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hewantshisbrideback · 3 years

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Jonrya AU: Other Engagements

Summary: The remaining Starks gather some time after the Long Night is won to discuss possible plans for marriages and alliances. With Jon crowned King of the Wall, ruling under Daenerys, High Queen of Westeros, discussion of who will reign by his side as queen over the north is paramount. But Jon is not the only wolf for whom a match must be made.

“Proposals," Rickon groaned and tossed back his head, auburn curls glinting. "My spear is still crusted with blood, and we're already talking of politics?"

"And how long a grace period were you expecting?" Arya snorted, shaking her head. Her dismissive words were born partially of relief.

She had been speaking with the washer women when Jon found her and pulled her away. He had lead her to a small, stony room, recently rebuilt, containing only two windows, a small side table of wood, and her siblings gathered around in a semi-circle as if for a ritual.

Her hackles had risen in an instant, but Bran had quickly laid her greatest fears to rest. There was no new tragedy to break their hearts, no new disaster to ravage their land; only the tedious intricacies of a civil society.

“A longer one,” the boy groused. Arya imagined that in his mind, there was likely no tragedy more agonizing than such tedious complexities.

“Oh? Are you inconvenienced?” She tilted her head at him. "Shall we postpone rebuilding the kingdom until the armory's polished nice and new?"

"Can we?" He asked. For a moment it was difficult for her to tell whether he was serious. Maybe the boy didn’t know himself. She cuffed him lightly over the head with a scoff just to be safe, and the grin that broke on his lips was wild.

Still, she had to admit he wasn’t exaggerating. Hardly a moon had past since the last dregs of the Others had been sighted, had been felled, and already there were talks of contracts, engagements, and promises between names she recognized only from war letters and fireside whispers.

During the blight, there had been hurried ceremonies in Great Halls, like that between Princess Val of the Free Folk and the gentle Willas Tyrell. However, there was no need for hushed vows in torch-lit gatherings anymore. What was left of the nobility, and whatever names had been gilded by the Long Winter, would want feasts, balls, parades through the streets.

Arya thought she almost preferred a quiet cloaking in the night. Perhaps that was only natural. After all, she had been present for the wedding of Val and Willas, and no better a pair had been made than they.

She recalled what a sight they’d been: the free woman’s flushed cheeks painted orange with firelight, the lord of the Reach’s nervous brown eyes pinned to his bride’s easy smile, rapt and adoring. They had danced for only a short song, but they had whispered all throughout, and had been whispering to each other ever since whenever she saw them.

The warrior princess and her lord of roses. She could count at least three songs that had been written of them since, the battles the lady fought and the bed of flowers her lord laid down for her, but none of them noted how they made each other laugh, how they sat at each other’s side like old friends.

"Bran is right,” Arya blinked from her thoughts in time to see Sansa grimace and continue, “We may have put aside our differences to face a greater threat, but that won't make for a lasting peace now that the threat is extinguished.”

"Fine," Rickon groused, then pursed his lips, surveying the room sullenly. "So, we're looking to pick up a queen already?"

Arya flinched, eyes snapping to Jon. Perhaps Rickon had been right to moan and whine. She knew her cousin would be married off eventually, now that he'd had a crown foisted onto him, but the idea of helping select his bride settled like shards of ice beneath her ribs. She cursed herself. How selfish she was. Finding a queen for the North was in the best interest of all who inhabited it, and here she was, unable to look at this as of yet faceless woman as anything but another competitor for Jon’s attention.

"A queen for the North?" Sansa contemplated, sounding as equally troubled as Arya felt. Her hopes that Sansa might object in her stead were dashed in an instant. "I suppose it bears discussing--”

"We can't," Arya blurted, panic coursing through her like lightning. Her siblings turned to stare at her. She flushed under their baffled eyes. Swallowing her shame and clearing her throat, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. "Well, we can't. We can't start making decisions yet. Not on our own. The dragons. They have a stake in this, too."

Jon lingered on her for a moment. She held her breath, brow cocked defiantly, but he made a noise of agreement that showed she need not have worried. "That's true. I'm heir, second to Aegon. Daenerys lets me keep my name, but she will want a say in who shares our blood all the same."

"You're right. It may be one day that the children of your union and hers are married themselves," Bran conceded. “It won't do to decide without her.”

Her sister nodded, expression poised and thoughtful. "That’s true. I suppose there should be some talk between us and her, even Aegon perhaps, before we think about who would be a suitable choice.”

The ice in Arya's chest melted, soft like relief, but colder and heavier, and she made an effort to ignore the stab of resentment at her sister’s next words.

“Jon, you can send her a message, invite her to share her thoughts. Of course, you could always visit her in person as well, if she prefers it.”

Jon's jaw ticked as he nodded, eyes flickering towards Arya, only to snap away as if it burned when she returned his gaze. For a moment, she was petrified. Had he noticed? Had he noticed how upset this talk of queens had made her?

"Alright," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I'll draft a letter after supper."

His words were disappointing, and his tone was resigned, but it was also familiar. She felt her heart calm. It was no use to fret, over any of it. They were close, and given all that happened, it only made sense for her to be worried. She shouldn’t be afraid for him to see it.

And at least the decision itself had been delayed some, Arya thought, staring at the ceiling, even if only until Daenerys had enough time to consider the best use of her nephew.

"Great!" Rickon looked around at each of them. "That's that, then, isn't it?” Sansa tutted at him for his impatience, and Bran shook his head, and Rickon threw up his hands. “If we can’t do anything without the queen’s say-so, why stand here brooding over it now? Just wait until she tells you what to do."

“She’s not just going to tell us what to do.” Arya tried not to quibble over semantics with Rickon, as he was still learning the world of kings and courts, but she couldn’t stop herself this time. “Daenerys isn’t a tyrant. No doubt she has prospects in mind, but the choice is ultimately Jon’s.”

“Which is why it’s worth going over the options now,” Sansa added on, “to prepare ourselves for when we do make that decision.”

“And we will,” Bran intercut, "but we can afford to set it aside today. There are still some other arrangements we need to consider.”

“What arrangements?” Jon rumbled, but the stiff set to his jaw and the scowl inching onto his lips made it clear he had some idea and, evidently, disapproved already.

If Bran sensed his ire, he ignored it. “Arrangements for the rest of the Starks."

Arya blinked. She had seen the eyes of visiting nobles and their kin lingering on her brothers and her sister. Even she had received some curious glances. But somehow she’d still managed to overlook the obvious, managed to fool herself into thinking that they had more time.

“Are we really to be parted from each other so soon?” she murmured.

Bran gave her an appreciative glance tinged with grief, and in that glance she felt all those lonely years already spent apart, a splintered pack. After spending this many fighting so hard to reunite, she felt sick imagining any of her family leaving Winterfell. No wonder Jon was on edge.

“I don’t like it,” Rickon grumbled in tandem with her thoughts, and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, they weren't the only ones.

Sansa had folded in on herself, a brooding edge to her perfect mouth, but with Rickon’s complaint, she moved beside him, tucking his stray red curls behind his ear, a gesture that smacked of their late mother to a degree which hurt.

“Nevertheless,” she muttered after a moment, hand retracting and interlacing with the other, but she could not bring herself to follow through and continue the thought. No one could.

The room was still and heavy with preemptive sorrow, until Arya could bear it no longer. What would they do, sit in silence in this room until the fire dwindled and the sun set? There were meals to be had and men to appease, even just this evening, and waiting wouldn't stall the inevitable. Bran knew that. They all knew that. Sucking in a solemn, silent breath, she asked, “So then which of us is to be married first? And to who?”

Sansa opened her mouth, face wilted with regret, but Bran shook his head dismissing her, and the rest of them mirrored him. There was no need for a defense to be made.

“I’m well aware of the union between you and Sandor Clegane,” Bran assured her. “I would never ask you to break your vows. Aside from this, your first two marriages would have diminished your prospects regardless, one of which still needs to be annulled. Sansa is not an option. I mean you no offense, sister."

Sansa did not look offended. If anything, her expression spoke to some small, secret amusement. Arya was just glad that she wasn't weeping.

“No,” Bran continued, “by now, the attention of our allies has wandered to our other sister, Princess Arya.”

Arya was still beneath her brother’s cool, blue stare. She used to squirm whenever someone referred to her title aloud. By now, she’d nearly grown used to it. After all, she’d answered to far too many ill-fitting names to abandon Arya Stark for her accompanying titles, so she wasn’t left with much choice.

Now, something in her felt hollow, as though if the wind began to blow, it would whistle through her insides, and she’d be able to hum without using her mouth.

“They intend to offer their sons to Arya." Jon's words were slow and pointed and metered all the way through. “Have they no daughters for you or Rickon?”

“I did not say that they are not looking out for their daughters as well,” Bran reasoned, just as slowly and emphatic as his cousin had. “But of the three of us, Arya is the most attractive option. She cannot give them a royal title, but it’s no secret what she means to you, and the North at large, or that she’s earned the favor of Daenerys. Every wifeless heir on the continent will be interested.”

She must’ve imagined the way his fists clenched. Jon was smart. Men underestimated him, always, but he was smarter than all of them. He should've expected this, even if, somehow, she hadn’t. Of course suitors would seek a princess’s hand. It would not matter to them whether that hand was supple or calloused. Jon knew that. If he didn’t, he should’ve.

If the world had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing staves the ambition of powerful men. Not even death. Not even ugliness.

“Good.” The word startled her, even more than her sister’s soft hand suddenly pressing to her cheek. But she smiled, albeit with closed lips, as Sansa's furrowed gaze swept over her features like she'd never seen them, like she was trying to absorb all she could for safe keeping. “You’ll have your pick of the lot.”

“Septa Mordane would be quaking to hear such talk of Arya Horseface,” Arya snorted in response, provoking a wry smile from Bran, an expression she sheepishly mirrored.

“Be serious, Arya,” Sansa huffed with a noble frown, hand falling from her face to clutch her wrist in earnest. Arya adjusted her clasp so that they held hands instead, and Sansa's thumb swept the back of her hand in search of comfort. “That silly, old nickname couldn’t be more ill-fitting. You’re quite pretty now.”

Jon made an ill-tempered rumbling noise, and Arya wanted to press him, but refrained in front of the others. He’d been reserved since he was a child, but ever since the Long Night began, he’d been downright secretive. She wouldn’t pry, at least not until she’d gotten him alone.

“It’s true," Rickon cut in, offering a rakish grin. “You should hear the free folk talk of you, sister. They say such things I’ve had to threaten to gut near half of them. They might’ve tried to steal you already, if they weren’t so frightened of Jon. And me, too, of course!”

The others stiffened, but Arya saw his assurance for what it was and spared a moment to thank the old gods for her littlest brother. Though her gratitude didn’t prevent her from rolling her eyes.

“The freefolk have a might different set of standards than the noble lords of Westeros. I can only hope that my reputation is not too far spread. It’s too much harder to see a she-wolf wed than a proper lady,” she drawled, letting go of Sansa as she paused and turned to him with a shrug. “Though I suppose in another world, a marriage with some wily freefolk warrior might've suited, and done well to unite the North.”

Rickon puffed up with pride, though on behalf of whom she had no idea.

“You can’t be serious,” Sansa huffed, then turned an admonishing glare on her brothers. “I know that you have all grown quite fond of the wildlings, having spent so much time with them, but however helpful they’ve been, there is hardly a suitable match for a lady amongst them.”

“A princess, now,” Bran reminded her, and Sansa nodded firmly.

“Suitable how?” A sneer curved on Rickon's mouth. “I’m not the one who wants to marry her off, but a free man can be good as any lord of Westeros. It wasn’t a wildling who tortured the poor girl in Arya’s stead, was it? And your good Joffrey was a prince. It seems that didn’t stop him from being vile.”

“Rickon!” Arya snapped in warning.

The youngest Stark stared her sister down, burning as remorselessly as the sun, but Sansa’s face was stone and her eyes blue flint.

“That is not what I meant,” she amended calmly. “Of course, the wildlings are no more capable of cruelty than the rest of us. That being said,” her words sharpened to points, like they were her talons, "the lords of Westeros will not stand to see one Stark sister married to a former knight and the other to a wildling. Not when order has just been settled and peace is still in question. If we marry Arya to a wildling, we spit in the faces of our Northern lords and our Southron neighbors both.”

