be used in the future. I mean, Robin never got a chapter title declaring her “The Seventh” which I find suspicious, so Oda could very well have events in store that completely turn our perceptions upside down. It’s impossible to say.

I will acknowledge that the lack of big fights is somewhat disappointing, but neither Robin nor Nami’s dreams revolve around them getting stronger. Robin doesn’t need to use her power to make people explode from the inside out, Nami doesn’t need to fry end-game bosses with her lightning stick. That’s simply not their narrative purpose. With the exception of Tashigi, I’ve found that the female characters advertised as fighters have lived up to their billing. Hancock came out of Marineford unscathed. Carrot’s sulong form was awesome, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. The whole climax of Whole Cake Island revolved around surviving Big Mom’s wrath. Not beating her, not fighting her, it took all the Straw Hats had to just survive. Once again you’re left with a number’s game where where there just aren’t enough female characters to even pretend things are balanced.

All said, I think if you’re going to complain about the lack of Robin fights then I think you also have to complain about the lack of Brook fights, and that’s just not something you hear about, especially after Whole Cake Island. You can’t have it both ways. Either there needs to be more even distribution of major fights throughout the entire crew, or you have to acknowledge that a character’s worth isn’t dependent on their fighting prowess.

One Piece is a battle manga, and I do think that it’s fair to criticize when a character isn’t allowed to fight when they’re perfectly capable of kicking ass. But it’s also an adventure story, and that opens up entirely new space for a character to occupy, and that’s where I think Nami and Robin (but especially Nami) really shine

That Moment You Realize Humor Isn’t A Universal Language

I’ve spent so much time defending Oda’s designs and characters that it might seem like I’m perfectly okay with everything that’s portrayed in the manga. To be clear, I’m not. If the messages and comments I’ve gotten over the past several days have taught me anything, it’s that many fans share the same sticking points I do, namely in regards to some of the gags.

I again want to be careful here, because I’m hardly an expert on Japanese culture and it’s really hard to tell if Oda writes his jokes because he thinks they’re funny, or if he thinks his audience will find them funny. I’m again going to default to somewhere in the middle, because if Oda truly found the perviness distasteful he probably wouldn’t have included it, and I’ve read enough SBS to know the guy likes his dick jokes.

First and foremost, one must address the culture gap. Japan ranks last among G7 nations on gender equality, In 2004 two-thirds of Tokyo women in their 20-30s reported to being groped while on public transport. There are numerous barriers that make it difficult for a woman to succeed either in the workplace or politics.

From what I can gather, some of these trends are reversing, albeit slowly and with great resistance. Contrary to what many people seem to believe culture is not always value neutral. And I say that as an American, recognizing there are plenty of things about my culture and country that are really fucked up.

But who gets to decide who’s right and who’s wrong?

When inside that kind of environment, that kind of culture, it’s a lot easier to understand how a character like Sanji can exist. It’s easy to understand why Momo shoving his face into Nami and Robin’s boobs might be played for laughs. It’s not an excuse, but an explanation. And with Sanji failing more often than not, being the butt of his own joke as he slowly turns into a parody of what he once was, one could almost say Oda is pointing those types of people and saying, “Look how pathetic this guy is. Now go laugh as he gets a nosebleed so bad he needs multiple blood transfusions in order to not die.”

I say almost, because Sanji is never condemned for his actions, nor does he learn from them. Instead you have this character who’s supposed to be one of the kindest characters in the series decide to immediately go peep on a woman’s bath house after gaining the power of invisibility.

Stay classy, Oda.

As distasteful as I find it, I don’t find fanservice to be an inherently evil thing that must be eradicated at all costs, and with Oda doing things like putting his entire cast, male and female, into skintight leathers you can hardly say that he’s excluding the men.

Everyone will have their line in the sand, and mine goes back to agency. When Nami did her Happiness Punch way back in Alabasta, that was of her own volition. When Nami and Robin dress in clothes that show everything but the nipple, that’s something they chose and feel comfortable in.

But when Smoker and Tashigi swapped bodies at Punk Hazard, Tashigi specifically asked Smoker not to strip, and he did anyway, opening her coat and removing her bra. This is especially egregious as Tashigi is one of the very few women in the series who is always shown wearing very conservative clothing. Oda specifically showed Tashigi getting upset at Smoker’s actions, and Smoker repeatedly refusing to listen to her.

That’s where I draw my line.

Some Final Thoughts I Couldn’t Fit Anywhere Else

Thought The First--Oda has an interesting habit of turning his most despicable, scummy pieces of flaming human garbage into the butt of the joke. Villains like Crocodile and Doflamingo are certainly evil, but it’s the idealized, cool type of evil that makes you almost admire them. There aren’t very many real-world Crocodiles, but just about everyone knows a Spandam, or an Absalom, or a Vander Decken. These kinds of villains aren’t scary because of their physical prowess, but their unyielding obsessions and the power they’re able to wring from the system, and -- surprise, surprise -- all three are either actively trying to be creepy sex pests or coded as such with the visual language of the comic.

And Oda turns them into a mockery.

While there are some who feel like not treating serious issues like sexual assault seriously are doing a disservice to people who have endured similar experiences I think there’s merit to turning them into a laughingstock. As someone much smarter than me said once, if an opinion cannot withstand mockery it’s revealed to be ridiculous, and these scummy-scum villains are certainly ridiculous.

Thought The Second--It’s hard to say how much sexism is a thing in-universe. Kuina is the only one who is explicitly told her dreams were impossible because of her gender, but with the recent reveal confirming that her family came from Wano, which in turn is based on Feudal Japan, it’s hard to say how widespread these beliefs are. Tashigi brought it up again at Loguetown and Bellemere specifically told her girls that they lived in an era where “girls needed to be strong, too”, but otherwise it’s not a topic that’s been explored in any depth

Thought The Third--The in-universe fetishization of mermaids has some implications that I think are unintended but worth discussing. Shirahoshi has a reputation of being one of the most beautiful women in the world despite not leaving her tower for over 10 years (she’s 16). Mermaids whose tails have split are worth less on the slave market than those whose are intact. Even Zoro erased Kokoro from his memory after meeting the more attractive Caime. It’s one of those odd things that when combined with the more obvious racism themes could have some unfortunate implications, and I think could have been avoided had Oda show a little more restraint with some of his jokes. Unintended consequences are still consequences.

Thought The Forth--There are many other instances throughout the series that people bring up with talking about sexism in One Piece. I feel like a lot of these can be explained away individually -- for example, both Belo Betty and Rebecca’s stripperific outfits were inspired by other media, the painting Liberty of the People and Red Sonja respectively; Lola chasing after an obviously abusive man makes a whole lot more sense when you meet Big Mom; Hancock’s love sickness could be seen as an emotionally stunted woman experiencing her first crush, etc., etc -- it’s when they’re all put together that they begin to read as “Problematic”.

It would be impossible to go over all these individually, but I tend to fall on the side of leniency. In the end, everyone has to make their own decisions based on their own values. I’m hardly unbiased, and my enjoyment for the series will undoubtedly make me look the other way when another might call the exact same incident The Worst Thing Ever. The thing is, opinions are like assholes, everyone has one and most are convinced that theirs don’t stink. I include myself in that statement. In the end it’s a comic for kids. It’s supposed to be fun.

Thought The Last--I have spent entirely too much of my time writing this up, but in the end I guess I have to go back to what I said when I talked about my thoughts on Sanji: Everyone has their own personal line of acceptable bullshit, and for me Oda does more good than bad. Sanji specifically gets very little leniency from me because I don’t like a lot of the gross behavior Oda passes over as a joke. But the female characters themselves, generally speaking? They’re fine. There are other mangaka that have more equal male to female ratios or have women play more active roles in the story, but Oda does a lot better than most other shonen titles I’ve read.

It’s okay to be critical of media you enjoy. It’s okay to complain. But remember that One Piece is a very long series, and there are some fans who have been a round for literally decades. I myself started reading weekly around the time Duval was introduced, way back in 2008. Every time a new batch of fans comes in the same old arguments get stirred to the top of the pot: Sanji is a creep, Oda can’t draw women, why doesn’t Robin ever get to fight?

It can be exhausting to go through the same hoops time and time again. So if you’re someone who is being critical and feel like no one is listening, or that a bunch of fans are going out of their way to defend Oda, that could be one of the reasons why. They’re tired of having a series they enjoy be shit on.

There are other fans who legitimately don’t think that Oda’s done anything wrong, that jokes are just jokes. If you happen to fall in that category, remember that not everyone feels that way. Art reflects life, which in turn reflects art. One Piece is a few million copies away from outselling Batman. To say it isn’t influential to young readers, both in Japan and abroad, is beyond asinine.

I thank everyone who’s taken the time to read this so far. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how civil the discussion and my inbox as stayed. Even if I didn’t respond to your message, I promise that I did read it.

I wrote as much as I did because I know this is a topic a lot of people care about, and also so I hopefully don’t have to write about it again. A lot of hours has gone into this project, and it’s been exhausting, but in a good way, if that makes any sense. I’m ready to put it to rest.

I was joking with some friends that I think I’ve hit just about every hot topic issue now, so hopefully I can go back to fun questions like speculating if Wapol can eat a person and poop out a devil fruit.

Until then, Sarcasticles, out

#sexism #one piece #long post #sarc talks

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

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One Foot In (6/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 9K’ish this chapter and some ‘ish is going to happen AN: Hello, hi, here are some explanations and feelings and then some more feelings and drama and stuff is going to happen, guys. Thanks for being top notch and excellent and reading all these words. I think you’re swell.

|| Also on Ao3 or you can read all those words from the start ||

@shireness-says @optomisticgirl @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488, @greymeetsblue, @jennjenn615, @heavenlyjoycastle, @klynn-stormz, @superchocovian, @onepunintendid, @jonesfandomfanatic, @lfh1226-linda @thejollyroger-writer

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately, eleven hours old when the Earth appears to lose its entire atmosphere.

She doesn’t gasp, which is kind of disappointing. She just, kind of, sort of freezes, muscles tensing and body going taught with the tension that had been lingering just under the surface of everything since she made the one decision that changed everything.

Someone curses.

Emma can’t tell if it’s Ruby or Shakespeare, but there’s some kind of scuffle happening just out of the edge of her vision and there are goons in the living room she hadn’t noticed before.

She still hasn’t moved.

She isn’t entirely sure she can.

Coward.

The Darkness laughs gleefully, a sound that grates on Emma’s ears and feels a bit like nails on a chalkboard or just, actual, literal nails. He’s moving his fingers, a quick tap against each other, bouncing from one foot to the other and it’s as unnatural as it is disturbing.

“Oh, I knew that would be good, but I never expected it to play out like that,” he says. The words rush out of him, as if he can’t say them quickly enough to keep up with whatever dance he’s doing in the middle of the rug.

The rug has tassels on it.

“Beautiful,” the Darkness continues. “Absolutely beautiful. Tell me, Savior, how does it feel to get that off your chest? I’d imagine it’s a relief.”