“Aside from that, we don’t need another tie to the free folk,” Bran noted mildly. “With Tormund in our council, Val in the reach, and Jon their chosen king, their loyalty is as guaranteed as we could hope.”

Arya shrugged. “Well, as far as I've heard, if I were to be stolen, I'd hardly be in a position to refuse."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think Jon would be all too pleased to wake up and find you stolen by one of his subjects." Bran was watching Jon as if it were his sole, solemn duty. "I imagine they'd only get so far before he stole you back."

Jon flinched violently and it was a shock, how pale and harrowed he looked.

"It’s not like anyone could ever steal me away in the first place," Arya reminded him quietly, and when he looked at her, his mouth was pressed into a bitter facsimile of a smile.

“Unfortunately,” Rickon mumbled, and when Sansa and Jon simultaneously turned to glare, he merely scuffed his foot against the ground defiantly. "I mean it. At least then she could've stayed in Winterfell.”

Ridiculous boy. Arya nearly pulled him into a hug, but Bran interrupted her before she could move and his next words kept her still.

"It's not entirely out of the question,” he professed. “It’s possible she’ll find a suitor who will be able to reside in the North."

Arya felt her heart stutter. “You mean, like someone who’s not an heir?”

“No,” Sansa asserted. “If you snub the heir of one house for another’s second son, their entire territory will take it as an offense.”

“No, I was not specifically thinking along those lines,” Bran amended. “There are those with other circumstances under which you may be able to remain.” His eyes slid curiously to one of the windows as he tilted his head. "Ned Dayne, for example. We’ve received word that he intends to act in service to the Queen’s Greater Westerosi Council. You get along well, don't you?"

Jon stepped forward before she could reply, straightened to his full height. His stare was locked on her, stark and unyielding against the pallor of his cheeks, like stones atop snow dunes. "How do you know the Sword of the Morning?"

Arya felt apprehension tighten like a cord around her throat.

This had been the way since they’d reunited.

When Jon introduced her to his allies, she’d beamed like the sun. They had delighted her, despite her jealousy, for all the years she’d spent apart from him, that he’d been with them instead. The jealousy didn’t matter as much as the relief that he’d found friends. She took them as her own. She had been excited for him to do the same with hers. She had been so sure he would, it hadn’t even felt like hope. She’d just known.

But when she brought Jon to Gendry, explained who he’d been to her, he met the smith with suspicious words and a dark glare. When she told him of Hot Pie, or Lommy, or Weasel, or any of the number of sailors and whores from Braavos, he answered only with sarcasm and silence. And the Hound...

Now she’d be the first to point out that Sandor Clegane had not been her friend, or her ally, when they first travelled together. But she would also admit, begrudgingly, that he’d become something close by the time he accompanied her to the Wall with the Brotherhood. Jon had known that. Still, when Sansa brought the Hound into their home as her husband, Arya had heard the King of the Wall bellowing his objections from the other side of Winterfell.

"We travelled together, for a time," she replied carefully. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth. "Not very long.”

“When?” he prompted impatiently.

“When I was with the Brotherhood,” she confessed, “back when it was still lead by Beric Dondarrion.”

“You didn’t say anything.” In other circumstances, these words might’ve been a mere observation, or even an expression of concern, but here and now, they were an accusation.

He had mentioned the Sword of the Morning to her before in passing, but by that time, around the time poor Morgan Umber started running away whenever she waved in his direction, she had heard just about everything he had to say about her friends. So she had decided not to mention it. That would be easier.

Except now it looked like she’d been keeping secrets. She cursed the gods and all they stood for. “He wasn't the Sword of the Morning then — just a boy."

"Oh, just a boy," Rickon snorted. "Just another boy, you mean?"

Jon glowered but said nothing.

"That's right," Sansa tittered, with a sudden little smile. "You’ve collected so many. The blacksmith, the baker. Even that boy from House Umber. And now, the heir of Starfall."

"Gendry wouldn’t be a bad match either," Rickon piped up, a grin forming. Like Jon, he had been wary of the smith when Arya first introduced them, but unlike Jon, that had since changed. There was a higher degree of respect between the Free Folk and the Brotherhood than between either of them and any of the other factions. They worked together more easily, and more often, and Rickon was always with Osha and the free folk. Between this growing familiarity and Gendry's formidable reputations both as the Bull of the Brotherhood and the Arm of Stoneheart, a friendship had formed.

Her sister, on the other hand, had been entirely lukewarm when it came to the blacksmith. It was clear she saw him as beneath Arya’s station, but he was useful and she’d kept any complaints to herself, likely as recompense for Arya’s support for her and Sandor. This worked in Gendry’s favor as Sansa hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, only saying, "Who knew your habit of collecting strays would come so in handy?"

Arya's cheeks warmed. "They're not strays."

Rickon shrugged. "Not anymore, I suppose.”

"They're allies!” She insisted. “They're vital allies."

This time, Bran shrugged. "They can be both," he suggested innocently.

Arya growled and whacked his shoulder gently, turning to Jon for even a drop of support, but the only thing she found was frustration marring his brow. They were stalling again, wasting time. Arya sobered. She felt a bit like a child, finding Jon so troubled and having been so oblivious.

"Jon?” she ventured. “What are you thinking?"

He was quiet for a moment and she thought he might scold them, but instead he responded, "It's as Sansa said before. A knight is hardly a suitable match for a princess, let alone a smith."

Arya prickled at his words. True as they may be, in the political sense, the insinuation that her friends were somehow beneath her would never sit well with her. She knew that Jon was just being practical, that he had too much sense to hold a man's status against his character.

But then, he seemed to make many exceptions to sense when it came to those she cared about. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry Gendry, but she knew she’d prefer him to most, and she wasn’t about to let Jon discount him without objection.

"Gendry isn't just a smith.” She reminded him stiffly, fighting to remain civil as he huffed and turned away. "He leads the Brotherhood without Banners. He has earned the respect of Westeros.”

"And the smallfolk adore him. He's not just some war hero to them," Rickon added eagerly, looking to her, and she nodded him on. “He means something more. The whole Brotherhood does. They love them.”

"And he may not be a lord, by his own choice," Arya concluded, "but he is a Baratheon. That could mollify at least some of the lords."

"And would it mollify Daenerys? Or Aegon?" Jon snapped. "When it was a Baratheon who killed their family and sent them into exile in the first place? I may be their kin but I can only do so much to protect you."

"I thought that Daenerys granted immunity and legitimacy to Robert's children in exchange for recognizing Targaryen rule?" Sansa asked, hands moving to her hips. "Even Edric Baratheon has bent the knee."

"So how do you think she feels about Gendry, then, the only bastard to refuse her offer of a title and land? And the leader of a band of fools," Jon spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, "who reject the authority of anyone who wears a crown?"

Why Jon was suddenly spouting hostility at the Brotherhood he'd vocally appreciated during the war, Arya wasn't sure, but as much as she took issue with his slander, it wasn’t the time to bring it up. "If Daenerys does see the Brotherhood as a threat, then a marriage between us could be a means of establishing peace before a conflict breaks out...”

The look Jon gave her was that of a wounded animal with its prey cornered. She forgot what she had been about to say.

"If you think," he hissed, "that I'm going to risk your life on the premise that it might prevent disputes between that menace and the Crown, then I am going to have to disappoint you."

"And what of Edric Dayne?"

Arya could only watch as Jon turned away to face her sister, whose chin jutted out defiantly at the king. That imperious timbre sent shivers down Arya’s spine. She hadn’t heard her sister take such a lofty tone with Jon in ten years.

Jon, on the other hand, just sounded irritated. "What of him?"

"As a candidate for Arya's husband,” Sansa deadpanned, as unamused with him as he was with her. “Is something wrong with him?"

"Is this not the boy that used to traipse around with the same Brotherhood?" Jon enunciated his words as if he was speaking to someone extraordinarily slow and particularly annoying, and if his goal was to offend, then by the way Sansa bristled, he had succeeded.

"His involvement with the Brotherhood was minimal, contingent on his position as Ser Dondarrion's squire, and has already ended," she pointed out hotly. "It would have to, either way, seeing as he's not just a lord, but the heir to Starfall."

"And you think as the heir to Starfall, he and his bride will not be obligated to return to Starfall?" Jon replied just as impatiently. "He could afford to pick up the mantle of Sword of the Morning and run around the continent as a knight during the war, but do you truly think he will forfeit his responsibilities at the behest of a girl he knew when he was a squire?"

"But what if he forfeits his claim? If he intends to work for the council, he will."

"Then there is no guarantee he settles here."

“Oh,” Sansa made a cruel, ladylike sound, something like a laugh but not. "Is that all?"

The whites of Jon’s eyes had never been so visible. "Is that all?"

"Is that all, that she may have to leave? Is that your only qualm?"

"He offers her nothing!"

"He's a lord. He's an heir." Sansa lifted a finger with each point she made. "He's a war hero. He's a celebrated ally to the Martells, and to the Targaryens!"

Jon scoffed, loud, and so unlike him at all that Arya's jaw fell a little. "If a king with Targaryen blood is not enough to guarantee peace with the Targaryens, then a marriage to Edric Dayne will do no better! He offers her nothing!"

"He offers her security and kindness!" Sansa roared, calm breaking like the sea against cliffs. "He and Arya are not just familiar with each other — they're friends. Do you understand how rare and precious it is? As far as safety and happiness can go, there's no better assurance than that."

"What of our assurance?" Rickon snapped, stepping into line with his cousin, opposing Sansa. "We can offer her better than that."

"Exactly, Rickon!" Jon crowed, towering above them all even as he leaned in to emphasize his point. "Her family, in Winterfell, is better than that."

Her sister sputtered at his malice, turning to Arya, but she could only stare back, face still slack with surprise. Helpless, Sansa seethed, shaking her head at them all. "And so, what? She will never marry anyone?"

"I don't see why she has to," Rickon grumbled, but Arya barely heard him as Jon crossed over to her, took her by the shoulder, and tucked her into his side. "At least right away.”

"She doesn't," Jon agreed, gaze soft and raw, as if he’d been stripped bare and bleeding before her and didn't mind at all. What was she supposed to do? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Time? But then he said, “She won’t.”

Sansa shrunk back as if slapped and Arya stilled under his arm. This was a voice she'd only heard him wield on the battlefield, or in court, deep as a wolf and imperious as a dragon. He had never been the king with them, not with his family, no matter how they'd fought or what over. But now, he’d raised his head to look at Sansa with narrowed eyes, and did not seem to see a cousin at all.

He continued steadily, "We have every right to keep her."

Sansa’s teeth were small and peeked out from her mouth like she wanted to run but when she met Arya's gaze, her mouth shut. She straightened her posture, her chin dipped low and humble this time. "You are a Targaryen king, but you're not her head of house. You may have a say, but the final word is Bran's."

Jon’s grip tightened and Arya winced as he positioned himself between the two sisters, almost as if to make sure Sansa wouldn’t reach out and grab her.

"Oh, did you forget?" she asked, so elegantly applying salt in the wound.

"It seems Bran has," Arya interjected. "Surely he has something to add?"

She looked to her brother, silently imploring, but he merely made a contented hum. Part of her wanted to tear her hair out, another wanted a go at his. She did not see what was so amusing about their siblings spitting and hissing at one another over her marriage prospects. Jon and Sansa were volatile enough as it is, some days managing genuine cordiality and others only just barely maintaining a facade of civility. This couldn’t help.

"Bran will do what's best for Arya," Jon spoke on his behalf, drawing her even closer, so her chest was pressed to his ribs. His heat warmed her like a furnace. "I trust him with that much. He loves his sister."

"And I don't," Sansa inhaled, eyes wide and stepping back. "That's what you mean, isn't it? Be honest with us, Jon. Arya and I have made our peace and moved past our childhood quarrels, but clearly, you haven't. You still hold them against me, don't you?"

"It's nothing like that," Arya assured her with a furrowed brow, gesturing for her cousin to corroborate. Jon didn't say a word.

Sansa looked down at her and soon deflated. "What would you know? He's an entirely different person to you.” She turned back to Jon, her voice low and scathing. “You’re making me look like a villain for suggesting she marry at all, but I’m just trying to find her someone who will be good for her before it’s too late. I will not allow her to suffer like I did.”