Emma exhales, another mistake, but she’s piling those up faster than she can count them at this point and the space between her and Killian feels as vast as several Grand Canyons. She turns her head slowly, not trusting herself to go any faster and he’s staring straight ahead.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t close his mouth.

She can see him breathing, shoulders shaking with the effort of doing it consistently and she understands that. She assumes the oxygen levels can’t possibly be the same once the atmosphere has been compromised.

“Although,” the Darkness says, leaning towards Emma with a very specific glint in his eyes. “It appears to be quite a shock to both of you. Thoughts, dead man?” Killian doesn’t answer him. His gaze snaps towards Emma, darker than she can remember it and that’s not right at all.

He’s not supposed to look like that.

He’s not supposed to feel like that.

The buzzing in her head is barely more than an echo now.

“Say it again,” Killian mutters, and at first Emma doesn’t understand. She’s half a second away from mumbling what under her breath, but then he’s half a step in front of her and it somehow feels even farther away. “Say it again. The truth, Emma.” Her eyes flutter closed at the sound of her own name, the pain and disappointment and absolute hurt obvious in all four letters.

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.” “How?” The question catches her off guard, an edge to his voice that’s brand-new as well and maybe they’ve just been teleported to a different timeline entirely. That would almost make more sense.

“I don’t—” Emma starts, but Killian’s already shaking her head and a goon groans when Ruby, presumably, kicks him in the heel. “Yeah, that’s not fair, is it?” “You’re asking me about fair? Honestly? With a goddamn demon a foot away from us?” “Oh now, I resent that,” the Darkness chides. Ruby sounds like she’s trying to actually beat several people with her Louboutins. “I’m hardly a demon.” “What the hell are you then?” “Something the world has been waiting a very long time for. But you haven’t gotten your answers yet have you? And you want them. Oh, do you. I can feel it you know, dead man. The need and the questions and the certainty that something was wrong since the start. Because you’ve always believed that haven’t you? It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong.”

The Darkness grins again – slow and reptilian, the movement snaking across his face until his entire expression looks twisted and inhuman. His eyebrows jump and twist, certainty in every shift as the lights flicker around them.

Emma does her best to stay upright, but it’s becoming an increasingly difficult challenge. The words keep bouncing around her head, ricocheting off nerve endings and synapses and whatever else makes up the human brain.

It’s like a scratched CD, stuck on one string of lyrics and one sentence, a few words that play on repeat and threaten to drive Emma even more insane than she already is.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

She’s been wrong since the start.

“It didn’t make sense,” the Darkness whispers, leering at Killian with wide eyes that have suddenly taken on a distinctly yellow pallor. “Even then. Even now. He was young. He had his whole life ahead of him and she stole that from you.” Emma must make a noise because she can feel Ruby’s eyes land on her, but she’s not entirely sure what it is, just knows that it hurts every single inch of her. She wraps her arms around her middle, desperate to keep herself together in a metaphorical and literal sense.

Killian keeps blinking.

Like he’s trying to figure out what is and isn’t real.

“How, Swan?”

Her breath catches when he looks at her – pleading and desperate and so impossibly blue she knows she’d never be able to forget it. He called her Swan again.

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers. “She, um...well, she died. I went back across the street, remember? It was..it was lunch and I was soaking wet and—” “—You kept trying to spray me with the hose.” “That’s not what happened at all.” Killian doesn’t quite smile, but there’s almost an attempt and Emma appreciates that. “We were going to go ride our bikes down the hill later.” “Yeah, yeah,” she nods, and her tongue feels far too big for her mouth. “I went upstairs, to change and get the mud out from underneath my fingernails and I heard a crash and I...I got back to the kitchen and Ingrid was dead.”

“She wasn’t later, though.” “Yeah, I think you’ve already figured out how that happened.” “Did you know?” “That touching Ingrid would bring her back to life? Or that she could only stay alive for a certain amount of time? Or that when she kissed me goodnight later I’d kill her?”

Killian’s eyes flash, another string of fairly impressive curses from the peanut gallery and, maybe, one of the goons and the Darkness is frustratingly silent. Emma drags her hand roughly over her cheek, no doubt leaving an angry red streak in her wake, but the tears have started to fall or are still falling and she’s kind of angry now.

She’s kind of furious.

And so goddamn alone she’s positive she reeks with it.

“Any of those actually,” Killian mumbles. He doesn’t reach towards her, but he doesn’t back away again and Emma’s really starting to cling to these half victories.

“No. That was—” “—That was the first time.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact and a little pitying, which is a little disappointing, but Emma barely musters up a nod of agreement so maybe she deserves the pity.

“And you,” he whispers. “You didn’t…” “What was I supposed to say? I had no idea what had happened. It was all...everything happened so quickly. Ingrid was dead and I didn’t want her to be dead and then suddenly she wasn’t and—God, I didn’t want Liam to be dead. I wouldn’t…” Emma runs out of air, lips dry from breathing erratically through her mouth “I couldn’t do that to you,” she whispers. “Not when—” “—Not when she was so consumed with several other very important emotions,” the Darkness interrupts, a note of impatience in his voice that seems more unfair than just about anything else that’s happened in the last few minutes.

One of the lightbulbs in the nearest decorative lamp shatters.

“And that, of course, is the crux of our little meeting here.” Killian tilts his head. “It’s a meeting then, is it?” “Have I brought you here against your will, dead man? Have I bound you? Gagged you? Dragged through the streets kicking and screaming?” “You did kill me.” “No, no, no, that wasn’t me. That was Mr. Teach. We’ve covered that already.” “Seems a little bit like splitting hairs,” Emma grumbles, a hint of decidedly out of place sarcasm. She knows Ruby is smiling at her.

“It’s a fact, Ms. Swan,” the Darkness corrects. “And very important to our little tale. Are you and the dead man done discussing things? Because I’d like to get to the point of all of this.” “There’s a point?” He scoffs, almost amused. “Of course there is. And it’s a very important, very sharp point that will change the course of everything.” “Why did you bring up Liam?” Killian asks. “That—Emma hadn’t told me before.” “You know it’s rather disappointing to be proved so incredibly wrong in such a short span of time. You’re quite lacking on the intelligent front. I explained that already.” The last few words come out a bit like a hiss – more reptilian jokes and puns and allusions and Emma can hear the disappointment lingering in Killian’s voice. She licks her lips again. “And you seem like you’re wasting time,” Emma challenges. “Teach said you were trying to bring someone back. Someone important to you? A kid, maybe? Where are they?” She regrets the question as soon as it’s out of her mouth.

The Darkness doesn’t yell. Doesn’t say anything. But his eyes go impossibly dark, no color, just a vast expanse of nothing that seems to stretch out in front of Emma and she can feel the rage ripple in the air around them.

It tastes like rotten eggs, a stench that doesn’t remind her of anything and yet somehow feels impossibly familiar, as if it’s always been lingering just on the edge of her consciousness, an almost that threatens to drag her away.

“Don’t talk about him,” the Darkness seethes. “Not yet. Not until I explain what has to happen.” “And what has to happen, exactly?” Ruby asks, twisting against her own strand of rope and there’s suddenly a gag in her mouth. She flinches at the fabric, stuffed in between her lips, and both Emma and Killian lunge forward at the same time.

The Darkness clicks his tongue. “No, no, none of that. I have the upper hand here. I do.” There’s a distinct lack of confidence in the sentence, like he’s convincing himself or reminding himself and the realization sends a rush of something that may almost be misplaced confidence down Emma’s spine.

“Of course you do,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. “Why did you bring up Liam? And what...you keep calling me different things.” “I’m not.” Emma opens her mouth to object, but reconsiders it as soon as she sees the look on his face and the floor creaks under Killian’s feet when he shifts towards her. Her lungs appreciate that. It’s easier to breathe when he lingers in her space.

“I’m not,” the Darkness repeats. “I’m telling you what you are. This is the start. This house and the belief it fostered in you. You’re brimming with belief, Savior.” “That’s not true.” “Ah, but isn’t it? You grew up here, trusted everything that happened here and even after it all disappeared, you remembered it, didn’t you? Knew it was true and honest and it kept you both of those things. It made you even more powerful.” Emma blinks. “I don’t—” “—I know, I know, you don’t understand and it can’t possibly be real and you couldn’t be more wrong. Haven’t you ever wondered what happened to your parents?” She stumbles over her own feet, an impressive achievement since she doesn’t really move, but it feels as if the foundations of the entire goddamn house shift underneath her. Killian’s breath is warm on her neck as soon as Emma rolls her shoulders, desperate to maintain her flimsy grip on the situation.

“Just keep breathing, love,” he whispers.

“Yeah, easy for you to say.” He chuckles, and Emma isn’t sure if the brush of something she feels on the curve of her shoulder is his lips or just her own misplaced and decidedly wishful thinking, but it’s nice either way and she inhales until it feels as if her lungs will burst.

“Jokes at the end of the world, Swan? That’s impressive.” “Something, something full of surprises.” It’s definitely his lips.

Ruby groans through her gag.

“You know they loved you quite a bit, Savior,” the Darkness says, seemingly unperturbed by flirting at the end of the world. Emma assumes that’s not exactly how he sees it. “Your parents, that is. Fought tooth and nail to protect you.” “My parents gave me up,” Emma argues. She’s been told the story hundreds of times, heard it in every house and from every social worker, the ones she barely remembers before Ingrid and the ones that are ingrained in her memory after.

The story never changed. It only ever seemed to get worse, more proof that she deserved everything she got and needed to push and run and the Darkness shakes his head deftly.

He’s got that amused look in his eyes again.

“Tell me something, Savior, what do you know of magic?” “Aside from my ability to wake the dead?” He hums, stuffing his hands in his pockets and Emma only just notices how unkempt he looks. There are wrinkles in his pants and a few tears in his jacket, a hole in his right sleeve that looks large enough to stick several fingers through. The hem of his shirt is frayed and he’s missing a button on his waistcoat.

He’s wearing a waistcoat.

That seems strange.

“Yes, aside from that.” Emma shrugs. “Nothing. This is...this is the real world. Magic—” “—Oh, don’t tell me you believe magic isn’t real, Savior. Don’t insult both of us like that.” “Explain it then.” It’s more misplaced confidence – a demand Emma can’t possibly make, but it makes the Darkness laugh again and half a dozen frames fall off the wall by the staircase. Killian shifts, fingers brushing over the side of Emma’s arm and it’s selfish and greedy and absolutely, positively wrong, but she twists into. Like a selfish, greedy asshole. “That,” the Darkness says, nodding at their hands. “That’s it.” Emma tries not to growl. It does not work. “What’s what?”

“Magic. We live in a world where magic used to fill the air. It lingered in the wind and the trees, grew out of certainty and feeling and love. It was...rampant. It was a wonderful place.” “And then?” “And then something happened. The world grew too lopsided. There needed more of a balance and magic started to grow more and more scarce. It started to change as well, a twist and a bastardization to it that shifted the very fabric of magic as itself. There was a split, Savior. Between light magic and dark, between those with power and those who understood it. And for quite some time that was acceptable.” “Who accepted it?” Emma asks, but she’s got a horrible feeling that she already knows the answer. “You? The Darkness?” “In the flesh. As they say.” “Did you twist magic yourself?” He waves a dismissive hand in the air, as if he’s almost embarrassed, but Emma can feel the surge of power and she’s certain the walls have started to shake. A few of the goons mumble something that sounds like master and power and the whole thing has taken a rather cultish turn. Killian’s fingers tighten against her sleeve.

“How old are you?” he asks. “And how long has your son been dead?” The rest of the frames fall off the wall. A few more lights shatter and one of the chairs not currently being occupied by someone who may actually be a hostage at this point, topples over.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “It’s been quite some time hasn’t it? That’s what Teach said. You’d been looking for something...something that would be able to bring him back. How long has it been? How many times have you been wrong?”

“Enough,” the Darkness shouts. “We’re not talking about Baelfire yet.” “Yet.” “You’ve already been dead once, I wouldn’t try to push my luck. Not when you’re standing so close to your own personal noose.” Emma hisses, the words slamming into her like shards of glass and she actually has to look down to make sure she’s not bleeding out on the rug. She assumes neither Shakespeare nor Nemo would appreciate that.

And she’s already done a shit job of making a good first impression.

“What happened to my parents?” she asks. “Everything I was ever told was that they were gone, gave me up and didn’t—didn’t want me. That’s...there was no one there.” The Darkness shrugs, rocking back on his heels and his confidence appears to have returned as soon as Killian tensed at his threat. He moves, circling around the room like a goddamn vulture and the death puns really need to stop.

Emma wishes she could sit down.

“Some of that is true,” the Darkness concedes. “But I suppose part of the reason there was no one there had to do with me. And, well, as the dead man says, I’ve been looking for something that will fix things for quite some time.” “You’re still talking in riddles.” “And you keep interrupting. Where was I? Magic changing?”

Emma nods, and it feels absurd, a hint of normal in a conversation that is anything but. She can see Nemo trying to unknot the rope twisted around him out of the corner of her eye. She bites her lip.

“That’s right,” the Darkness muses. He tilts his head up towards the ceiling, a forced casualness to it that Emma couldn’t possibly hate more. “The universe is big and vast and obnoxious, Savior. It has rules and regulations and power is never given to those who really, truly deserve it. There are limitations to all magic, always some kind of price that must be paid, but there was also a rumor, about a magic that was stronger than anything else. That could defy the laws and exceed expectations. That might be able to change things that otherwise ought not to be changed.” Emma’s throat is shrinking. She’s positive. “And what was that?” “Why, True Love, of course.” “That’s impossible.” “Is it?” The argument is sitting on the tip of her tongue, begging to be made. It’s there and real and rational, a hint of normal, but Emma’s never been entirely normal and she can’t bring herself to actually say anything.

The Darkness grins. “It’s nice when I’m right.” “What does that have to do with me, though?” Emma asks. “I’m—I’ve never seen anyone else go around waking the dead or—”

“—Being the product of True Love with her own True Love, makes the power run twice over.” It’s honestly a miracle she hasn’t fallen over once during this conversation. In the grand scheme of almost victories and emotional upheavals, Emma might be most proud of that one, particular thing. Her knees feel like they’re made of granite at this point.

“Excuse me?” she breathes, and Ruby might try and laugh at her poor attempt at polite.

The Darkness stops walking. “What part of that was confusing?” “Well...I mean, all of it?” “Ah, this is why it would have been better to find you earlier, Savior. You’d get your answers, I’d get my boy and we’d rule the cosmos.”

Emma still doesn’t fall over. She makes the single most ridiculous noise in the history of any noise made by any living organism, but she doesn’t actually fall over. She does, however, sag slightly, a rush of oxygen and emotion and hair in her eyes.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Emma breathes, voice turning manic and she’s started looking for escape routes and windows to jump out of.

She’s fairly certain they can’t outrun the Darkness.

The Darkness shakes his head in frustration. They are all in desperate need of haircuts. “It’s growing incredibly difficult to spell out every single thing to all of you,” he sighs. “There was a rumor, of a magic that was going to change everything, a strength that had previously never been seen and, very likely, would never be seen again. It was a convergence of everything, a happy accident that could change the fates with a flash of her fingers. And, well, I regret to tell you, Savior that, at first, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“You thought it was my parents.” “I did. That kind of love, oh—” He lets out a low whistle, shivering exaggeratedly and Emma has to bite down on both of her lips to stop herself from doing something foolish. “It was potent,” the Darkness continues. “Like a field of flowers and sunshine and all those particularly good things. Nauseating, if not useful. They loved each other and they loved you. And I believed if I was able to bottle that, then I’d be able to bring my boy back.” “It didn’t work, though.” “Obviously not,” he growls, and Emma doesn’t think she imagines how his teeth have been growing sharper every time he flashes them. “I’d never dealt in True Love before. It was intoxicating, that kind of power and the rush of what I could do. But it was also volatile and it knew that I was, well, not of the same cloth shall we say.” “You’re talking about it like it’s alive,” Killian says. The accusation in his voice is obvious and the Darkness laughs softly at it.

“Because it is. Magic is a living, breathing entity that’s part of everyone in possession of it. The people are alive, why shouldn’t the magic be?” Emma considers that for a moment, loathe to admit that it makes more sense than just about any of the shit the guy has been spewing. She’s never been entirely sure what happened that made her this, but ever since that first moment on the other side of the street, she’s been aware of it, of the hum beneath her skin, the rush in her veins and the buzzing in her ears that roars to life every single time Killian glances her direction.

The Darkness makes another noise of triumph.

“Oh, this is going to work,” he says, sounding as if he’s half talking to himself again and possibly doing his best to psych himself up. “Where was I?” “You’re a shit story teller,” Killian hisses. He’s moved again, turning his back on the villain and staring at Emma with a look that’s different and the same as all the other ones, treading a line that feels impossibly important. His lips twitch slightly.

“And you’re incredibly rude, dead man.” “Did you kill my parents?” Emma asks. She reaches out again, more instinct and want and less-than-good adjectives, but she swears she can feel the warmth radiating off Killian and he feels so goddamn alive, she’s got to make sure he’s real.

“Not on purpose.” “I’m not sure the universe gives a fuck about that.” Emma jerks her head towards him, almost prepared for the slink of a smile that moves across his face. “I suppose you’re right,” the Darkness shrugs. “It wasn’t my intention to kill them. That would have been foolish. I wasn’t sure how any of this was going to work, why would I use my entire magic supply in one fell swoop?” Her stomach leaps into her throat as soon as the weight of those words settle into every single corner of her brain and the sob that wracks through Emma’s entire body hurts more than those metaphorical glass shards from a few minutes before.

She can’t catch her breath, feels like she’s run several marathons and sprinted up and down the hill on the other side of town. Her vision swims in front of her, black spots appearing in her eye line and everything feels as if it’s flipped over and then being kicked for good measure.

And it’s everything she’s always feared, the deepest, darkest worries in the deepest, darkest corners of her, the certainty that someone, eventually, would find her and keep her and make sure they wring every last bit of magic out of her, until there was nothing left, just a shall of a something that maybe belonged to someone at some point.

“It was admittedly a little frustrating when they went and died like that,” the Darkness mutters, no trace of actual remorse in the words.

Emma isn’t sure who tries to move quicker.

Ruby kicks at the goon closest to her, drawing a hiss of pain out of him when it appears her heel has actually made him bleed. Her eyes are no more than slits, but the anger is practically reverberating around her, and Nemo has gotten rid of the knots twisted around his wrists with relative ease.

He slams his right fist into the face that lunges towards him. There’s a crack of skin and skin and more yelling, something that sounds like a jaw snapping and Emma can’t stop shivering. Shakespeare doesn’t bother undoing anything. He just stands up with the chair still strapped to him, swinging it around like it’s an actual weapon and managing to take down three men twice his size in the process.

Killian, for his part, hasn’t moved away from Emma – or turned back around to the scene that’s dissolved into absolute chaos behind him. He drags his hands over her jacket-covered arms, scrunching fabric under his fingers and she can’t blink, can’t look away or breathe or do anything except tilt her head up and try and remember that there's something good and something to believe in and it’s not the right moment, is the absolute worst moment, but there might not be another moment and—

“I love you,” Emma whispers, barely loud enough to hear herself. She knows Killian does.

The force of his smile is so strong she swears it settles into the pit of her stomach and the base of her heels, a weight that doesn’t threaten to yank her down, but steadies her and calms her and his grip on her arms tightens slightly.

Like he’s making sure she’s there too.

Killian’s eyes flutter, Emma’s nails digging into her palms again to stop herself from tracing her thumb over the scar on his cheek. He doesn’t sigh, but he might exhale, letting go of something that might just be everything and—

“Thank God,” he mutters. “I love you. I can’t...I can’t remember when I didn’t.” Emma’s relief is wrong. It’s out of place and ill-timed, but that could probably be the subhead of her life at this point and she needed him to know.

At least once.

And she doesn’t realize at first, can’t hear anything over the rush of magic and belief, but then Ruby yells her name and some goon slams his foot into her stomach and everything that might have been good suddenly comes crashing down.

Literally.

Another lamp falls over

“I’d hate to interrupt and I really do loathe rehashing plot points, but I do love being right,” the Darkness says, slow and measured and so victorious Emma is certain it will be the reason she can’t ever get the goosebumps off her arms. “Now, none of you are going to try that again are you?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder at the re-tied rope and upright chairs.

There are tears on Ruby’s cheeks.

“I’d hate to have to take steps,” the Darkness adds. “Savior, please tell your friends not to distract me again.” Emma swallows back the lump of emotion sitting in the middle of her throat. She tries to take a step towards Ruby, but two different goons move into her space and they must be multiplying somewhere. Maybe they’re actually clones.

Magic clones make sense at this point.

“It’s ok,” she whispers, a lie that makes even more tears spring to her eyes. She must be close to setting a record. “It’s...we’re going to be ok.” The Darkness hums in agreement. “There, now that that’s settled. Let’s get back to the task. True Love, dead parents, a missing baby who just...disappeared as soon as I turned my back.” “What?”

“I genuinely do not know how to make that any clearer.” “Your magic, love,” Killian mumbles. “You must have...have you ever teleported before?”

She gapes at him. “Are you serious?” “I have no idea, at this point.”

“It’s entirely possible that you did,” the Darkness says. He’s stopped walking, perched instead on the top of the slightly ornate couch in the corner of the room. Every kick of his legs out makes Emma grit her teeth. “As I said, your magic is quite a bit different than mine. It might not have appreciated being, well, targeted like that. Although it did set us on this path now.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “And what path is that?” “I need your magic, Savior. The same magic that was prophesied as the strongest of any magic the world has ever seen. You see, it’s taken a very long time to make sure that that happened, but your little display with the dead man helps explain it.” “Why did Killian have to die? That’s...that’s the one part I can’t figure out.” “That’s the one part you can’t figure out?” Killian mutters, grunting slightly when Emma steps on his foot. His grin is absurd. It makes it easier to breathe.