"No, you would just exile her from her home, to live with strangers.” There was no room for argument. There never had been. “Arya has been away from home long enough without you sending her away once more."

"Away from home, or away from you?”

She might’ve said more, she must’ve said more, and Jon must’ve said more too, but Arya couldn’t stand to hear another a word of it. What was the point of this bickering and bullshit? All the while Bran just sat there with that inscrutable certainty as his eyes trailed after Jon, and what did any of it matter?

“Enough!” she howled, pushing at his chest and ripping out of Jon’s reach.

His arm hung in the air for a moment, expression hurt, but she didn't have the time to be sorry.

"Were either of you going to ask me what I thought? Or are you two happy assuming you know what's best for me, as well as the North, and the rest of the kingdoms?" she snapped. Sansa, Jon, and even Rickon all began speaking at once, but she'd had enough of listening for an entire week. “Shut up! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all of you.” She sneered. “What a waste of time.”

Sansa objected, and Jon tried to defend himself, but it had been, nothing but a waste of time and a strain on their throats. If this was the way things would go, she was better off being stolen by the free folk. She was half tempted to leave her window open in invitation. They might not even have to bind and carry her.

"We are not going to make these decisions in a single evening," Bran's voice raised now, cutting through the clamor like a sword through cloth. "I knew that when I brought it up. Although, I had thought we'd at least get the chance to discuss some of the prospects for Rickon and me. But that can wait for now. We have other engagements to attend to.”

"Right," she croaked. Meals and men. Meals and men. She was supposed to meet with Ser Davos and Lord Manderley. Through the window, the sky was orange. She swallowed, but her throat kept dry. "I'm already late. I have to go.”

She moved to leave, and Jon moved to follow, but Bran called out and asked him to wait as the door swung shut behind her, and that was the last she allowed herself to hear before breaking into a sprint.

@mysticalmuddle This isn’t the fic I was talking about before, but I thought you might like to be tagged anyway, seeing as you’re basically the sole reason I ever post my fics! Thank you for all your encouragement, you are amazing.

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kazuhasbunny · 3 years

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Giiiirl, imagine you are on Baal's side, you are a general and commanding an army against the rebels' own general, Gorou.

You are all cocky and confident, your years of experience just keeping you aware enough so you won't be consumed by your pride. But oh, your face, when after all of those carefully thought out strategies and intensive training, you end up losing to that mutt.

He is insufferable. Even though his face and body is caked in a mixture only war can give-- blood, sweat and dirt, his smile is the biggest, smuggest thing you have ever seen in your life as a warrior. It does not help that you are on your knees, back stretching forward as the grip he has on your jaw tugs you up with such a force you won't ever believe an archer, a long distance fighter, would posses. The bodies of both sides lay scattered on the defiled land, but the purple spots decorate the most, as his last men stand straight and proud behind him, just as yours do, but the lack the attentiveness. Their tired and bored countenance ticks you in a wrong way. Why they don't look happy by this result?

Does your failure was already predicted? As if this end was something that was already calculated. Taken in account.

The man holding your jaw in a bruising grip let go of you, a mere blink of respite as the next second your left cheek explodes in pain, your vision swaggers for a second as you fall on your right side from the streght of that blow. You shut your eyes and concentrate on your breathing; the fight left you completely drained, as much as your brain screamed at you to stand up and attack that man, your bones and muscles protested as you tensed in hopes of getting up, but ultimately you only made yourself look pitiful.

Gorou turns to were his men are, his gaze lingering for a second on your laughable attempt. His focus switches to the army as he starts to pace from one side to the other, the victory was already decided, but the energy from the feat itself brought a surge of emotions within him.

Another quick glance at you, and something on his mind switched. He was wondering what to do with you; killing you off felt as a meaningless action, as the Shogun won't care for someone as low as yourself. You only were deployed to fight against them to gain time for the real force, to prepare and learn how strong the rebels actually are. With how confident you looked hours ago, it seems that your benevolent Shogun forgot to grace you with such knowledge before sending you off with a bunch of newly trainees.

"First of all, congratulations, my friends, for this well earned victory" Gorou began. The group of men on front of him quickly acknowledge his words, paying attention to what he had to say.

"Even if the outcome resulted as to what we--" He turns around, your eyes opened when he began speaking. You both made eye contact, and Gorou's smirk transformed into a full smile. Was it okay for him to fill such giddiness at the sight of your equally wounded pride and body? After all, he was the one to bring you into that state, he was the one to put you in your rightful place with just one arrow, kneeling on the dirty battlefield as the geo power incased on the arrowhead did its job in petrify you.

The glint of defeat on, dare he say, those gorgeous eyes of yours really made them stand out. Actually, as he approaches your form, he's starting to see some other appealing features he couldn't notice from a longer distance. What was the Shogun thinking, in even allowing you a spot within her number when you clearly weren't made for war?

"--Expected" his pause brought your attention to what he was actually saying. So they had all of this calculated...

"But now, all that is left to do, is tend to the wounded and take care of the dead. Yours and their sacrifice will bring an end to this stupid decree in no time. We need to prepare for tougher, real..." He gives you a glance "...battles from now on. Don't let this win get in your head"

The crowd quietly cheers between them, some of them patting each other on the shoulder for a job well done. All of that camaraderie made your stomach hollow, as you recognise the same speech you have told to your former men after a battle well fought. Those piercing blue eyes of his made you painfully aware of the consecutive part of giving a victory speech, about what is waiting for the losing side, the pit in your stomach grew in size and you really wished that it could swallow you whole before the man in front of you does.

Gorou thrills in your despair. That pretty face of yours plunging into dark dephts, your mind weaving one horrifying destiny after other speaks a lot of your character, as only those who have layed a cruel end to those before them can conceive. He knows what kind of thoughts those are, but as much of a monster as you are viewing him now, he won't do such a thing. He was quite merciful while deciding what your fate will be, even if he didn't pondered a lot in the few minutes after your fall, you are but only a child with a weapon, sent to die by that horrible woman.

And something he prides himself of, is learning from mistakes. He won't throw away something that can fulfill very well other duties than warfare ones.

"Sir! If I may--" a voice spoke between the masses of helms and spears.

"I know, I know. The general" Gorou waves off his hand, his eyes never stranding away from your form for far too long.

A groan escapes your body as his foot steps on your ribcage, not too hard but your weak body sense as if he had nails attached to the sole, your skin felt cold and as if it was being prickled by a ton of needles. He pushes your your body with a gentleness unexpected from an enemy, until you were lying on your back. The new position put pressure in the arrow wound on your right/left shoulder, your dominant arm, and for a second you were grateful of the rigidness granted by the geo element yet covering half of your arm or else you are sure you would have cried in pain, the last thing you want now is to show more weakness that what you are displaying.

"What I am going to do with her... I didn't know myself when we first begun this battle" Gorou continued. He removed his shoe from your chest to your side on the floor, so you'll be cage between his legs while he looks down on you. His arms crossed across his chest and he tilted his head to the side, as in assessing you, taking on your face just as covered in grime as his but not diminish your beauty in the slightest. He really made a good decision in regard of your fate.

The soldiers stood still, the atmosphere felt heavy like the air on a hot summer afternoon that feels stuffy on your lungs as your breath in. Their general had an unseen aura surrounding him, his usual careless actitud makes everyone forget that there's an animal side to him, although they aren't sure they will presence it for the first time, their captain is definitely switching towards that side... they even feel a little bit of pity for the woman under him.

"But as I see her like this, beaten, it makes me remember something of old, that the victorous usually sow. Can you guys guess what it is?" He squats over you, sweetly combing a couple of strands of hair out of your face.

Whispers break among the army after the question. One of them raised his hand, no barely 18 years old as he was one of the shortest in comparison to his bigger and wider shouldered comrades. The young recruit promptly lowered his arm as the general wasn't looking at their direction but that didn't stopped him from answering, eyes shining with excitement:

"They take something as a token of their victory, sir!"

Gorou hummed in affirmation. "Yes, they did. A spoil of war, if you may"

Dread washed over you. He wasn't going to kill you, as a way to demonstrate their superiority? To be taken as a trophy, a possession... He surely won't mean that, right? They are going to torture you and extract every drop of information that you have, until the last thing left in you is blood to shed on their hands as your usefulness is cut short like your troath.

You needed to say something. Anything, as long as it would arise anger within the young male, anything as long as you aren't degrade far from what you have been.

Gorou raised his eyebrows as you coughed. He wasn't expecting a monologue from you but neither silence. Your sudden wish of speaking made the men jump into action, their spears pointing at you with such terrifying speed made you realise furthermore that this battle was destined to end like this, another stripe to the tiger just like a new blow to your pride.

"Just kill me already. I won't say anything, and if given the opportunity, I will end it myself" you spat. You tried to transmit all of your pain, hate and shame in one stare, you won't go happy until you make that man see what you feel, how big your abhorrence is to his being.

All the males stare in silence, until the general himself chuckled. Your cheeks burn with rage, your teeth clenched together as you tried yo surf this flare of emotions. How dare he laugh like that! He already won and you won't speak a thing about the Shogun, why acting like that? Isn't the rebels supposed to act with nobility and fairness?

Gorou took a breath in. He's happy he didn't went for the traditional route and killed you.

"Aw, now you just proved me correct, sweetheart. I'll enjoy making you into a proper wife"

All of that just to say "Imagine being taken as Gorou's prize and he makes you his whore wife" LMAO

(Also? In the part that reader coughs? I wanted to put that Gorou spits on your lips because you looked thirsty AODJFJDC)

THIS 🙏 yes i’d love to be gorou’s housewife he should really take me in and train me to obey him . please i’d do anything for him

AND pleasee omg ... if u actually put that in i’d die on my chair it’s too hot i can’t hjnhnggrh

#eli.replies #anon #AAAA #this is so good i #am at a loss of words

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thinkingimages · 3 years

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Joan Bennett in the film Secret Behind the Door

Sexuality and Space edited by Beatriz Colomina

Elizabeth Wilson

In the early 1990s the addition of “sexuality” seemed to take the vibrant debate on space into new territory. The very title of Sexuality and Space reflects this, and as Beatriz Colomina remarks in her brief introduction to the collection of articles it comprises, to insist on “sexuality” as a component of space can be, at one level, to insert feminist concerns into a masculine discourse—although it is dispiriting if sexuality is still perceived as women’s domain, somehow suggesting that anatomy still is destiny and/or that women are still equated with the bodily in a way that men are not. As Colomina makes clear, however, the volume, like the symposium at which the papers it contains were initially presented, aims to do more than simply “include women.” Nor does it aim simply to explore “how sexuality acts itself out in space,” although this would have been an interesting subject in its own right: how actually existing urban, architectural spaces are used intentionally or illicitly for sexual purposes. We could have had papers on the role of the “cottage” (public lavatory) in gay sex, on museums as pick-up grounds for intellectual singles, on the voyeurism of peep shows, and so on. But this would presumably have been too literal a project for the theorists gathered. Instead we are invited to treat architecture as a “system of representation” on a par with film and TV, and to ask how space is “already inscribed in the question of sexuality.” Gender is inscribed in space and space is never designed in a gender-neutral way.

Accordingly, the articles range across the visual arts in a fashion that at first glance seems not so much interdisciplinary as wildly eclectic—Atget photographs of Paris, Alberti’s writings, an Australian advertisement for real estate. The approaches taken by the authors are also widely divergent.

Jennifer Bloomer has missed an opportunity to explore the purported “effeminacy” of Louis Henri Sullivan’s architectural work. She raises the interesting issue of the assumed relationship between gender identity (and/or sexual orientation) and allegedly “feminine” architectural forms and decoration, but instead of developing this theme she flirts with it, creating a theoretical bricolage that fails to achieve intellectual coherence, her discussion of the function and symbolic importance of ornament not fully meshing with the problematic figure of Sullivan. A similar collagist approach is used by Catherine Ingraham, and I can see that it may be a kind of postmodern criticism; but while it permits the introduction of a variety of interesting, if only tenuously related, points and theories, it has a modish feel, especially when the usual theoretical suspects are rounded up for an airing, Lacan’s lavatory doors making repeat appearances. By contrast, Alessandra Ponte’s essay on the 18th-century antiquarian Richard Payne Knight is very focused (as is Molly Nesbit’s meditation on the absence of “la Parisienne” from Atget’s photographs of empty corners of his city), a piece of historiographical excavation revealing the phallocentrism of 18th-century theories of architecture.