God.

“You met Cora again recently, yes?” the Darkness asks, Emma nodding before he’s finished the question. “Then you know that our former Madam Mayor had quite a talent. She could see what people wanted and was particularly good at discerning those with other abilities. I’d almost given up on finding you, Savior. I’d been searching for so long and, well, it’s not as if True Love happens every day. In fact, your parents are the last case I’ve found until today.” Emma’s knees finally give up.

She crashes to the ground in a heap, a twist of limbs and Killian’s distinct inability to hold onto her when she moves. The tears on her cheeks feel as if they’re burning their way down her skin.

Killian’s head snaps towards her, eyes wide and that same pleading look from before. As if he’s desperate for more confirmation or more magic and Emma is loath to realize she can’t bring herself to produce either.

She feels drained and exhausted and the Darkness is still talking.

“Is that surprising?” he asks lightly, another leg kick that ends with his boot ripping the back of the couch. “I’m honestly a little disappointed in myself that I didn’t realize from the very beginning. As soon as I got to this charming little hamlet, it was obvious. The feel of it. It hangs here, like a blanket. But, as they say, when you want something done right, you have to do it yourself and, well, I trusted Cora. That was foolish of me.” “Is that why you killed her?” Emma rasps, voice scratching its way out of her.

The Darkness quirks his lips. “It was certainly part of the reason. A large part. Cora was positive that Mr. Jones had magic. She told me he was desperate to leave this life behind, couldn’t stand to be holed up in this house for a moment long and, oh—” He glances at the stunned expressions on Nemo and Shakespeare’s faces, another smile and press of his tongue against his cheek. It’s disarming, the confidence there and the evil that makes the word evil seem less absurd in context.

“Touchy subject, isn’t it?” Killian can’t seem to decide where to move. He wobbles on his feet, jerking between Emma, still on the floor, and his uncles, still tied up in their own goddamn chairs. His hand shakes when he reaches up to tug on his hair.

“That’s not,” he starts, but the rest of the sentence gets caught in his mouth. “I’m so sorry.” “Can I get back to my story?” the Darkness asks lightly, and Emma doesn’t think before she reacts. She throws her hand out, swiping it through air that suddenly feels a bit like soup and the rush that flashes through her veins is as overwhelming as it is intoxicating.

She’s got no idea what she’s trying to accomplish, only knows that she has to do something, anything, and Killian’s strangled Emma as soon as it happens seems to slink down her spine. Right next to the promises and the guarantees and that one, particular smile.

Emma’s never actually seen a body fly across a living room that’s decorated well enough to belong in several different magazines and someone gasps when the Darkness slams into the far wall. It might be her. She might gasp.

The Darkness laughs.

Loudly.

He stays down for a moment, shoulders shaking until he lifts himself up, sitting cross legged on the floor with his chin resting on his fingers. It’s ridiculous.

“Power,” he says simply. “And it was never the dead man’s.” “Explain that,” Emma demands. She doesn’t remember standing, but her knees crack with the effort of it and there’s sweat pooling at the base of her spine.

“Cora was wrong. Well, not entirely wrong, but not entirely right. You’ve always had magic, Savior. The power of your parent's True Love passed onto you. And that would have made you a valuable ally. But then you ended up here, in this town and in that house, with this very specific house across the street.

“You grew up and you believed and you trusted and you fell in love didn’t you? You didn’t know what that would mean, but you were only a child, so I suppose it’s an acceptable naiveté. It festered in you and grew, every single time you were here and every single time you promised. That’s why it’s stronger in some places than others in this town. This house, the hill—oh, it’s rife with magic, that sort of thing always leaves a mark behind.” “You’re avoiding the answer,” Emma accuses. Her fingers twist at her side, something that feels like actual sparks shooting out the ends.

The Darkness shakes his head. “I’m prefacing. There’s a difference. I’d hate for the dead man to accuse me of pitiful storytelling again. Your magic grew here, Savior and it latched onto the subject of your own True Love. That’s what Cora felt. That exchange and that want. It took root in him, even after you were gone.

“She believed that the dead man could do a job for me. Use his magic to help me retrieve a water that would bring my boy back. I needed magic to transport that water, and then if it didn’t work, I had his True Love power. Of course none of that was true, and the dead man was a stubborn fool.”

Emma sighs again, not sure where to look. She hates that it makes sense. She hates that she wants it to make sense even more, but she’s been on some kind of greedy kick over the last few days and a mythical, magical connection with Killian would almost be reassuring.

The floor creaks when he moves.

“Something about the sun, probably,” he mutters, and Emma’s laugh isn’t really that. It’s an exhale of disbelief and the absolute opposite of that.

“Orbiting or whatever.” “It’s really not helping my non-stalker claim.” “Yeah, I’m kind of almost ok with that.” “That’s good news.” They really are very good at flirting at the most inopportune times. And the Darkness is standing up again, moving across the room with measured steps and a hint of magic that casts a shadow on the edge of Emma’s vision.

“He’s a bit like a puppy dog, isn’t he?” the Darkness asks, and Emma doesn’t miss the acid there. He may be right and True Love may be a real thing that can alter the fate of the cosmos, but the villain of the story is very clearly starting to grow impatient with all of them. “Following you around as easily as if there’s a leash there. Doesn’t that bother you, dead man? It’s made all of this almost too easy.”

Emma lowers her brows in confusion, startled by the distinct lack of consistency in this conversation. Killian flinches, grimacing in something that might be pain.

Of the excruciating variety.

“Hey, hey,” Emma says, already drifting dangerously close to desperation. “What’s happening right now? Hey, look at me.” She can see every one of his teeth when he shifts his head, the cords of his neck standing out and the pinch of his forehead will probably last weeks.

Emma hopes they have weeks. She’s suddenly not so sure.

“C’mon, look at me,” Emma presses. She rests her hands on his chest, pulse racing under like it’s trying to prove a point.

He might shake his head, but it’s difficult to tell, everything coming to some kind of metaphorical head and the Darkness is frustratingly silent. Emma’s eyes drag across his face, trying to find something or a clue and she can’t believe she just thought the word clue, even in her head.

She gasps when Killian moves, wrapping his fingers around the end of his left arm and Emma wishes she’d stop just realizing things.

It’s jarring.

Particularly when the villain of the story has stopped being silent and started laughing again and he’s definitely taken lessons from comic books.

“Magic,” Emma mumbles. Killian still hasn’t opened his eyes. And the Darkness is getting stronger – metaphorically and literally and it’s hard to see her own hand on Killian’s shirt.

“Leaves a mark,” the Darkness says. His skin glitters in the shadows, a hint of light that doesn’t do much to help the twist of Emma’s internal organs. “I’d imagine feeling the loss of one’s hand when one isn’t, in fact, dead would be rather traumatic.”

He moves his eyebrows, letting them fly up towards his hairline and Emma has no idea what to do next. Her own magic feels like it’s fizzling out in her right foot. “What say you, dead man?” the Darkness continues. “Does it hurt a little bit?” There’s a muffled groan, but Emma isn’t sure if it comes from Killian or one of his uncles and she has to lean back when his head drops forward.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Emma chants. She also wishes she could stop lying. “Just look at me. I’m right here. You’re fine.” She casts a glance towards Ruby, not sure what she’s looking for but the edge Emma suddenly finds herself perched on feels perilously steep. Ruby does her best to mumble something against the gag, jerking her shoulders and twisting her head until the fabric falls to her chin.

She’s definitely kicked another goon in the process.

“God, shit, fuck,” Ruby hisses, and Shakespeare may actually snicker. “Why’d you cut off his goddamn hand? Jeez, Em, the question is obvious.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’ve been a little busy.” “Yeah, yeah, sure. Hey, over here, Dark One—” “—You know, I do have a name,” the Darkness quips, easy as ever, but Emma is far too busy trying to avoid as much of Killian as she can to be bothered with it.

“Yeah, I genuinely do not care. Why’d you have to cut off his hand? Wasn’t he already dead?”

“Oh yes, exceedingly dead. Six feet under, metaphorically speaking. As dead as a doornail. One foot in the grave. Several other clichés. But I needed to know why Cora was wrong. I could feel it you know, when I saw him, the magic—” “—Wait, you felt it?” Emma snaps. The Darkness smirks at her.

“I wouldn’t have trusted Mr. Teach with a task quite that critical. After all, the water was gone and I still wasn’t sure where to find you, Savior. But then Mr. Teach summoned me and what did I find? A man with True Love magic practically percolating off him and, well, True Love has to work both ways, doesn’t it? So I took a little souvenir. It’s been a rather expansive plan, dearie, I’d think you’d almost be impressed.”

“Only if you explain it.” The Darkness’ eyes, well...darken, and Emma can feel her own magic react to that, a pleasant return, although the power she can tell is simmering in the pit of her stomach isn’t particularly good. It’s anger and something drifting closer to hatred and she wants to do something, wants to destroy and ruin and— “Emma,” Killian breathes. He’s still bent awkwardly in front of her, hair hanging in the minimal space between them, and his voice is barely that, but his fingers reach for her and that may be something.

Or everything.

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to...we’re going to figure it out, babe. It’s going to be fine.”

He makes a noise at the endearment that she absolutely, positively was not planning on saying, although, to be fair, she also wasn’t planning on telling him she loved him, so Emma can’t be all too frustrated with her own subconscious. It felt kind of nice to say anyway.

“Don’t,” he says, a contradiction she doesn’t entirely understand. “Please.” Oh. She understands.

And the shadows on the floor are getting longer – she’s positive.

“I’m not leaving,” Emma promises. “Right here. I’m staying right here. No more running. I wouldn't. Not...we’re going to be ok, right?”

She means it as a confirmation, but it sounds like she’s double checking too. Killian grimaces. HIs hair is matted to his forehead, moisture on his cheeks that may be sweat or tears and Emma’s fingers tingle.

“It hurts.” “I know it does. I know. I…” Emma’s head snaps around, trying to find something, anything, that will help but the Darkness is back on the couch and the goons are moving closer to them and she’s only like sixty-seven percent positive Ruby is trying to untie Nemo.

Killian cries out, a flash of pain that Emma feels in every inch of her. His eyes fly open, not quite clear and not quite looking at her and something is very, very, inextricably wrong.

He stumbles, wobbling on his feet as his knees buckle under him and Emma takes another step back, twisting her arms behind her. One of his uncles tries to move, but there are more punches thrown and Ruby’s heels should be marked as their own brand of weaponry and the tears on Killian’s cheeks feel as if they’re branding themselves on Emma’s soul.

“What the hell is happening right now?” she demands.

The Darkness giggles. Honestly. It’s a giggle and it’s horrible and horrendous and some other words that starts with the letter ‘h.’

Hopping off the couch, his feet barely making any noise on the carpet. They’re going to have to buy a new carpet. This one is probably marked or something now.

And the shadows have started creeping up the wall.

Emma can hear her pulse hammering in her ears as the Darkness moves towards her, slow measured steps that don’t match up to the sneer on his face. She ignores that for a moment, dropping to her knees instead to try and work her way back into Killian’s eye line. She can’t – his head is pressed against the floor, body taut with tension and an impossibly straight spine, a few noises every other second that sound like complete and utter agony.

“It’s not real,” Emma says, another lie or promise she can’t keep and she doesn’t mean to gasp when he looks up at her.

The expression there doesn’t make any sense. It’s not hatred, it’s more, the opposite of everything she’d felt during impossibly out-of-place declarations. The blue in his eyes has turned nearly black, everything a hint darker than it was a moment before.

“You left.” Emma swallows, terror climbing up every one of her vertebrae and taking root at the base of her spine. Her eyes are ridiculously dry. It’s probably because she can’t remember the last time she actually blinked.

“You left,” Killian says again, voice not quite as gruff as it had been. “You left. You said you wouldn’t and you did. You never came back.” “Killian, I…” “No, no, no, you left. You said you’d come back and you never did and then it was too late and everything got so quiet. It all stopped. Like I stopped. Just...drifting on waves.” Emma’s breath is coming in pants, not doing much to help the sting in her lungs and the possible crack forming in her heart. There are still tears on Killian’s face, falling over skin and into the scruff of a beard that’s become almost familiar and oddly comforting in the last few days.

God, she wants to touch him.

She wants to kiss him and fix this and stop whatever the hell is causing that look on his face.

Like he hates her.

Like he knows she’s wrong.

“It got so quiet,” he whispers. “It was...I knew it was wrong and I...it was too late and I…” Killian trails off, face contorted in pain again. Emma’s hand darts out, a mistake and an instinct and those two words don’t seem like they should go together.

The Darkness clicks his tongue.

“I think,” he starts slowly, feet moving in front of Emma’s outstretched fingers, “what the dead man is trying to say is that he thought of you in his final moments. Isn’t that interesting? Some would almost say romantic.”

She doesn’t stand up easily, which is a little frustrating because Emma assumes the hero of the story should be able to support her own weight, literally and metaphorically, but she eventually gets back to her feet, rolling her shoulders and shaking her hair onto her back.

It’s fake confidence, a mask and another, slightly more necessary, lie. And she knows she’s not fooling anyone, but she doesn’t have another plan and—

“Why’d you take his hand?” The Darkness laughs. “I needed it.” “Why?” “Several reasons. The first, and most important, was to find you. As I said, I could practically taste that magic. Sweet on my tongue as soon as I set foot on that deck. It almost made the blood less obvious.”

Emma bites on her lip to stop herself from making any noise – and the peanut gallery is doing enough of that anyway, low curses and louder grunts and Ruby’s taken one of her heels off, swatting at goon hard enough that it will definitely leave a mark.

“There was quite a lot of blood, Savior,” the Darkness adds, nodding towards her like he wants to make sure she’s still a rapt audience. “Did you know that True Love magic has a tendency to focus itself in certain locations?” Emma shakes her head. She thinks she shakes her head. She’s not entirely sure how she’s still standing. “It does,” the Darkness guarantees. “Settles into something that’s of relative importance to the person. Of course, that’s usually the heart, but occasionally, it’s something else.” “And I couldn't take the dead man’s heart. People knew he’d left Storybrooke. He still had a family and Cora...oh Cora. She’d made so many mistakes, she severely limited my options. Luckily for her, there was another spot that felt particularly magical, maybe even more than the heart. I was pleasantly surprised.”

Emma falls over.

It’s disappointing.

So I can hold your hand.

“His hand,” she mumbles, and the Darkness honest to God winks at her.

“His hand. Chock full of magic. To an almost absurd degree. I knew that it would lead me to the true source of the True Love magic and, well, I’ll be blunt with you Savior, I had hoped it would lead me to you. Because, still being blunt of course, holding your True Love’s hand may be your greatest undoing.” Emma is never sure what happens next. She can feel the surge of something wash over her, a snap of fingers and rush of power and every single light on the entire goddamn street goes out.

Killian screams.

It feels a bit like being thrown into boiling pitch, every single one of Emma’s nerve endings jolting under her skin until she’s certain she’s being ripped apart at the seams and nothing has ever felt worse. Her head is on a swivel, looking for an ally or a friend or those people from her dream that she’s fairly certain she understands now, but there’s only darkness and a hint of laughter that lingers on the edge of everything.

She crawls forward, trying not to get too close to Killian while also getting close to Killian.

His whole body is shaking, vibrating with pain and the distinct feeling of being alone and trapped in that house for the rest of his life.

“Killian,” Emma breathes, but he doesn’t look at her. She’s not sure he even realizes she’s there. “Killian, please! I’m...here. I’m not going anywhere. This isn’t real. None of it is real.” “Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure about that Savior,” the Darkness contends. “Because, you see, having that little bit of the dead man in my possession has made it very easy to get, well, forgive the pun, but to get a hand on that same dead man. He’s not magic. He’s been holding onto it, trying to remember and linger in it, a hint of a memory I’m certain was very comforting in his final moments. Did you think of her when you died, dead man?” The question hangs for a moment and Emma can’t hear Killian breathing. Until she hears him speaking. “That was…” he mutters, every letter an obvious pain, “all...that was all…” “That’s what I thought,” the Darkness says. “Would you look at that, Savior? You’re right smack dab in the middle of both of the dead man’s worst moments. Losing his brother and losing himself. And now I’ve got that as well. Right in the palm of my hand. Or his hand? Ah, the specifics don’t matter.” “Speak goddamn English,” Emma shouts.

The smile disappears. Any sense of polite disappears. And Emma sees the Darkness for what he is, just that. The villain of the story and a man who’d stop at nothing for his magic and his power and the chance to have what he’d already lost.

“I can control him,” he says softly. “Twist those feelings, that hint of magic to my own being. That’s why he had to know what you’d done to his brother. To clear your heart and purify your magic and make him absolutely, completely mine. Because you see, Savior, True Love is a two-way street, but I’ve just washed out his side of the road. You’ll still feel it, and he’ll have wisps of it, when I let him. So you’ve got one option now. Help me, bring back my son and, occasionally, I’ll let your dead man remember you.” “Or?” “Or, I’ll spend the rest of eternity making him live this moment on loop. And I’ll take you without your permission.”

Emma scoffs. It’s ridiculous. Although she isn’t certain she’s ever been more pissed off, genuinely and completely furious, the kind that burns straight through her and lingers in her toes, so she figures it kind of, almost makes sense.

“Fuck you,” she sneers, gaze snapping back towards Killian. He can’t look at her. Emma licks her lips, mind racing and heart racing and the magic she’s apparently full of feels as if it’s crackling between every strand of her hair. “Killian,” she says, softer that time and she’s got half an idea that may work. “How often did you go to the hill? After, I mean. When it was...when you were a kid, after me, and after I left. Did you go to the hill a lot?” He winces.

It’s honestly not the response she was hoping for.

“There’s got to be something good, Killian,” Emma presses. The floor creaks underneath the Darkness’ feet. She assumes that’s a sign. This might work. “Some memory or some moment. It wasn’t all bad, was it?” He can barely shake his head, eyes screwed shut in pain, but his hair shifts slightly against his forehead and Emma’s laugh rattles out of her. “No,” he breathes. “It wasn’t.” “He went up there all the time,” another voice adds, and Emma looks up to find Nemo's eyes serious and gaze intent as Ruby tries to work the gag away from his chin. “Every other day at least. If we couldn’t find him, he was there.” “Yeah?” Nemo nods. “He’s got a picture of you. Stuck in the back drawer of his dresser. I know—I know he doesn’t think we realize it’s there, but, well...we knew it was there. The whole time. You’re young and you—you’re holding—” “—A stuffed animal,” Emma mutters, another nod from Nemo.

“I won it,” Killian adds. His voice is still questionably soft, as if it’s a struggle to even open his mouth. “It was one of those fair games. Knock over the milk bottles and win a prize.” “But I thought it was fixed.” “Yelled at the guy until you turned beet red.” “I did not,” Emma argues, and she can’t believe she’s arguing with a man who’s already died and feels like he’s dying and the Darkness sounds like it’s suffocating behind her. She can see Killian’s eyes a little clearer. They’re the right shade of blue.

He shakes his head, half a smirk and all her smile. “No, Swan. You yelled and shouted and called him a downright dirty liar and you stomped your foot.” “Yeah, that might be true.” “And he gave me another round for free.” “So you could win me a stuffed duck with a lopsided bill.” “Ah, not everything is perfect.” “It felt like it was.” Killian hums – a sound that quickly turns back into pain and Emma’s breath hitches loudly. “You still left though,” he whispers. “I never—Liam was gone and no one could ever tell me and—” “I kept those pictures too,” Emma interrupts, and the light that flares around them is practically blinding. “The duck was...I think the duck got lost somewhere between Florida and Minnesota and a string of houses, but I kept those pictures and they’re—they’re in my room. Now. I always wanted to come back. For you. Because—” She doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Eventually that will frustrate her quite a bit. Eventually that will feel like the single worst thing to ever happen to her.

The Darkness doesn’t scream. He doesn’t roar. There’s not much more than a low growl in the back of his throat, but Emma isn’t sure she’s ever heard a more threatening noise and his eyes look almost yellow when she turns towards him.

Not entirely of her own free will.

She almost misses the snap of fingers, any hint of light from her or the power of True Love of whatever gone in an instant and there’s a bottle of something in his hand. It’s liquid, that much she can make out, inky black and sloshing against the side of a glass vial that looks like it came straight out of an 18th century apothecary.

It honestly may have. Emma has no idea how old the Darkness is.

“I’ve had enough of this,” the Darkness says, deceptively even. “You’ve clearly picked the wrong option, Savior. I’d rather not spend much more time fighting against you and that stubborn streak of yours. Luckily,” he shakes the vial and Emma swears her blood runs cold, “I’ve got enough of this to keep you on your own leash for quite some time.”

He tosses the cork carelessly over his shoulder, suddenly in front of Emma and she kind of resents that everything seems to slow.

It makes it far too obvious that Killian is also moving.

And that there is not a single glove in sight.

Emma shakes her head dumbly, a mumbled no that barely makes it past her lips and if Killian is certain her hair is capable of reflecting the sun, then she can come up with some equally sentimental nonsense about his eyes – something about the ocean and waves and the suddenly peaceful moments after a storm has cleared.

“No,” Emma murmurs again, the lump in her throat too large. Her heart feels like it’s about to explode. “Don’t, don’t—” “You came back, Swan,” Killian says. He smiles at her. And wraps his fingers around hers, jerking her closer to his side when the Darkness flips the vial of something towards Emma.