Yet most of the articles, despite their apparent divergence of subject, are united by theoretical protocols as well as by the central concern of the book as a whole, which is not eroticism but gender, and not architecture but space in a variety of manifestations, many of them historical. The main uniting factor is psychoanalytic theory.

The material throughout is rich and detailed. Beatriz Colomina contributes an analysis of representations of house designs, particularly interiors, by Adolf Loos and Le Corbusier. She explores the way in which these houses are photographed, and some of the ideas informing them, drawing out the way in which these utopian, perfect rooms are—paradoxically—theatrical sets for dramas of domestic life. There is an implied contradiction between the architect’s dream of perfect space and the actually existing mess of daily life; but either way the woman is always positioned as hidden and within, object of the male gaze. Surprising similarities (or perhaps they are not so surprising) are revealed between these modernist architects and the Renaissance architect and philosopher Leon Battista Alberti. Mark Wigley shows how Alberti, both in his treatise on the family and in his architectural writings, describes the ideal house as a building that encloses, conceals, and ultimately fetishizes heterosexual intercourse; the separate rooms of husband and wife may be entered by a private intercommunicating door, so that other members of the household need never know when the partners engage in sexual relations. More generally the domestic interior becomes, in Alberti’s propositions, a prison house for women, although Wigley suggests that this architectural manifestation of patriarchy only fully came into its own with the 19th-century bourgeoisie.

Patricia White’s paper is concerned with the filmic representation of a house, “Hill House,” as explored in Robert Wise’s 1963 horror classic, The Haunting. As she points out, this film is truly terrifying, but achieves its effects without any special effects or any actual representation of anything horrific. White identifies the underlying horror as arising from the film’s exploration of lesbian sexuality, demonstrating convincingly how the film’s central character, Eleanor, played by Julie Harris, although destroyed by Hill House, whose “gaze” she cannot escape, yet manages to “exceed” the narrative, speaking finally in voice-over from beyond the grave. White’s deployment of psychoanalytic film theory seems particularly apt and nonreductive; she uses it to bring out the ambiguity of the film, in which lesbian desire is apparently defeated and yet remains disruptive, “exceeding the drive of cinema to closure.”

Patricia White inevitably refers in the course of her argument to Laura Mulvey’s well-known article “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.”1 I have never entirely understood why this article became so hugely influential, given its negative and pessimistic reading (especially from a feminist point of view) of cinematic pleasure. But perhaps that was the point: as this volume itself demonstrates, psychoanalytic theory (especially its Lacanian variant) has been the basis for a “criticism of suspicion,” by which I mean a criticism that not only deconstructs the way in which effects are achieved and exposes meanings that might otherwise be hidden from an “innocent” audience, but invests all aspects of any aesthetic work with doubt and dubiousness. The excavation of cultural products must always, it seems, uncover skeletons. In this regard, architecture and cinema are two forms of cultural production particularly vulnerable to what Martin Jay has termed a 20th-century “denigration of vision” that has supplanted its earlier (Enlightenment) celebration.2 Viewing and the gaze, the totalizing vision and the nobility of sight, have been comprehensively delegitimated as (white, Western) masculine methods of control and domination.

In Laura Mulvey’s original article there was no place for the female spectator to lay claim to the gaze other than by becoming masculinized. Mulvey has since sought to modify this view, while never renouncing the underlying assumptions on which it was based, and she contributes to the present volume a meditation that considers Pandora and her box (“the box can … stand as a representation of the enigma and threat generated by the concept of female sexuality in patriarchal culture”), the Hitchcock film Notorious, and the idea of female curiosity as a transgressive exploration of forbidden spaces. For her, psychoanalytic theory as used in feminist criticism is transgressive, for “curiosity describes the desire to know something that is concealed so strongly that it is experienced like a drive, leading to the transgression of a prohibition,” and feminist curiosity then constitutes an unmasking of the patriarchal structures of popular, or indeed any, culture.

Yet, as Victor Burgin argues in his essay on the photography of Helmut Newton, Mulvey’s original article has itself been fetishized; its influence has neither diminished nor evolved. Having made this statement, however, Burgin himself makes little further attempt to develop it, confining himself instead to an analysis of a Newton image, interesting enough, but much narrower in focus than his opening sentence had led this reader, at least, to expect. Burgin is rightly dismissive of the way in which psychoanalytic theory has been “sociologized” and collapsed into a vulgar-Marxist version of woman-as-commodity. He might feel that Lynn Spigel’s essay on television and the postwar American suburban home is too “sociological,” but this is one of the clearest articles in the collection, a model of structural simplicity and accessibility, in which the ambiguity between public and private, outside and inside, created by the plate glass doors and picture windows of the suburban home, is shown to be reproduced by the advent of television with its concomitant notions of the living room as theater and the TV space as a safe, sanitized public space introduced into the home. (Indeed, although television created fears of a new generation of what we now would call “couch potatoes,” the screen community of the sitcom often seemed preferable to the real-life communities of the new suburbs.)

With Elizabeth Grosz’s article on bodies and cities we return to a more euphoric postmodern take on the relationship between sexuality and space. Grosz moves the discussion beyond traditional metaphors of the “body politic” or the humanist idea that at one time people unproblematically built cities; instead she explores the way in which “the city is one of the crucial factors in the social production of (sexed) corporeal bodies: the built environment provides the context … for most contemporary … forms of the body.” But disappointingly she does not develop this idea, falling back instead on a familiar and arguably exaggerated vision of a cyborg future: “the city and body will interface with the computer, forming part of an information machine in which the body’s limbs and organs will become interchangeable parts with the computer.”

Meaghan Morris’s contribution, too dense and theoretically “over-egged” (i.e., incorporating too many ingredients) to summarize, rewards several readings, and is a serious attempt both at a critique of theories and at an analysis of two specific cultural events concerning property speculation in downtown Sydney. It is insightful and thought provoking; nevertheless it illustrates both the virtues and the flaws not just of the book as a whole, but of the general state of cultural studies. Simultaneously populist and obscure, such studies can become both incoherent and philistine (although the latter is certainly not an adjective I would apply to her essay or any of these contributions).

Indeed, this is a (probably rash) generalization, not a comment on any particular article in Sexuality and Space, but if I have seemed to single out some authors for negative criticism, it is less on account of their specific contributions than because they are the heirs of what for me are ambiguous, indeed dubious, tendencies in contemporary cultural criticism, in which the debunking of Marx and all Enlightenment thought is married (or at least engaged) to a fundamentally uncritical appropriation of Freud (or at least Lacan). I have gone terminally off Lacan since I discovered that, when Antonin Artaud was his patient during World War II, Lacan showed little interest in the deranged playwright3; an illegitimate ad hominem argument, I know—but the grip of his theory on academic critics has always been mysterious to me. Even worse is a practice, which I fear may have been on occasion my own, whereby a critic distances herself ironically or cynically from an assortment of postmodern theorists (Baudrillard, Deleuze and Guattari, even Derrida and Foucault) while simultaneously appropriating their thought, not infrequently in the form of spurious generalizations—a feature, Meaghan Morris suggests, of the work of Deleuze and Guattari themselves in relation to Freud. The whole is then likely to be couched in dauntingly arcane and grammatically tortuous language. Faced with this bricolage, I am totally with Edward Gibbon—who identified one aspect of the decline of the Roman Empire as the decadence of its later literary tradition, when, he complained, “a cloud of critics … darkened the face of learning, and the decline of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste”4—and I cannot but feel that this kind of postmodern criticism is indeed an index of decay.

But I suppose that postmodernism in general and contemporary psychoanalysis in particular is the theory our epoch in history deserves. Psycho-analysis has certainly been reconstructed to fit; in contrast to the highly moralistic and adjustive Freudianism of the 1950s, which was in any case a therapeutic and sociological rather than a critical tool, we have today psychoanalysis as an ideologically empty vessel, a theory without consequences. A fractured body of thought pleasingly open to endless reinterpretations and deconstructions, a detheorized (or perhaps etherealized) theory, it holds up a (splintered, it is true) mirror to assist in the contemplation of ourselves, one which can be thrillingly seen as “transgressive” while remaining devoid of any calls to action or any social or moral imperatives. Truly a theory for our postpolitical times.

1. Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16, no. 3 (Autumn 1975): 6–18.

2. Martin Jay, “In the Empire of the Gaze: Foucault and the Denigration of Vision in Twentieth Century French Thought,” in David Couzens Hoy, editor, Foucault: A Critical Reader (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986), 178.

3. See Stephen Barber, Antonin Artaud: Blows and Bombs (London: Faber and Faber, 1993).

4. Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985), 83.

Elizabeth Wilson is on the faculty of the School of Information and Communication Studies at the University of North London; her recent books include The Sphinx in the City and Chic Thrills: A Fashion Reader.

#Joan Bennett #Secret Behind the Door #Sexuality and Space #Beatriz Colomina #Elizabeth Wilson #Desire #FIlm #Postmodernism

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my-mt-heart · 2 years

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Oh Jerry is the man. I think you mentioned him not being a character who has had a ton of development, and right still that he definitely doesn't need it for us to love him like we do. I will gush if I see Jerry and Ezekiel reunite on happy terms. And Carol standing off closeby, arms folded proudly and smiling, happy for them, but also hoping for something similar with Daryl. I think the showrunner showed that Jerry misses Ezekiel for a reason in Diverged whereas Carol misses Daryl. It is that subtle nod where AK is saying "Psst. Look, Carol is missing Daryl, not Ezekiel. That means something so pay attention." And I agree with you so damn much about Jerry being the one for Ezekiel's emotional psyche always. Jerry really does see the "real" him, just as Daryl sees the real Carol. I want him to bear hug Ezekiel and beam at him with that sweet face of his and just go "My DUDE! My...king." and Ezekiel in his now iconic "Jerry." Then goes, "My steward....my friend." I will be in tears. I am a sucker for strong male relationships and brotherly bonds. Ezekiel and Jerry are my favorite of that pairing category on this show for sure, no questions about it. I just don't speak about them that much because I am a self-proclaimed Caryl blogger (they are the best in the world) and unfortunately I understand some Caryl supporters don't like my Zekey. Sad face. :( So I try to be inclusive but I jump at the opportunity to talk about him epescially and with Jerry. Such a well-designed pair, where one is more dominant character wise (Ezekiel) but there is an equally, a deep respect and appreciation between the two men where Jerry can just be himself and not be diminished even as the right-hand man. And Ezekiel, like a true king does, values Jerry and sees him as his friend and brother. I need that in my life. Not the toxic hellhole that happened between Rick/Shane/Lori.

Speaking of which, tangent please? I notice the dilemma similarity between Rick/Shane and Daryl/Ezekiel but I love the subversion of events. Two law-abiding authority figures couldn't be civilized and settle their differences using principle and reason without it ruining their earthly relationship, whereas the other two men are also similar to each other in that they weren't authority figures, have fears, both play pretend (Daryl pretending he doesn't care whenever he feels guilt/shame), and having rivaling affections for he same woman and yet these two men are able to respect each other, support each other on the battlefield and come together for a common cause (protecting the communities). Daryl even stayed away the majority of the time Carol was with Ezekiel, whereas Shane couldn't stay away from Lori. That is damn amazing writing and it shows you don't have to be a season 1 Rick or a deputy like Shane to be honorable. You can be in a marginalized group like Daryl and Ezekiel would be and still be standing at the end of it all. As long as you stay yourself and you've got those people who will never leave you (For Ezekiel, that's Jerry and for Daryl, that is Carol).

Gosh the moments I realize how much I love this show when I stop ranting about how much I don't like it so much. :P

Yeah, Jerry and Zeke are probably my favorite non romantic pairing on the show. Love them and always happy to talk about them.

Amazing observations about the two triangles. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel like Rick never really felt any jealousy toward Shane. He was pretty self-assured, right? But with Daryl and Ezekiel, the jealousy goes both ways. They see qualities in each other that they think Carol wants/deserves, but are unattainable to them. For Daryl, it's the nobility status, the eloquent speeches, and the confident leadership. For Ezekiel, its the deep-seated history, trust, and bondage. My point? I just think they make stronger foils lol

#caryl #caryl positivity #twd

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meaningofmischief · 3 years

Text

Evil, Lying Scourge

Set immediately after the battle in the Timekeepers’ chamber. Loki and Renslayer go toe-to-toe as Loki creates the ultimately confronting conditions to force the truth of Sylvie’s Nexus Event from Renslayer.