Or where Emma was.

The liquid misses her completely, body flat against Killian’s chest. She doesn’t move at first, can’t bring herself to know what is already there, but someone screams and she’s fairly certain it’s Ruby.

Emma digs her teeth into her lip, and he’s already colder than she expected, but he’s also just as solid and certain as she always imagined he’d be and his eyes are closed when she sits up.

“Killian,” she whispers, dragging the tips of her fingers over the curve of his cheek. He doesn’t move. He won’t. Because Killian Jones is dead – and that’s not going to change.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #one foot in #EVERYTHING'S HAPPENING SO MUCH

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 11 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 11 of 83

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story? Read from the beginning. PART 1 is here

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Chapter 3a: Kurti

Captain Barad Maks brooded on his sybaritically appointed bunk. At last, I’m finally going to get completely even, maybe ahead of the Longin. It’s not so much that they’ve avoided my nets or even that they’ve tangled me in every net that I’ve cast their way — — — Skill I can admire. It was almost getting me fed to the Strong Skins at my first Gathering as Captain. Mord had nothing to gain by exposing my game. He near got me killed and for what? Nothing! He was already a captain and there were no other good candidates. I chose my time carefully in that regard.

He rolled out of bed and began to dress. His new cabin-girl, Kurti, quickly came out of the bed and helped him with his sleeves and the tying of his sash and neck-cloth. She offered no word, out of fear. I wonder what really happened to Chena? Nobody seems to know. One evening she was here and the next day the Captain chose me to replace her. They say it was food poisoning but she was the only one. Whatever happened to her, I don’t want it to happen to me! She looked at the Captain critically and took a chance on speech, saying, “I think perhaps this hat, with the Wide Wing plume. It will make a dashing appearance.”

Smiling tolerantly at the girl’s obvious fear, he replied, “By the Dragons, Ch … Kurti, isn’t it? I’m only going about the ship for an inspection. I need to see Master Selked on a small matter. That’s all.”

Kurti smiled tentatively in return and said, “True, Sir. Ch … your previous cabin-girl did not dress you well. I think that you will gain even more respect if you always dress well.” She paused and considered for a moment before adding, “Unless the part that you are acting needs something else.”

Barad actually found it in him to beam, genuinely pleased, his vanity stroked. He patted her cheek gently and said, “Very well, Kurti, I will let you decide my dress for most occasions, even the most trivial. If it goes well for morale you will have my appreciation, which is no small thing.

“If it does nothing, it will be remembered to your credit as an honest try to help. In spite of what you may have heard, I do remember those on my side.”

Kurti was afraid to ask what had happened to Chena. The answer would have surprised her. Captain Barad would have told her with complete candor what happened. He was no fool to blab secrets where they could escape and he knew that she could not get away. What few people, even those closest to him, understood was that he was not ashamed of or bothered by anything that he had ever done. Nor did they understand how swiftly he could change course completely if he believed himself to be wrong.

As he walked the familiar grimy corridors of the Grandalor, going to the boat-shop, he felt a buoyant spring to his step. He felt as good as he looked. He had not paid much attention to casual dress before, and found that it did have an immediate effect on his own morale. His own mood of self confidence communicated itself to those who saw him. Crew-folk who saw him coming sprang alertly out of his path instead of clearing the way sullenly.

The Captain knocked at the entrance of the shop and waited for Selked’s call of “Enter!” before he did.

Captain Barad looked approvingly about the meticulously tidy shop. There were many kits of tools for every purpose on the sea, each bearing the marks of the Grandalor and Selked, piled neatly on every surface. From the overhead beams around the roof-skylight-hatch hung net bags filled with scrapers, bow-drills, and many other tools to be sold singly.

Selked, Master Boat-wright and tool maker, sat before his bench working on sets of sail stitching tools. Each set was in a fitted box of glued Strong Skin lined with the Gula’s finest velvet. Captain Barad admired Selked’s work and had never interfered with it. Selked’s tools of all types were famous throughout the fleet for their uncompromisingly high quality.

The awl shafts that Selked was presently mounting to handles were all of the hardest, densest Wing Ray bone. The light yellow striations alternating with a delicate brown running the length of each shaft told its origin and value better than any amount of sales talk could. Noticing that there were three shafts more than there were handles, Captain Barad reached out to pick one up to examine more closely.

Selked’s laconic, “Shouldn’t touch that’un, if I were you,” brought him to a quick stop, fingers only inches away from the pointed shaft.

“I wanted to see it more closely. There seems to be a defect in the bone pattern,” said the Captain mildly.

“There is. That’s why I’m mounting this one instead,” said Selked. He pushed home the spike of the awl he was assembling, using a pair of special pliers to handle it, as he seated it into soft glue in the handle’s hole. He carefully wiped the excess glue with a shaped tool to get a smooth fairing between handle and shaft.

He took his marking tool of Hag beak, wiped on the mordant bone marking ink and placed his mark onto it, slightly off kilter, and just a touch blurred.

Setting the tool into the last place in a kit box, he closed it and handed it to the Captain.

“This is the kit you want for your little scheme. Sorry that it took as long as it did to make but, as you noticed, I had some trouble getting the Ord spines to take the dye properly.”

Casually, he added, “All the rest of the kit but the awl spike is Merk’s last bungled piece of work. He tried to take one shortcut too many the other night. Didn’t use the handling pliers on the very spine that you were reaching for when he poked it into Chena’s snack. I found him when I opened the shop next morning. Passed it off as blood poisoning from an infected cut.”

“Thanks for the timely warning. This kit should be just what is needed and ready in plenty of time.” Barad considered for a second and added admiringly, “Those spines must have been difficult to work with.”

“They were, Captain. — — May I ask what the occasion is?”

“This?” Barad gestured at his clothing and smiled, “It’s my new cabin-girl’s idea. Kurti thinks that if I dress the part of Captain better, I will have more respect from the crew. Speaking of which, choose who you will for your next apprentice. I’ll see that you get your choice.”

Selked replied seriously, “My thanks, Captain. You know, Kurti could be right about that. You project more of an air of authority along with your power. If she lives up to her other duties as well, she could be well worth keeping. Pretty too. You do have an eye for them, Sir.”

Lightly Barad returned, “I pride myself on it. By the way, I am planning a game of Three Dragons in my cabin tonight. Would you care to join?”

“My pleasure, Captain. Tonight then!”

Captain Barad continued his tour of the ship. It appeared that Kurti was right. Obedience to his orders and suggestions was prompter and less sullen. The lack of respect, even as the crew followed orders, that had plagued his captaincy appeared to be dissolving. And for such a small thing!

He found First Officer Timms on the quarter deck seeing to the butchering a freshly caught four-ton Strong Skin. All of the men were wearing full foul weather waterproofs and gloves. A crew, similarly dressed waited by with mops and buckets to clean up. Mister Timms was applying spots of red weed paste to the fish and its skin. Far too much of the paste was turning the sickly dangerous green that signaled Ord contamination.

“Mister Timms! How goes the effort to find a use for the Ord in fishing?”

He looked up from his work and answered, “This one is the best so far. Out of ten fish, we have gotten less than fifteen tons of meat and lost over half of the hides to contamination.

“The toxin spreads so fast! I have tried infusions in bait, Ord spine in the harpoon points and this… We harpooned it in the usual way and pricked it with a spine on a pole to kill it. You can see for yourself. We got the most hide, this time.” He cast a glance at the lean form of the dead predator. “Just over three-fourths.”

Barad actually looked pleased. The wind played in the plume of his hat. “Give over the effort, Mister Timms. You have tried all that could be reasonably be done. I will want all of your notes to append to the log entry.”

“Very good, Sir. Working around this stuff was making me nervous, to tell you the truth.” He cleaned his gloves and sleeves meticulously in a bucket before he took them off. He added a few notes to a small sheaf and handed them to the Captain.

Barad nodded his head solemnly. “It was too good an idea not to try. It’s a pity that it didn’t work better.” He walked to a companionway and went down into the ship.

The Purser’s scriptorium was his last stop. The newly pirated Ephemerides were coming along nicely and some copies were already bound.

“Excellent work, Morgu. If we can get twenty copies of each volume, I know just who will buy them and how to promote them.”

Morgu looked up from his high desk in the corner of the room and gave a rare, thin mouthed smile at the praise. “We should have them done by the Gathering, though it will be a near thing.”

“Excellent! I need a small favor. On these notes here, can you add a brief remark about the loss of one spine, apparently dropped overboard? You should have seen it happen to give credibility to the loss. The note should be in Mister Timms’ hand.”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS NEXT==>

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#SEA DRAGON’S GIFT #Part 11 of 83 #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

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bladekindeyewear · 4 years

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HS^2 bloggin’ bonus 2020-02-01

bladekindeyewear:

Boy that sure is a new HS^2 bonus I should blogread. And there was a commentary on the Patreon for the last proper upd8 too.

I’ll… do it sometime this weekend, not right away. (Had a stomach virus through Monday and Tuesday that’s left me pretty fucked over and still waiting for the aftereffects to flee.)

Alright, taking a crack at both of these now. (Both light on images and quoting, since it’s all Patreon material.) So what’s going on here? Are the bonus chapters splitting into separate stories perhaps, following the lecture in one and the PS^2 crew in another? Also, from the replies on the previous:

gaaraofsburbia said: It was very good and I was very happy

Good to know. Time to read, bonus first! *clicks link*

...the title of a book someone’s holding. Bookmarked (with a red flag?). Uh huh. Good start.

> ==>

“A picture book for young parliamentarians.) ...oh wow, it’s Carapacian even. Did the Mayor have anything to do with this book?

--Wait. Waitwaitwait. This isn’t-- the authors wouldn’t go back in time and show us like-- PM and the Mayor trying to start the-- nooo.

> ==>

Oh shit, never mind. This is a book ABOUT the Mayor. Starting from him farming on Skaia and continuing from there with a focus on societal structures presumably. So, sort of like what I just said but not quite as goddamn heartwrenching, most likely.

You know, this WOULD have been a good opportunity for the authors to finally bring some canon awareness to all the rampant Breath and Blood visual-and-textual symbolism around WV and PM’s arcs, giving people some HINT of their potential importance outside some crazy unproven blog post on some crazy wrong person’s blog. But I’m not really convinced Andrew or his new replacements, er... y’know. Care. About letting us know about all that cool shit. Or even dissuading us if we were somehow wrong. Just gonna... let us haaaang in the breeeze there forever, more likely. :T

...this is still what I’m most bitter about regarding the end of Homestuck, as you can obviously tell. Thinking -- still believing -- that we found something beautiful and deliberate he’d done, but refusing to have canon openly acknowledge any of it so that 99% of readers will never have a clue about it and the few of us who caught on -- if right -- are just regarded as nutters, and if wrong, NEVER have what we need to finally disprove and accept that wrongness thanks to his silence, thus continuing to believe wrongly and be regarded as nutters.

So I just keep reading and... vacillating. Vacillating on whether to believe any of this will get brought up in HS^2 canon, or whether to cynically fear they’ll take the worst route: Doing things EXACTLY like Andrew did and dropping only vague hints that keep it an implied-only, unconfirmed mystery forever. Because that’s what made the comic popular! And it’s “safe”. :(

...man, gut issues really bring the pessimist out of you, don’t they. Let’s keep reading. Once upon a time there was a simple farmer...

> ==>

Horrible kings kept fighting and didn’t care about the land, destroying it underneath their war. Right. (Mostly paraphrasing here and from now, mind you.)

> ==>

WV wanted to stop the kings, but the kings had power.

> ==>

That power had to be destroyed too. (Shows the rings.)

> ==>

Hm, the journey that ends up in the rings’ destruction to the desert? Are we going to fill in some context here?

> ==>

--And made friends with curious creatures and powerful people! (Showing the fake Can Town built with Dave and Karkat along the meteor trip.)

Assumedly internalizing all those practice-town lessons, of course.

> ==>

--Oh, cool! So one of the first things WV and PM did upon coming to Earth C to start their founding process was destroy the rings, the temptation of that power, throwing it into the Forge.

EDIT: krixwell said: "I don't know exactly how it reads in the bonus update because I'm not a patron, but WV and PM throwing the rings in the Forge happened before they entered Universe C, and was shown in HS proper (8107-8111, 8123-8126 and at the beginning of [S] Act 7). It was required to light the Forge and send the Genesis Tadpole to Skaia." Ah, file that under more things I forgot about, then.

> ==>

Where once nothing,

> ==>

Earth C was founded/born, etc.

> ==>

Ah okay! So with a backdrop of the Town Hall under construction, we’re getting some context specifically as to how and why the Mayor set up society the way he did on Earth C. Especially the challenging question of who would govern the world and how.

> ==>

Oh shit, text dump! :D

The problem was unfortunately compounded by the fact that when the topic of fair and effective governance is broached, most sparing intellects immediately assume a certain posture. Not one of surrender or admiration, but of abject and interminable boredom.

This fact makes it hard to treat such a fascinating subject with the proper amount of attention and enthusiasm, BUT WE SHALL DO OUR BEST TO UNDERSTAND REGARDLESS.

Alright, loving this.

Also, this’ll undoubtedly put into context just how MUCH the Mayor had to think about how society would work best to have set up -- and how little comparative thought Jane put into the process when just drafting up something United-States-like and familiar. Remember how awful it was the childlike way the Condesce essentially kept trying to recreate her familiar surroundings and rule structure on Earth? It was only natural that her Life-aspected protege would make similar errors, I suppose.

Back to reading this long page... I won’t just quote all the details of this representative system, because that’s up to y’all to pony up for. But I’ll note if there’s anything interesting in it that makes me think. Let’s see...

...Hm! The number of seats each kingdom got in parliament was based on voter turnout... THAT’S a heavy incentive to get out the vote, if your kingdom can literally lose influence if you don’t.

On the happy occasions where the maximum number of seats were allocated in all four quarters, this was known as a "full House".

Oh, fuck you. :)

...oh dear, that was only the beginning of the card slang.

I’m not going to list all of them here. They make sense in context, which is even worse.

Without going into too much detail, consorts all tend to have significantly shorter lifespans than the other citizens of Earth C. Because of this, a large number of House Rules were dedicated to describing exactly what to do if a seat was vacated mid-term due to the death of its occupant.

Not the carapacian kingdom, the consort kingdom. Don’t panic, y’all.

The DELIVERY OF JUSTICE (DoJ) was founded to keep the peace and arbitrate in all legal matters, and its members were the brave soldiers of God in this righteous crusade.

They also took care of the MAIL.

Oooooof course. :)

Unions get their rep, if only for a pun...

Oh, hm. The Mayor’s office is much like a ceremonial-only monarch’s office without serious power. Etc etc...... reading...

So governing Earth C was a complicated affair, and only became more convoluted over time. But the really important thing was that, despite all this complexity, it worked. It really worked. At one point, a whole field of mathematics was developed just to explain why the interim government worked so well, and they ended up proving it categorically. It was theoretically perfect.

Ppfffff

--ah. And then the Mayor has a chill as he looks at the clouds and somehow anticipates something terrible happening to it all.

That’s it for the bonus. I’m guessing the next chapter of this separate bonus story will go over some sort of threat the system endured, while the Mayor was still alive, possibly? Or cut forward to the creators’ arrival and how that fucked a bunch of stuff up? A sort of demonstration on why the gods who create a universe shouldn’t take charge of those living in it or such? Hm.

Alright, if that’s it for the bonus, let’s see what’s available for Patreon commentary... here we go, just the one for the latest mainline upd8 that I knew had come out.

Sketches and Commentary: Chapter 3, How Are Your Feelings

Before starting into this, I want to note that I do have SOME ray of hope for more Awake Jade involvement to shine against my previous rant -- because that OTHER callie-controlled younger Jade body is coming, which I’d forgotten about. As soon as the pursuit crew arrives in-system and THAT Jade finally gets there through whatever black-hole-powered teleportation magic she’s using (with Aradia and Robodave), it’ll be completely safe for OUR Jade to be awake and active at will. Theoretically.

So... y’know, that’s nice. Whenever that will happen.

So onto the commentary, we’re starting with that stupid ship.

(I think I actually said something along the lines of, "this is stupid, so we're using it." I know my Homestuck history. For those interested, the ship is modelled after a schooner, and continues the Homestuck tradition of spaceships that look like regular sea-faring vessels, only with additional stuff bolted on. - Pip)

...Yeah, can’t blame you there.

This is Jake’s “second best” ship. It makes me really nervous to think about what the third-best looks like.

Flying booty shorts, most likely.

...yeah, I did notice that latest upd8 playing with colors in a way the comic rarely even did, it was pretty nice. Glad to see they appreciate it too.

...Yep, Karkat getting owned just for the sake of it, there.

First off, Jade’s outfit. It rules. Alt!Callie may have violently forced her consciousness inside of this innocent girl’s brain, but damn these threads are sweet. She’s managed to keep Jade pretty on brand, while throwing in a couple embellishments of her own. That’s what we call “making it work”.

Yes, you’d better WELL fucking acknowledge what you’re doing by keeping Jade in a miserable isolated state for three years. A G A I N.

Nice bit about the casual showing of Dave’s eyes as evidence that Dave’s recovering through some of his old mental blocks.

Dave and Karkat are wearing each other’s shirts, which is traditionally a very gay thing to do. Even more notably perhaps is the fact that Karkat is wearing crimson without a hint of complaint. Again, I doubt this was an intentional move on his part. Just, sometimes you’re coming out of the shower, it’s chilly, and your boyfriend’s shirt fits. Busting through mental blocks should typically come across as whispers to me, rather than shouts.

--Hm, never considered the latter angle.

Karkat is being pretty mean to Possessed Jade. Which sucks, but this situation is incredibly stressful, and Karkat tends to react to stress by being mean. Treating Jade like an irritant allows him to put some distance between himself and the reality that he may have lost another friend.

Guh. That one stung :(

Initially the panel directions here were “everybody pauses to contemplate Dirk fucking Strider”

Mhmm, and you figured it’d be more unsettling to reverse it and remind us that the Prince is aware of all of this too.

Roxy’s heart-shaped sunglasses have become such a thing in the fandom that I kind of can’t imagine him without them at this point, so we decided to make it settled law.

Mhmm, I figured that was how they played it. One of the ways they’re incorporating fandom involvement.

Sometimes I feel like it should be Xam who does these commentaries, since there’s so much incredible shit going on with the art here that I’m really only equipped to comment on with shit like “oh wow, look at these colors. Green and purple huh. Wild. There’s also some light.”

It’s pretty understandable to have the writers take the lead on most commentary as opposed to the artists... normally.

But then you’d have the weird places where they’d have to work together without necessarily giving away their game. Like, all that WV/PM Breath/Blood visual representation I mentioned.

I still don’t know if they’re gonna give away the game on that eventually -- or if Andrew even gave them enough to go on to properly REPLICATE that sort of thing in this official continuation, even though my mind keeps telling me it’d make all sense to -- but if they are thinking about it, I doubt they’ll first show their hand in the commentary.

I love Kanaya’s new outfit.

I understand that sure, but will she be sticking with this outfit through the action though? Looking like a mourning nun?

Kanaya’s nursery story is, of course, The Little Prince, a French fairytale from the 1940’s. It tells the story, rather appropriately, of a young Prince traveling through space looking for something he believes he has lost.

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

I’m not sure why I keep thinking about this quote. Probably some shit that has to do with “themes” or something.

Hinting that once he’s beaten down and likely dying from this stupid exodus plan, at least some part of Dirk may finally realize that any fulfillment and purpose he was looking for with this megalomaniacal nonsense was left behind in the peaceful life he fucking ruined for everyone to do all this. The Heart-blind bastard.

God, Dave is just losing family members left and right, isn’t he? Really makes you think.

Gdi. :(

“Maybe it was naive to think a bunch of twenty something trauma victims could run a society.”

There it is. That’s the whole Epilogue.

And Andrew just had to let us ruin our naivety.

Wow. There really are just a whole lot of feelings in this chapter, aren’t there? It’s very aptly named. And it’s also actually the first part of HS^2 that got drafted; at least the first part that actually made it into the final draft. I wrote it earlier in 2019 when we were still kicking around ideas of what an Epilogue follow-up would actually look like.

Huh. Yeah, I can imagine when writing all this it would make sense to write/use this chapter first, as a knee-jerk reaction.

I do really think Karkat would have been a great president. He would have hated it, but he would have been good at it.

I’m glad the authors are in agreement with everyone else with a brain on this one.

Did you guys know that Karkat still feels immense survivor’s guilt for murderstuck?

Yes. Yes we did.

(Some continued remarks about how Karkat’s self-loathing is like a singularity that draws all blame onto himself in his mind etc.)

Apparently there was a metal gear reference in this second-to-last conversation? Don’t tell me, I don’t care.

Eat the fucking pancakes, dude.

A good place to end the commentary. See y’all when there’s more content!

#Homestuck #hs2 #upd8 #Homestuck Liveblog #Homestuck Commentary #bladekindeyewear #blastyoboots

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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 5 years

Text

Queen of Hearts - Chapter 8

Thirty-year-old Rose Tyler’s matchmaking business is doing very well indeed, bringing her clients such as celebrities, athletes, and the now-happily-married son of the mayor. All of which brings her to her newest client - one whose royal rank is a far cry above her own title as Queen of Hearts.

Ian, King of Gallifrey, calls off his wedding four weeks before the happy day as he realizes he can’t spend another minute of his life with his betrothed. The catch - he must take a wife before his Coronation, only a month away. In desperation, his sister and aunt conspire to find him is happy ever after - and it’s going to take a master matchmaker to do it.