The truth is devastating - can Loki and Sylvie survive it?

Loki and Sylvie were traumatized - that was near the only way to put it.

Hours ago they had resigned themselves to die together on an exploding moon.

They had been forcibly yanked into the clutches of the TVA at the last possible minute, restrained, separated, each subject to individual psychological tortures as all their remaining tatters of stability and freedom and friendship were ripped away from them one by one. Both prepared to meet their ends together again, and now even their impossible escape was ice cold comfort as they both examined in horror the head of the mindless android they had taken to be one of the three all-powerful Timekeepers.

Not to mention the barely suppressed passion each felt for the other that roiled away like a wildfire between them - burning both the longer it went unacknowledged.

‘Then who,’ Loki’s voice broke for stress, ‘created the TVA?’. Sylvie felt choked by a sudden rage. Hurling the head of the android viciously across the floor of the chamber, she spat: ‘I thought this was it.’ They both had, of course.

A low moan startled them and they whipped around, mirrors of defense for the next attack, but the despised Ravonna Renslayer still lay passed out cold from the hefty blow Sylvie had dealt her not a minute before.

B-15, the undisputed saviour of the pair of them, had finally regained consciousness after the massive strike to the head she had received at the hands of one of the Timekeepers’ specialist defense team. They had not treated her mercifully while she was down either, delivering unnecessarily cruel, wounding kicks to the woman they saw as the traitor in their midst.

Sylvie reacted as if by instinct and rushed straight to B-15’s side, running practiced hands down the Hunter’s limbs to assess for fractures or broken bones. Loki could only marvel - for all her uncompromising toughness, Sylvie’s unconscious impulse was to compassion, a quality that he found at times miserably difficult to access, which frustrated him to no end, especially when he considered how yet more painful Sylvie’s past had been to his own.

‘Nothing broken.’ Sylvie’s soft reassurance to B-15 snapped Loki out of his reverie. ‘But those arseholes didn’t go easy on you by any means. Do you think you can walk?’ There was a flash of fire in the resilient Hunter’s eyes and she opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort before Sylvie broke out into a warm smile and there was a brief moment of kinship between these two fearsome warriors.

‘Still,’ continued Sylvie bluntly, ‘I’m not having you risk your life to save us only to pass out in one of these obscure corridors where no-one’ll find you for the next week. I’m gonna see you to the infirmary and you can’t stop me.’ She was busy helping B-15 struggle painfully to her feet when Loki murmured, gravelly, ‘Sylvie. Is that wise?’

Sylvie glowered. Whatever difficult feelings she had for this man, he was not about to tell her what to do. Luckily B-15 interceded, voice tight with pain, but determined nonetheless: ‘I know how we can do this. Variant -’, she checked herself, ‘L-Loki. Take out Ravonna’s Tempad from her jacket.’

Loki’s skin crawled but he nevertheless did as she commanded, crouching down to where Ravonna still lay knocked out, reaching inside her jacket to retrieve the rectangular Tempad, surprisingly heavy in his palm. He handed it uncertainly to B-15 who snapped it open and began pressing buttons with a confident ease that seemed to indicate she knew exactly what she was doing. ‘There,’ she said smugly after 30 seconds or so, ‘the warrant for my capture has been deleted. And don’t worry,’ her gaze flitted over to Loki and in that brief glance Loki knew that B-15 had perceptively ascertained the depth of his attachment to Sylvie, ‘nothing is going to happen to that Variant on my watch. The store cupboard for this unit is right next to the infirmary, so we’ll get her a uniform to act as a disguise on the way back.’ B-15’s eyes narrowed, and Loki knew she was fighting hard what must be a tremendous amount of pain. She handed the Tempad back to Loki and he felt incredibly humbled by the action. Sylvie helped her very gently to the elevator door. ‘Promise me,’ B-15 whispered through gritted teeth as she turned to face Loki one last time, ‘that you’ll bring this place to the ground.’ Loki nodded once, slow and solemn - forcing himself to believe that such a thing was possible when so much lay still unknown. He and Sylvie locked gazes, and Loki longed to cross to the elevator doors in a handful of strides, hold her so close to him, take her face in his hands… Stop. He forced himself to focus right now, for all of their sakes. He only held her gaze as the elevator doors closed, and then they were gone.

Loki exhaled, and it came out mostly as a sob. He closed his eyes to withhold the tears which he felt welling in their sea-green depths. He had held himself together all this while for Sylvie, but now, standing alone in the cold, misty chamber - he felt assaulted by uncertainty and fear. And sorrow. He so wished for Mobius, for his friend, who was always so grounded and strong - a master of strategy. Loki’s gift for style and verbal artistry were rendered useless in a situation such as this and he felt utterly incompetent and broken.

‘You can be whatever - whoever - you wanna be. Even someone good. I mean just in case anyone ever told you different.’

Loki’s eyes snapped open, shining with salt water and yet never so determined as now.

No.

He had the ability to stand up and make his own choices, and that started now. Not his first act of defiance against whatever cruel authority had created this suffocating institution of control, and certainly not his last.

He knew what he needed to do, and he needed to do it for Sylvie - while he had this rapidly diminishing window and before they set about trying to achieve the impossible in burning this place to the ground.

And before he told her that he loved her.

Loki stooped and grimly retrieved his Time Collar where it lay on the floor after B-15 had freed him of it. He was going to need it, unfortunately. He opened the Tempad and after a short while as he got to grips with its functions, a Time Door with a subtle magenta sheen opened up next to him.

Panicked breathing behind him.

Good, she was awake.

Loki wasted no time, seizing Renslayer none too gently by the lapel of her jacket. She foggily tried to resist him, but before her blurry vision had even cleared, she felt the Time Collar wrap constrictingly around her neck, felt Loki haul her to her feet and unceremoniously push her through the Time Door ahead of him.

The Asgardian bedchamber was light and airy and warm - a stark contrast to the cool, damp darkness of the place they had emerged from. Loki looked around briefly, instantly wistful, recognising the arch of the ceiling, the pristine white marble floor, even smelling the heady summer scents of his old home. It made his heart ache even more - if that was possible at this stage. He was quickly distracted, however, by Ravonna’s wild sprint away from his side. She had regained her full mental capacity now, but was seized by terror at the situation - at the mercy of the Variant and whatever tortures he could concuct for her.

Loki fiercely loathed to play the jailor - even to someone as worthy of harsh treatment as Renslayer - but he needed her attention. He turned the dial of the Time Twister and in an instant Renslayer was back at his side. Though the logical part of Ravonna’s brain knew it was fruitless, she tried to break away from him several more times, just as Loki had tried upon his capture. Eventually Loki seized her by the arm and made her turn to look at the scene before them.

Throughout the chaos the little girl seated on the floor had payed them no heed. Not that she could. This was what the TVA quaintly referred to as an ‘Observant Loop Cell’ - of course obnoxiously abbreviated to OLC. An OLC was designed not to punish prisoners into submission but rather to force them to reflect on situations they had experienced - made to watch those situations over and over and unable to help, hinder or manipulate any of the figures within it.

Loki himself had had no idea what to expect when he had found Variant L1129’s file on Renslayer’s Tempad, and created an OLC of the Variant’s apprehension. He had briefly had a vision of the young, out-of-control Goddess of Mischief, terrorizing Asgard - effecting pain and suffering, destruction and death so devastating that there was no choice but to send up a smoke flare, a Nexus Event. It did not fit in the slightest with what he perceived of Sylvie’s true character, but he could think of no other reasonable explanation. He did certainly not expect this angelic child, playing as any child would, with her toys. Loki felt a pang of unhappiness as he remembered his own childhood days, he never could play nicely. It was all borne of resentment and jealousy: Father would always ensure Thor had the most luxurious selection of toys, and he was anyway keen that both of his sons stopped messing around with playthings as early as possible and go out for battle training with the young sons of Asgardian nobility instead. Where Thor thrived in the competitive, loud environment of the training ground, Loki shrank into himself. Self-conscious, anxious, lacking the warrior’s bulk that all the other boys seemed to possess, the young prince found himself more often than not in a corner with a few books and some of the toys his father scorned - to make up his own stories in his own time. The other boys mocked him endlessly, tore pages out of the books, stole the miniature figurines of Valkyrie and other great warriors. Loki had eventually learned to be as harsh and cruel as they - only his power to hurt came from his intelligence rather than brawn.

This little girl was anything but harsh and cruel, hurt and isolated. Yes, she was alone, but she seemed to relish that independence - making her own stories up in her own time. ‘Dragon swoops towards the palace, but Valkyrie flies over, defeats the dragon and saves Asgard!’ she crowed, face alit at the conclusion of what had evidently been an epic story. Loki couldn’t suppress a small smile, though he knew that any moment there must be some great catastrophe which would set off the Nexus Event. Ravonna seemed to have frozen at his side - both were caught up in their individual perception of the events unfolding before their eyes.

When the golden Time Door opened mere seconds later, Loki gasped in disbelief, gaze flitting around the room and then back to Sylvie as he tried to ascertain what could have caused the Nexus and finding no evidence at all. Ravonna stiffened next to him as they both saw none other than Ravonna Renslayer - or more precisely Hunter A-20 - in clear command of the two Minutemen flanking her, hold out her Tempad before her and certify in a cold, triumphant voice: ‘There’s our variant.’ Sylvie’s eyes were huge and frightened as Renslayer continued without pause: ‘On the authority of the Timekeepers, I hereby arrest you for crimes against the sacred timeline’, as though she were addressing some notorious criminal and not a terrified little girl.

‘Where’s the Nexus?!’ Loki thought, increasingly desperate and distressed as the OLC Renslayer seized Sylvie by her skinny arm and wrenched her towards the Time Door. It all happened very quickly then. The Minutemen set their Reset Charge which immediately began its task of disintegrating Sylvie’s possessions - anything and everything that indicated that she had ever been in this room. Sylvie screamed, high-pitched, shaking in Renslayer’s grasp: ‘Wait!!!’. Loki resisted the urge to run to her aid, knowing it would be completely useless. Then Sylvie and Renslayer gone, followed by the Minutemen, the Time Door snapped shut and Loki and his Renslayer stood facing one another in a deafening silence in the handful of seconds of respite prisoners would receive before the loop started again.

Tears were clouding Loki’s vision, but he blinked them away angrily. ‘Why?’ was the only thing he said - in a voice several octaves below his usual speaking voice. Renslayer shook her head and pressed her lips together, though her chest heaved at the fraught situation. Loki growled softly and resisted the urge to hurt her - to make her talk.

No.

That was what he would have done in the past, he would not descend to such base measures now.

He didn’t need to, the loop was already starting again. Loki felt as though his heart would fairly break in two as he watched the young Sylvie skip into her bedroom, arms full of her toys, setting them out, beginning to play. ‘You’re going,’ he spat at Renslayer ‘to stand here with me and watch this as many times as it takes for you to tell me what the Nexus event was that made you rip an innocent young girl’s life away from her and force her on the run for her entire life. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re going to tell me.’

In reality that wasn’t exactly true - Sylvie and B-15 had almost certainly reached the infirmary by now and if Sylvie made it back to the Timekeepers’ chamber to find it empty, to think that she had been abandoned by her one companion (and perhaps more than that) in the universe… It nearly had Loki sending them both back to the TVA instantly. But Renslayer was breaking already, he could see it, as he forced her to watch the abject cruelty, cruelty at her hands, again and again. By the third viewing, Renslayer’s eyes brimmed with tears and Loki would gladly have wept openly. By the fifth, she started to hyperventilate, made to move away. Loki turned the Time Twister’s dial and she was jarred back into place. On the sixth viewing, just as the OLC Renslayer was about to seize Sylvie, she abruptly screamed: ‘Enough! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you.’

Both breathed out in relief, when Loki pressed the button on the Tempad that cut the loop and everyone in the scene disintegrated immediately. He turned to face her and forced out between his teeth: ‘Do not try to lie to the God of Mischief. You have no idea how acutely I am attuned to falsehoods. You will tell me in every horrifying detail about this Nexus Event, or I will leave you in this Time Cell and bury this Tempad in the deepest crevice of the TVA where no one will ever, ever find it. Now TELL ME.’