Based on the Hallmark Movie ‘Royal Matchmaker’. Chapters will be posted every Sunday.

As always, beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma! @doctorroseprompts

Masterlist | AO3

—

Monday, April 8th

Rose essentially spent all of Monday on Skype, interviewing their shortlist. Each candidate got twenty-five minutes, and the list was fairly easy to pare down – too easy.

“Why does Reinette have to be out of the country?” she whined, going to the corkboard and crossing off another name. “My gut says she’s the best of them all. I just… don’t get the sense that any of them will be able to get past the gruff exterior.”

“Are we sure there is anything past the gruff exterior?” Mel asked, queueing up the next interview but not yet connecting.

Rose nodded, folding her arms tightly across her stomach and staring out the window. “Absolutely. The question is, will he let any of these women in?” She thought about how he had behaved when they were alone, first on Saturday at the festival and then again on Sunday, in the library. She’d seen another side of him, a softer side, one that just wanted to take care of the people he loved.

Her theory was that was what attracted him to his previous fiancée; the anonymity. The ability to just be, with no duties or expectations. Someone who wanted him for Ian, not for ‘the King’.

A normal life.

Ian scowled at his closet, wondering how he could have so. much. clothing. and nothing to put on. Another evening, another dinner shared with Rose, and he couldn’t decide what to wear. Rather than try to analyze the why of that particular angst, he instead started at one end again and flicked through his options.

Typically after a day full of pomp and pompousness, or more specifically meeting with the Privy Council, he tried to go casual with his dress, normal trousers and a rock band tee – but this was the first one since his daily dinner dates arrangement with Rose started. He wanted her to have a good impression of him, wanted to appear dignified and royal, but he also wanted to be himself.

A fresh suit hung on the back of the door and he crossed his arms, staring between it and the Beatles tee he wanted.

I want to know you, she had said when she first arrived and he got blindsided by Donna and Sarah’s treachery. The real you, the one your wife will know.

Well, that settled it. Nodding sharply he pulled the tee off the hanger and over his head, smoothing it down before searching out an old, worn pair of jeans he loved. His queen would have to understand that Ian Reginald Docherty was a force unto himself, and in the privacy of his own home (palatial as it may be) he was going to be comfortable. If she didn’t like rock music, they would have an issue.

He made it as far as opening his bedroom door before stopping with a sigh, slowly turning back and grabbing the jacket from a black suit and shrugging it on to add a bit of decorum to his look.

Rose was waiting in the hallway outside the closed dining room doors, fidgeting, and he took a moment to stop and watch her.

She was all dolled up in a dress and heels, turning to check her reflection in a mirror hung on the wall.

Gazing at her his heart gave a painful thump, one that was growing steadily harder to ignore. After spending the last several days answering her questions and being forced to reflect on the kind of partner he wanted for the first time, he was slowly coming to form a picture of his perfect wife in his mind, and the image was perhaps a little too clear.

She turned then, catching sight of him, and her face lit up like the sun. “Your Majesty,” she shot him a teasing grin, dipping into a curtsey that grew more natural and less formal by the day. “Nice shirt.”

“Thanks.” Ian could not have stopped his answering smile for anything on Earth as he joined her, and in a fit of whimsy, offered her his elbow. “May I escort you to dinner?”

“Why thank you.” She laced her arm through his, letting her tongue peek between her teeth and wiping his mind clear. “Shall we?” she prompted when he didn’t move.

“Yes.” His pulse thundered in his ears, and he turned to guide her back up the hallway closer towards his inner sanctum.

She trotted along with him easily enough, though he could feel the heat from her curious glances. “Where are we going?”

“In here.”

As if by magic a door on their right swung open, and they walked into a far smaller room than the usual. A table that sat six took up the majority of the space, with two places set across from each other. Ian guided her to the closer one and helped her into her seat, before coming around the table and settling down across from her. The head of the table sat empty, and the only decoration was a vase of flowers.

“This is lovely,” Rose murmured, looking around the room, “but I don’t understand.”

“It’s a bit less formal in here,” Ian shrugged, delighting in the awe and wonder on her face as she noted the details in the space. “When I take meals alone, or with just Donna or Sarah, we eat in here.”

She nodded slowly, opening her mouth as if to speak before snapping it shut again. “How was your day?” she asked instead, and leaning forward he began to tell her, pushing away the soft voice in the back of his mind that grew louder every day.

If you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.

After dinner they attempted another stroll on the grounds, though this time, Ian did his best to avoid controversial topics.

“What’s your favorite thing about Gallifrey?” Rose asked, once they’d made it a few yards from the patio.

“What?”

“Your favorite thing,” she repeated. “Just… when you think about Gallifrey, what do you think of?”

The first thing that came to mind was so surprising he stopped dead, barely noticing when Rose continued on for a few feet before turning back.

“Your Majesty?”

“Home,” he said roughly, blinking rapidly and meeting her eye with no small amount of wonder. “When I think of Gallifrey, I think of home.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

Ian shrugged. “I suppose,” he allowed, starting to walk again. “Especially now. It’s just something I never expected. Donna is home, Sarah Jane is home, but Gallifrey?” he trailed off.

Rose nodded, peeking shyly up at him. “I never thought I’d miss living with my Mum, but it only took a few weeks of living on my own to make me. Even now, after almost eight years, ‘home’ is still her flat, not mine. Not really. I call it home, and it is home, but it’s also not… home. It’s strange.”

“I felt that way when I moved to the States for school. When my grandfather was alive and king we lived down at Lungbarrow House, by the edge of the lake, but he died when I was young, and my father ascended. After that we moved into the palace, but there’s a bit of me that still thinks of that place as home – especially since Donna had her twins and moved down there.”

“I’ve always quite liked the idea of home as a person,” Rose murmured, sticking her hands in her pockets, giving him a fleeting smile when he glanced down at her. “You know, ‘home is where the heart is’? I think I’d quite like that.”

“Can I ask…”

“Yes?”

Ian hesitated, but her open expression made him ask, “You don’t seem to be attached. How can you be a matchmaker without finding your own love?”

“Fair question,” she allowed. “I’ve seen love, absolutely. I believe in it, clearly, but I’ve seen it in action. My parents… Mum never remarried, and when I asked, she said she’d had offers now and again, but that Dad was it – he was her true love, and nothing could compare. I see it in my clients’ eyes, when they’re dancing at their wedding. I see it in people’s smiles everywhere. I know it exists, and I know it exists for me, I just haven’t found him yet. But I will, when it’s time.”

“I admire your optimism,” he said diplomatically, “and I certainly hope that’s true for you.”

“It is,” Rose spoke with such confidence she had him half-convinced. “And it’s true for you too.”

“I’m so tired of being alone,” slipped out, his eyes widening slightly in surprise at the confession. “I’m so tired of having no one to share my evenings with, my life with.”

“You’ve your sister, and aunt, and a kingdom full of people who love you!”

Ian shook his head slowly. “I’m utterly alone at this time of night, if you haven’t noticed.” He stared out towards the lake, able to see it only after decades of experience – it was a cloudy night, the sky pitch black.

Rose tugged on his sleeve and he stopped, mostly at her audacity, and he glanced down at her again. “What?”

“There’s me,” she said earnestly, giving him a smile bright enough to power the entire kingdom. “At least until you find The One, there’s me.”

And suddenly, he could see.

Tuesday, April 9th

The next day was full of engagements, Rose continuing to shadow the King. Most of the morning was spent standing back with Sarah Jane and watching him work, and she relished the opportunity to see him interact with his subjects.

“How goes the search?” his aunt asked, as he read a story to a preschool class.

“What?” Jarred from her thoughts Rose blinked, tearing her eyes away from where they’d been studying him. Despite his brusque personality with adults he was a hit with the kids, giving Rose an idea of what he might be like as a father; it certainly improved her opinion of him as a future parent. She could almost see it, him sprawled on a twin bed next to a tiny blond tot, reading bedtime stories and using funny voices as he was doing now, pretending not to notice her watching.

Wait, what? She shook her head violently to clear the image, though it only faded into the background versus vanishing completely. I’m certainly not going to be there! Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch at the idea, and she promptly promised herself to lay off the fine wine they’d been plying her and Mel with since they arrived.

“Rose? Are you all right?”

“Yes! Yes, fine, everything’s fine,” she said brightly, trying to focus on the woman next to her. “He’s awfully good with them, isn’t he?”

The other woman gave her a speculative look, but merely nodded. “He would never admit it, but he likes kids. You should see him as ‘Uncle Ian’ – he loves Donna’s children something fierce. And Luke, though he was obviously older when they met.”

Rose hummed, distracted once again by Ian. Every so often he would catch her eye and his smile would widen, sending her heart racing and stomach clenching. The better she got to know him the less severe his features seemed – what once seemed impenetrable ice blue eyes now held a brightly burning fire, one he seemed to keep well hidden.

“I did have a question, though,” she started carefully, peering at the other woman’s expression, but Sarah Jane just blinked.

“Yes?”

“I can’t help but notice that these engagements aren’t particularly well attended,” Rose bit her lip, trying to choose her words wisely. “It doesn’t seem as though people are terribly interested in seeing their king.”

Sarah Jane burst into laughter, catching her nephew’s attention and earning her a frown. “Because he’s so accessible,” she said, smiling. “Things have been busy so he hasn’t had a chance since you arrived, but roughly once a month he dedicates a whole day to hear the complaints of the kingdom. You know, if you have a squabble with the law, or a neighbor, and you want him to pass judgement. There are events like this two or three times a week. Sometimes he goes for a stroll down High Street. It’s… it’s like seeing the mayor. You’re pleased to see him, it’s a bit of a celebrity event, but also not. That’s not to say they don’t love or respect him, that they don’t want him, but it’s more that he’s such a permanent fixture that it’s not necessarily something special. We’re a tiny country, you can drive the perimeter in less than an hour.”

“I see,” Rose nodded, still surprised. “I just know at home, whenever the Queen goes anywhere it’s a big deal, but here…”

“It’s nice, I think,” the other woman said. “There’s still the… mystique that one needs as a monarch, the distance, but he’s not so high up on a pedestal that people think about knocking him down, even in this day and age. Quite frankly, he’s too valuable to lose.”

Rose looked back at the King to see him coming straight towards them, the children’s young, pretty teacher left standing where he’d been sat, looking disappointed.

“We need to be going, don’t we?” he asked his aunt brusquely, the look in his eye suggesting the answer better not be a no.

“Of course,” Sarah Jane said quickly, and with a quick wave ‘Goodbye!’ from Ian, they hurried out to the car. Once they were pulling away, though, she raised an eyebrow. “We were scheduled to be there for another hour. What do you propose we do with that time?”

Staring out the window, Rose caught sight of the building from the festival and gasped, an idea coming to her like lightning.

“Stop the car!”

#bbatcfic #doctorroseprompts #ficandchips #Doctor Who #12xRose #12th Doctor #Rose Tyler #AU #Queen of Hearts #royalty AU

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