Renslayer took a deep breath to steady herself, closed her eyes and spoke with a surprisingly steady voice: ‘The Variant was deviating from her role on the Sacred Timeline.’ Loki snarled: ‘Obviously! What was the deviation?’. Renslayer opened her eyes and locked her chocolate brown eyes with his green ones. ‘A Loki,’ she said, slowly, as though choosing her words carefully, ‘does not get to travel the kind of path that that Variant was on.’ Loki rushed to intercede, but Renslayer narrowed her eyes, warning him not to interrupt her.

‘It was a mistake that she ever got as far as she did. Our technology advances every day - it’s now so accurate that we can nip burgeoning Nexus events like this one in the bud.’ Loki was amazed that she could speak in such clinical terms about the organisation that had only very recently been revealed to have three mindless robots as its figureheads. But Renslayer’s voice ran with conviction which only strengthened as she continued: ‘Lokis are so very tricky. It’s an incredible rarity that any being is allowed so much leeway as they have been, and we have all had to suffer the consequences of that. You see, due to your natures as shapeshifters, this Variant being born the Goddess rather than the God of Mischief was no cause for a Nexus flare. But of course in the archaic society that you are raised in, the ridiculous difference in gender is of massive significance. Recall that only male heirs are permitted to succeed the throne of Asgard. In your case, informing you of your adoption would have caused colossal problems for King Odin - that would have had ramifications across Asgard, not to mention potential rebellion from you yourself. Odin was under no illusions of how much more intelligent you were than his legitimate son, and how that would have fused with the arrogance of princehood to create the ultimate cuckoo within the sparrow’s nest - an utterly unacceptable scenario. Far better to keep that knowledge from you, even if it did mean that you grew up confused and resentful - emotions Odin could easily ignore. Far better to have you treated as the bastard son, who he would insidiously try to manipulate to his own ideals, who might possibly one, highly unlikely day, be fit for the throne should Thor be killed in battle before his heir was old enough to succeed the throne.’

‘Of course, for a girl, Odin had no such concerns. He took the child from Jotunheim out of some scrap of pity, and because she could prove useful in negotiating with the Jotuns at a later date. A princess had no chance of succeeding the throne, not to mention an illegitimate one, who would likely be married off to some lowborn noble as soon as she had come of age. So Odin told the Variant of her adoption. And somehow, ludicrously, that knowledge failed to break the Variant, it only made her stronger. She took pride in her differences from her family and the rest of Asgard, her inclination to independence rather than company, her delight of mischief. Where she should have been enraged, embittered and vengeful, she was courageous, compassionate and creative.’

‘Excuse me,’ Loki hissed, interrupting Renslayer’s monologue, ‘where she SHOULD have been?’. Despite the fact that she had found herself at his mercy, Renslayer sneered at him. ‘Of course-’ she continued, seeming to try to gain the upper hand over him with the knowledge she was revealing, ‘a Loki is an evil, lying scourge, like you. Where would be the heroes of the Timeline without the villains? That Variant had a role to play, same as you, same as all of us, and she went off the path. Whoever heard of a heroic Goddess of Mischief?’. Ravonna’s voice cracked slightly on the last sentence as she bore witness to Loki’s murderous expression. ‘So what you’re saying,’ he replied with devastating calm ‘is that Sylvie lost her home, her family, her life, because she would one day grow up to be kind and just, to be her own person? Oh, no one is truly good or truly bad, but the TVA decrees that not to be so.’ His voice grew more intense and Renslayer shrank before him. ‘Because whatever devil puppetmaster is controlling the TVA, they like to have their play made interesting - with villains to cause destruction and heroes to save the day?’. Renslayer was at a loss for words, but Loki had heard enough. He pressed a button on the Time Twister he held and Ravonna sank ungraciously to the floor, unconscious once more. One of the functions the delightful Twister could enact was to reverse the prisoner’s physiological state - mainly meant for various exotic creatures the TVA brought in, that could effect all sorts of trouble as a result of their innate biology, but in this case merely necessary to give Loki a moment to take in what he had just experienced. He couldn’t quite do it.

Only concern for Sylvie forced Loki to action, and he opened up the door back to the Timekeepers’ chamber using the Tempad, dragging the unconscious Ravonna back through with him. Despite what he had said, he would never consign anyone to spend their life trapped in one of the hideous Time Cells. He removed her Time Collar too, and flung it to a far corner of the chamber, repulsed that it had had to come to him using one of the TVA’s disgusting methods of control to get the information he needed.

His thoughts left Renslayer entirely behind as the elevator doors opened and Sylvie emerged not a moment too soon, yanking off the breastplate and trousers of the TVA Minutemen she had worn as a disguise over her usual black top and trousers. Now that Sylvie’s purpose had been achieved, she too seemed utterly spent as she staggered over to where Loki stood staring at her. Both failed to speak for several moments and then Loki rasped, with a voice that sounded unused for days, ‘Sylvie. Sylvie, I need to tell you something.’

Sylvie’s deep blue eyes widened, her heart began to pound like a wild drum in her chest. ‘What?’ she could only say as Loki struggled to find the words for what he had just learned.

When it was over, they both started to cry.

Loki and Sylvie had never been ones for excessive, histrionic displays of emotion. They had had to armour themselves in toughness and charm and mischief and wit all their lives despite the turbulence that roared inside of them.

And now here the both of them stood, silent but for the ragged intake of breath as they struggled to bring themselves under some semblance of control.

Eventually they stopped. Each observed the other’s tear-streaked face.

‘Sylvie...’ Loki said again. The word seemed to ground him and her at the same time.

‘Not another pep talk please.’ Sylvie uttered with a weak attempt at humour, that fell flat instantly with the sheer desperation in her tone.

‘No. I have to tell you something else.’

Sylvie wasn’t sure that she could handle anything else.

Loki stepped closer to her, and avoided her gaze, his breathing picking up again.

Sylvie felt herself instinctively mirroring him, and forced herself to focus.

Loki looked her in the eyes.

‘We will figure this out.’

It really was too much.

‘How do you know that?’ How was there any certainty about anything anymore?

‘Because, uh -’ Loki’s near-gasping for air cut him off and he twisted his sweaty hands together.

‘Well, back on Lamentis…’ It was all too impossible to explain. Loki gestured helplessly, trying to find the beginnings of some clever story that had never failed to come to him with infinite ease before and now completely failed him.

He gave up. His arms dropped to his sides.

‘This is new for me. Um -’ Loki’s heart raced in his chest and the sound seemed amplified, obliterating his thoughts. They were a tangle of grief and passion and...and love - a tangle that was impossible to reconcile.

Loki turned his hands towards his heart, as though it could speak for him.

‘What?’ Sylvie breathed, hardly daring to speak, her own heart pulsing just as intensely.

They would figure this out. They would. Some very deep and very soulful part in both of them, inextricably linking one to the other, knew it. Loki clasped her upper arms, barely believing himself.

I love you Sylvie. Sylvie I love you. Sylvie I will always love you - you beautiful spirit of mischief. Sylvie, we are free and we will figure this out. I love you Sylvie, I love you.

‘If it were now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy.’ thought Loki, even as he felt the icy touch of Ravonna Renslayer’s weapon seize his heart and rip its chill through his body, as Sylvie watched him disintegrate right before her eyes which never left his - as he was transported to some realm of chaos where the God of Mischief would navigate the labyrinth back to his Goddess so that he could speak those words unsung softly in her ear before bending down to her lips and watching the TVA burn.

- Inspired by a fantastic suggestion from asgardian1112! More suggestions for future stories gladly welcome!

#loki #lokiseries #sylki #sylvie x loki #sylvie laufeydottir

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endlesscacophony · 2 years

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@ecclectricity said: "If I were you? I'd just throw it all away." [ Claude to Sylvain >:3c ]

He wasn’t sure when it happened, wasn’t sure when he’d gotten to this point with the leader to the Golden Deer house, for he vowed to never let anyone get this close - not that anyone cared to be, not with him, of all people. He was constantly diminished to a Crested Noble, someone who was only good to perpetuate a line and have a pretty face, his value wasn’t something anyone ever considered to look past. So he had deemed he would do the same, not that he enjoyed the endeavor all that much - no. But at this point, the hole he had dug himself was too grave, to steep, resembling that of a barren well devoid of water and much too deep.

He vowed to never get so close to someone that they would be able to see how he truly is, who would ever dare to like what they see? Vowed that he would make it so every woman, eligible or otherwise, would be disgusted to even think of a relationship with him, much less a marriage. Vowed to show the ugliest part of nobility, because that’s all that was left inside him. All of this and yet here he was, back pressed against the other’s back atop the Goddess’ Tower where they had escaped, the two just .... talking.

It was a nice change, to be sure. Even if Sylvain felt like a cat walking on it’s hind legs, a fish out of water - the uncomfortable metaphors aplenty but the idea all the same.

The cage in which Sylvain had locked his heart had lost it’s key so very long ago, truth be told he believed he buried it someone in the grounds of the grand estate in Gautier Territory. But even now, he could feel it squeeze tightly as he sifted through his memories, both boys share and share alike memories with which they didn’t seem to remember, much less talk about.

He was piecemealing it together, remiss to actually divulge the many horrible things in his past, but still, most of the pieces were still there. The way his brother terrorized him, the way his father spoke to him, the responsibilities of being a Gautier, a stud horse on display, galloped in front of many willing and eligible nobles, the way it all connected to his behavior here at the academy.

He had noticed Claude’s silence for awhile as he chattered, finding himself getting away with his explanation. It was only when he showed reluctance to continue, a light shrug lifting his shoulders as he dismissed the rest of the story for another time that the other spoke.

‘If I were you? I'd just throw it all away.’

There was a beat, a pause before, “Huh,” The soft chuckle that followed wasn’t one to be helped, not as he hung his head, tracing the designs of the uniform with his eyes. His own words were reflected in Claude’s, wishes to just dismiss the idea of being a noble entirely and run off somewhere where they have no care for crests - or even simply, didn’t know he had one. He knew he’d never be able to escape the responsibilities, and while he understood why the Gautier’s were so insistent upon having a proper heir - it didn’t make it all any less suffocating.

“I’ve thought about it, y’know.” His voice was quiet then, merely a whisper to be swept away by the wind blowing through the Goddess Tower. “Running away from it all.” He chuckled softly, despite himself, “I knew better than to think I’d get away from it.” His tone was resigned to his reality, to the fate of all those who bear a crest.

There was a pause, a clearing of his throat as he lifted his head, “But,” He sighs, “I did what I could with the tools I had.” Another shrug, “I’m not saying I picked the best course of action, but it certainly was something.”

#TAPS THE COMPUTER SCREEN #EXCUSE MEEEEEEEEEEEE #dumps this on ur lap #/im emotional okay/#ecclectricity #𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙬𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣 (𝘚𝘺𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘯 || 𝘐𝘊)#𝙄'𝙢 𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙩! [ 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴 - 𝘗𝘳𝘦 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘱 ]

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deafblindshorty · 3 years

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Poe and Rey’s Underrated Friendship

I noticed that not a lot has been said about Poe and Rey’s friendship in TROS and related EU materials. That’s probably because it’s not the main focus, which I sort of understand. There are a lot of subtle moments of their friendship (even some hints towards a romantic relationship). Some of these points come from @greysmartwolf’s tumblr, others come from a discord server.

Disclaimer: I am not diminishing or minimalizing Finn’s importance to both Rey and Poe, but if it seems like it, then I’m sorry. That’s not my intent.

Let’s start from the beginning: Rey and Poe have a LOT of parallels throughout the trilogy (some of the same scenes, the same lines, they both face their past in TROS, they both blame themselves for the Resistance dying at Exegol, they almost gave up but two Rebel veterans gave them pep talks, etc). So, they have quite a bit in common including their love for flying and droids.

Also, about the age difference, age really doesn’t matter in Star Wars. Han and Leia are 13 years apart, Wedge is about ten years younger than Norra, and Snap is 16 years older than his wife Kare (He could be her father!). Huge age differences exist in other fictional materials set on our Earth- Brooke Taylor and her late husband from Legally Blonde are 34 years apart, Remus and Tonks from Harry Potter are 13 years apart, an old soap opera supercouple (Doug and Julie Williams from Days of Our Lives) are 20 years apart. As for friends, Will from Glee is in his 30s and is friends with a few 19-20 year olds and Sue who is in her 50s is besties with a 19/20 year old, 30 year old Launchpad from Ducktales is friends with 10 year old Dewey. So, 19/20 year old Rey being friends or dating 32/33 year old Poe isn’t that crazy or farfetched.

According to the TROS Visual Dictionary, Poe left BB-8 with Rey so she won’t feel lonely (and that’s probably also why BB-8 is with Rey on Tatooine).

Poe was the first man Rey met whom she didn’t physically attack upon meeting him, and also smiled when they introduced each other. I don’t recall her smiling that wide whenever she was with Finn or Kylo.

They get along well in Poe Dameron #26-27. Poe was even a bit flirty with Rey.

It was Poe’s idea to build a Jedi training course for Rey in Star Wars Adventures, so Poe understands the importance of Rey’s Jedi training.

Rey understands what Poe went through with Kylo ( Poe also calls them ”Torture buddies!”).

When Poe, Finn, and Chewie return from the Fortress of Hothitude (I can’t remember what that planet is called. lol), Poe was so happy to see Rey. The way he walked up to Rey, his smile and his hands on hips. He badly wants to impress Rey. Alpha male!

And right after that, they have their only argument throughout the entire film. Poe and Rey quarrel in TROS was because they both didn’t listen to each other. They really only fight over the Falcon and BB-8. They both care about each other a lot, don’t blame each other in anything (except the Falcon being on fire and BB-8 missing a disc) and admit when one of them was right in argue (but prefer not to tell about that). Then Rey ends up smiling at him and Poe ends the argument by complimenting Rey (”You’re the best fighter we have. We need you.”). Also, Poe is the only one whom Rey talks to with sarcastic smile. Also, also, that argument is meant to parallel Han and Leia’s many arguments. Han and Leia argued every five minutes throughout the entire Original Trilogy, and they ended up together!

After sinking in the sand tunnels, Poe catches Rey and holds her bridal-style for a sec to steady her and was worried about her.

“He thought of protesting, of asking how Rey could possibly know which equally unremarkable direction was the right one. But Poe had learned that when Rey said things that way, her face determined, her voice unwavering, a fellow ought to just follow.” -TROS novel Poe knows Rey well. He knows when he must just shut up and do what she says. It kind of reminds me of Anakin telling Padme “Don’t worry. I’ve given up trying to argue with you.”

Poe taking the dagger from Rey in the novel and it felt like a weight has been lifted from Rey’s shoulders. It’s almost like he knew that would help.

The sand snake- I’ve never seen Poe so scared. But he is not afraid of that snake, he’s ready to combat it. I mean, he piloted the Falcon without fear into the mouth of a giant worm! Poe is afraid that snake could hurt or kill Rey. Poe wants to shoot that snake and pull Rey back, and he almost does that. And Rey amazes him again! And Poe sighs in relief when the snake calms down and slithers away.

In the novel, Poe didn’t scream “Nooo!” or “What have you done?!” when Rey “killed” Chewie. Poe knows there is no scenario in which Rey would harm her friends consciously. He most likely knows about her dark visions (Rey tells BB-8 everything, who obviously tells Poe all important stuff). Poe is not mad at Rey and doesn’t make her explain how that happened. And honestly, if he did do that, then he’d be a huge hypocrite, since he accidentally caused the deaths of the bombers in TLJ and the soldiers on Crait, which is why Poe was gentle with her. Rey understands Poe. His usual anger. They both have a huge responsibility. The Resistance on Poe and Jedi legacy on Rey. And she was ready to hear his anger, but he didn’t even plan to lay into her.

Rey likes that Poe can steal speeders and she finds his past interesting. Rey was really interested in Poe and Zorii’s past connection and Poe felt a bit smug when Rey was able to beat Zorii (He said “Don’t Dja’kanka” because he was afraid Rey would slice Zorii in half before she could help them). According to some audio book excerpts, when Rey was thinking about Poe’s past or his criminal skills, her voice was mysterious and nonjudgmental. Finn wasn’t happy to find out Poe was a spice runner, while Rey was completely fine with that, it seems she even liked that

After the Spice Runner reveal, as they traveled a snowy passageway, Poe glanced over at Rey, who was silent and frowning, lost in her own thoughts. Or maybe she was focused. Sensing something.

When Rey rushed off to look for the dagger on Kylo’s star destroyer, Poe didn’t stop her and trusted her feelings. Poe knows when he must just follow her instincts. He learned to read her.

Look at pain in Poe’s eyes after Finn’s words. Poe wants to be closer to Rey, he wants Rey to trust him more. But Finn and Leia were still closer to Rey than Poe was. “Perhaps, she didn’t want to put the rest of the team in danger, but they had already signed up for that by joining the Resistance.” (TROS junior novel, Poe)

"She’s out there, heading toward the Death Star. Her skimmer keeps tipping over – it’s damaged. What the heck is she thinking?” (TROS junior novel, Poe) Poe is so worried here. And angry. Now he’s mad at Rey, but later he will be angry with himself for losing her.

“Rey’s nobility masked an impulsiveness that might doom them all – and as highest-ranking member of the team, Poe felt responsible for not curbing it. He had flunked the leadership test yet again.” (TROS junior novel) Poe blames himself, not Rey.

“Maybe there was something the general could do. During the battles of D'Qar and Crait she and Rey had shared beacons. Maybe there was a way she could reach out to Rey or Rey could reach out to her.” (TROS junior novel) Poe planned to find Rey!

So, Poe doesn’t think Rey abandoned them and doesn’t resent her for leaving. If he did, he’d be a big hypocrite here, too, since he abandoned his father, who was dying from a poisonous Lurker bite in Free Fall for the Spice Runners.

Poe trusts Rey and knows she can take care of herself. That’s why he didn’t rush after her like Finn did.

“Poe didn’t have his usual pre-battle swagger. He seemed distress. “What’s waiting for her out there?” he asked Finn.” (TROS junior novel) Poe worried about Rey so much! That she’s somewhere alone and they won’t be with her there.

Poe was incredibly relieved when Rey was revealed to be alive (and he was also worried about Rey when he found out the Emperor wanted her alive).

The way Poe takes Rey’s hand is special, it’s pure tenderness, and the way he rubs his thumb over her knuckles tells everything. Poe loves Rey more than friend. Also, Rey pinches Poe’s elbow with a hope, like she tries to reach him. And when Poe does the same, she happily closes her eyes and pinches him again.

Poe and Rey also acted so jealous of Finn and Zorii respectively. Poe kept asking Finn what he was gonna tell Rey when they were sinking in the sand. On Kijimi, Rey couldn’t stop thinking about what Poe’s past with Zorii was.

So, usually, men tend to date women who remind them of their mothers (Take Harry Potter for example! Ginny looks a lot like Lily Potter.). Rey and Shara Bey (Poe’s mom) look similar and they’re both brave, adventurous, and great pilots.

Men also tend to date women who remind them of their exes. Rey also looks similar to Zorii, plus they are both cagey, kept secrets, both love to argue with Poe, but they care about him, and are extremely loyal.

TL:DR. My point is that Poe and Rey are actually good friends and would be a great couple. Disney/LF were just a bit more subtle about their relationship.

#star wars #poe dameron #rey skywalker #damerey

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yugirl-with-dragons-art · 4 years

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The music box

In the colony of Neo domino the summer air danced with the wind of the seas. She wasn’t sure how she pulled it off but she managed to do so. The life she had wasn’t one meant for her. Arranging into a marriage that would benefit everyone involved, except her. She’d be locked away into a routine forced upon her by society with a fiancé that would reinforce those standards. That was something she wouldn’t be able to live with.

Freedom was what she desired. It was what she needed.

So she ran, her footsteps echoed against the cobbled streets as the drunkards came out into the night. Escaping a bar fight caused by one of the patrons was quite... interesting to say the least. Sneaking onto a strange ship and hiding away in the hold was probably a bad idea, but it was the only one she had at the time nonetheless. That hasty decision was one she never looked back on in a negative light... Yet it felt like an eternity ago, how much time had passed? Who could say for sure. The shifts of time were charted differently at sea than on solid land. Time marched forward into a swirl until it was no longer distinguishable out on the open seas, the stars however, were roughly a calendar that would constantly shift through the night sky.

The salty sea breeze gave a new sense of freedom she never had in the stuffy society she was accustomed to. In her heart the choice she made led her down the right path. Learning how to fight, charting the stars, pickpocketing, were skills that she would’ve never learned in her old life, basic survival skills. Her current life was the one she had wished for and it came true.

That she was thankful for.

The one thing she accidentally snaked from her old house was a small wooden box. She wasn’t sure why she had it, and likely got caught up in the few items she needed to take with her before her quiet escape into the night. Upon further inspection, the carvings in the wood on the outside were quite decorative. She unlocked the box for the hollowed inside to contain a metal comb and other parts with a handle prodding through a hole out of the side of the box. On the inside lid a message was spelled out in neat cursive writing, for her.

Happy birthday sweet Aki. We love and cherish you-

Reading only part of the message was enough for her, she didn’t need to see the names of who it was from would only bring unnecessary pain. Having minimal pain was the best route tonight.

As she slowly cranked the handle, the metal started to produce its melody, waltzing through the pockets of pitches it precisely meant to do.

As the melody danced through ears, it was a song that she could recognize. She had played on the piano with her mother several times as a duet... and the same melody she had danced to when she was still light enough to dance on her dad’s shoes when he lifted her in the air to swing her around.

Her thoughts flickering as she delved further into the warmth. Her happy memories flooded back into her of what she had been suppressing for a while.

She missed it. Not her circumstances of being forced in marriage. Not giving notice or a goodbye.

Being a child in a sense.

The innocence. The warmth of acceptance and unconditional love for who she was, not who she had to be.

Now? she couldn’t go back as she was. Even if she wanted to go back they wouldn’t accept her back as how she is.

A criminal, a pirate of the high seas and shores. She was no longer a molded upstanding child, not perfect to society’s desires. A tainted stain on her family’s reputation.

With the box tight in her grip, she quietly left her quarters with the box chirping along happily, echoing softly through the halls of the quarters of the other crew members. It wasn’t long as she made her way along onto the main deck with the floorboard gently groaning beneath her. The cold sea breeze greeted her as the main oak door separating the darkness to a different atmosphere, had opened. Luckily the stars were out with minimal clouds among the calm seas. Heading towards the railing of the ship the stars twinkled down revealing the secrets to her as constellations appeared in the skies. The chirping box finished the tune that touched parts of her closed off heart.

I made my choice and I am sticking with it. I’m not going back. I’m never going back.

Gripping the box, she started to wind up, to give the mermaids and sirens... Or whichever other mythical creatures of the sea that lurked beneath; a gift from the human’s world.

Something stopped her, she couldn’t let go of the box. It was something she wanted to let go, but the communication between her arm and her mind kept getting interrupted. Stern eyes started to blur as her cheeks started to become wet.

I have a new family now.. One that loves me for me. I’m happy here..but why ..?

Her trailed off thoughts led her back to the railing as she rewound the box again. The soft melody aided her in the emotions she had bottled up. The inner conflictions of adjusting to a dangerous environment with little to no survival skills, facing reality head on with no time to process the swift change from nobility to a no name, losing an entire family to slowly gain a new one. Her circumstances forced her to make a choice, lose her family for freedom or stay in a stagnant society that would value her for her silence. It was an obvious choice to make, truly experiencing change could be uncharted waters. Most days she didn’t even think twice about her choice, or the thought of leaving in the first place, infact her new family treated her better than her old one despite the rough beginning. She could utilize swords and guns with ease, her father would have a heart attack if his- but, she was no longer his daughter. She willingly exiled herself, forgetting that she needed to banish the thoughts of her old life to truly live.

She let her tears roll down her face as she looked up into the night sky, letting the box chirp happily, mindlessly.

Her thoughts were quickly diminished as she was brought back down into the real world again as the clicking of the main cabin door opened taking her attention away from the sea. In the darkness the figure was familiar as she wiped away her tears as her music box continued to chirp along.

“Captain?.. what are you still doing up?”

The tall figure had a bit of bed head, with one of his shirts draped gently over his shoulders, with his short slacks being held up by a cloth wrap tied around his waist. He rubbed his eyes as he was somewhat tired, feeling the drowsiness in his eyes. His dark ocean eyes reflected like clear crystals, in a way they were similar to the porcelain dolls she used to play with when her father would return from conferences when she was a small child. When focused they could cut through a person’s soul. She turned away facing back to the sea, with the moon’s reflection painting itself in the waves.

“… I couldn’t sleep.” He wasn’t about to admit that he followed the gentle sound that woke him up as he was drifting back to sleep from a nightmare he woken up from again.

Aki gave a weak smile, still holding the box in her hand.

“Ah.” She really didn’t know what much else to say. The two of them had strained relations when she first snuck aboard and was discovered on his ship. Since then, she always felt some sort of tension from him, whether or not it was hatred, it was hard to tell. He kept mainly to himself, and only let out very little to her. She knew about him more through her crewmates than from the captain himself.

His eyes caught the wooden box in her hands, he hadn’t seen it before but she usually didn’t take anything personal out for others. Then again he didn’t know that she had anything personal with her in the first place. He typically kept to himself when it came to personal baggage with his crew. If they came to him that was on them alone, but he wasn’t one to turn them away. Something in his heart told him that he needed to stay out on the main deck. He wasn’t sure why, but it was something that he needed to do. He leaned against the railing, standing next to her leaving a gap of space between them as the sea breeze gently brushed against their figures in the clear night sky.

The chirping box was the only thing that kept the stagnace of silence from creeping in. His eyes kept glancing back to the wooden music box, curious about it. He pulled the sleeves up on his shirt so it would stop falling off of his shoulders.

“ What’s with the music box?”

“ Well.. It.. It was a gift.”

He could sense some pain from her, but it was more obvious when the moonlight outed the streaks of her drying tears. A small pang of guilt hit him, comforting people wasn’t his forte. So he kept her company, both staring off into the sea. The cold breeze helped wake him up, but his sleep schedule was going to be screwed up again. His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice.

“.. From my guardians.” It took him a minute to process what she was saying, since she had biological parents.

“Hm? Your parents?..”

“.. Yeah. It was a birthday gift from when I was.. younger.” She paused, calculating her answer to an unasked question that she was compelled to answer. Unlearning the concept of not speaking until spoken to was harder to unlearn some days than others, in fights it was easy. Her survival depended on communication, but when that type of communication ceased she tumbled down the hill of progress sometimes. That concept had to be ingrained in upper society to women.. For some reason.

“The tune.. was something I heard all through my life. It.. doesn’t bring back bad memories, just the happy ones.”

Her voice felt dry. She continued on how she would play piano duets with her mother in the afternoons to this song and how she would want to waltz with her dad as a child. The warm memories were happy ones, yet they stabbed her in the chest. A feeling of betrayal with a need for justification.

“I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve ever been. But I don’t understand why I.. I can’t let this go. Into the ocean I mean.” She didn’t bother to hide her sadness, why should she? She was free from concealing emotions behind a mask of societal standards. She could let herself free to sail where the captain led through the seas.

His gaze set back onto the box she was holding over the railing, ready to plunge into the depths of the ocean blue.

“ Well. If it’s the only happy memories you have of them, then it makes sense why you feel that way. You’ve said yourself that you have happy memories associated with the melody.. Maybe you’re just missing the feeling rather than the memories of them.” She gave a nod acknowledging his statement.

“I suppose.” His gaze softened, before continuing on.

“Maybe you need new happy memories to link with the song..” He took a breath. “ I’m not sure how but, maybe that’s what you need.. Unless you want rum to drown it away? I’ve got plenty-” her face turned a bit red as she huffed before smacking his arm. Beneath that exterior she hid a small smile. He gave a good chuckle, “ I figured it was worth a shot.”

She rolled her eyes as she felt her spirits lift a bit, as the box finished singing.

“ You’re right..” He blinked a bit, “ about missing the feeling.. And with the song..” She distanced herself against the railing as she put the box on top of some closed crates. She let out a breath before turning back to him. She wasn’t sure why the question slipped out, perhaps she wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe her heart started to reconnect to her desires, to feel a sense of warmth. Regardless her nobility in her soul was still showing, from the pirate within her body.

“ Say.. Do you know how to waltz?” He thought for a minute, growing up he really didn’t have any access to instruments or tons of social culture as an orphan. There were public festivals hosted once a year in the warm summers. Being a tiny child and being knocked around and down by drunk patrons partying wasn’t considered fun. He’s been to a few since it was hard for Martha to keep track of all of the children in a giant colony wide festival.

He turned to her as he crossed his arms, leaning against the railing. But it still puzzled him of why she was asking this, and late at night when the two of them should be asleep.

“I don’t say that I do. I really was never much of a dancer to begin with.. Why?”

She started to wind up the music box, she felt her face heat up as she realized that she unintentionally cornered herself. By asking the captain of the ship she snuck onto, if he knew how to waltz.

Why did I ask him that? Welp.. If I back out now, it’ll look suspicious.

“Would..Would you like to learn?” He rolled his eyes as she extended her hand out to his. He looked at her palm, before looking back up at her. He contemplated for a moment before accepting her request.

“Okay, so um.. You put your hand on my shoulder.. Like this.” She started to guide his right hand to her shoulder bone before resting her left hand around his bare waist. The two intertwined their unused opposing hands, standing a moment before Aki realized that she needed to continue on with her instructions. Her aristocratic culture shone through a bit, yet with more patience than she normally gives out.

“Normally, men are the ones who lead.. Since you’ve never done this before, I’ll lead. Ready?” Yusei gave a soft nod as he was looking down at her .. and at his feet. With a breath, she started to lead with her right foot. Being the captain of a ship didn’t mean that he had all of his coordination. His feet would tangle up underneath before getting the rhythm to then stumble over himself or step on Aki’s foot by accident. He had a hard time keeping with her consistent counting, becoming flustered with embarrassment and some frustration. Looking for a signal, she gave his hand a squeeze, that let his frustration melt a bit.

Is she..

As the two used the main deck as a studio space, as he was slowly getting the hang of it. He still tripped over himself every couple of steps but it was progress. She felt herself give out a giggle as a smile spread across her face.

“ You’re getting the hang of it!” He didn’t realize that a soft grin made its way onto his face as well. The two silhouettes danced beyond the time the music box had finished its mystical tune. They finished with keeping time of the sounds of their heartbeats taking over as a metronome. He still kept tripping over himself, but he was starting to feel the rhythm of their beats as one. Finishing up and slowing down, the duo needed to catch their breath as they didn’t speak to each other.

She can’t believe that she danced with the ship’s captain. He can’t believe he started learning a formal dance.

The two gave a smile to each other as they were processing what they just did.

“Would.. You like to do this again sometime? I’m sure with more practice you’ll get better!”

His silence did give an answer, but not before giving a small nod.

“Another time would be nice. But we need to get some sleep.”

“And captain?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.. For staying with me.”

“Of..Of course. It’s no problem.”

He led her back towards the crew’s cabins as he felt a bit of a blush rise in his cheeks before letting her inside first. Before he forgot, he took the small box from on top of the crates, and opened it. Thinking quickly he started to carve something on the inside where the message was inscribed. It was quite messy, but it got the job done nonetheless. He took a quick look around, paranoid a little that someone was watching, he took a breath that there wasn’t anyone within the immediate vicinity before going back inside smuggling the small box with him.

Being out at sea did change her soul for the better. His soul started to soften around her, breathing life into his.

The two had miscalculated, moreso, forgotten who was steering the ship late at night drifting through the seas. A blue haired man wasn’t able to see all the details but it didn’t need a genius to figure out who was dancing with who. He couldn’t help but to give a smile, knowing that the two were having an effect on each other.

Crow would’ve killed to see this.. Nonetheless, I’m sure he’ll find a way to mess with the captain more.

#I'M CRYING THANK YOU FOR THIS GIFT #ADORABLE YUSEI-AKI MOMENTS #WE STAN #THANK YOU SO MUCH #submission #taytay4674788 #fanfiction #ff #fanfics #fanfic #pirate au #pirateau #yusei fudo #aki izayoi #akiza izinski #faithshipping #yugioh 5ds #yugirl-with-dragons

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spc4eva · 3 years

Text

Mandokar: Chapter Three

Summary: Sena must conquer her first battle to fully understand what it is to be Mandalorian and not a princess. The First Trial looms on the horizon, but the galaxy is not a kind place.

Word Count: 15,610

Rating: M (18+) for the end duckies

Trigger Warnings !! : Latter part of the chapter has brief details of sexual assault (not to the main characters) please use caution.

Author Notes: Remember that Jedi and Nobility tend to have 'English' accents. Whereas Outer Rim and regular blue collar people tend to have 'American' accents. Definitely something people would notice.

Crossposted on AO3

"What's going on with you and Aya?" Xivi asked during their routine practice. The girls were hanging upside down on the pullup bars seeing who could last longer. It was always Sena, but Xivi still tried to best her.

A month had passed since Aya began her minor infractions toward Sena. She'd been a lot more careful, especially to make a point not to use her full strength against her in combatives when they were stuck together, but there were times that the girl could've pulled her punches more. Rather than give her any satisfaction, she dealt with each blow and started to humiliate Aya when she had the opportunity to. Want to throw hard punches? Fine, Sena could dance around her like a squirrel beneath a clumsy troll. She could also strike just as hard, despite her size. The first time she'd planted a full on blow on Aya, she thought the girl was going to snitch. However, Aya kept her trap shut, thus Sena did as well.

On top of that, Aya continued to be annoying. Bumping her, tripping her, pulling her plait - anything she could do to get under her skin. Papa's words echoed through her head, words she had never heeded back in Genmaris. Be the bigger person. Never acknowledge those who bother you, in which case you'll hold the power, not them. So, she practiced her patience, each grinding, aggravating fiber of it and realized she did have power over Aya. Satisfaction would be derived from Sena throwing a fit and she had decided she wouldn't give her that luxury.

"Eh, she's still mad at me or something," Sena shrugged, trying to play it off and diminish the twinge of anxiety she felt each day wondering what Aya would try to do.

"Over inviting her to practice with us, still?" Xivi's voice hitched and she shook her head. "You should challenge her to a duel."

Sena snorted. "And lose?"

"Fair point," Xivi grumbled, almost forgetting that Sena would fail miserably at a hand to hand fight with the girl. "Well, if she keeps doing it, I'll fight her."

"Thanks, but it's not that bad."

"We're all vod . You didn't do anything wrong and if you did, she should challenge you for her honor, not skulk around and take her frustrations out on you. What happened to her buir sucks, but it's not like you shoved that in her face. She's being a shabuir because she's jealous of you."

Jealous? Sena blinked a few times. Was it really jealousy? She had just assumed that Aya was just hanging onto a grudge because she was hurting. Turning over a new leaf, Sena had not wanted to alienate her further by bringing this issue to the adults. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you're better at things than her. You're faster, smarter, and the teachers know that. Aya was never going to make a great hunter. Not before you got here and not since you've arrived. Then you show up, fast enough to keep up with Djarin, you have the teachers praising you, and y'know, it's history from there. I think she has a crush on Din, which is probably why she hasn't stopped."

"On that kriffing buckethead?" Sena chortled, watching as her friend swung her legs back down and touched the ground. What was there to like about Din Djarin? He barely talked and any brushes she had with him were curt. "I won again."

"We knew this was going to happen," Xivi grumbled, holding her head. "And why not? He's the top of the class."

Sena leapt down, sporting an elegant flip before sticking the landing like a loth-cat. Maybe there was attraction in mysteriousness, but Sena still thought he was annoying and not a good sport. They could’ve had a better rivalry if he didn’t act like he had a stick up his butt half the time.

"Show off," Xivi poked.

"But why do you say it like that? He barely talks to anyone, let alone me," Sena pointed out.

"Yeah, I know, but obviously Aya doesn't have a lot of brain cells or she would've realized you and Djarin are rivals," Xivi reasoned. "And he does talk to you more than most people."

" Lek , to be rude, not to profess his love for me."

" Vod of few words. Except for youuuu ," Xivi sang, clasping her hands together as she pretended to swoon.

" Ne'johaa ! You know it's not like that!" Sena hissed, cheeks burning beneath her bucket. "What about you and Kedth? You think I'm blind?" She tried to round the conversation on her friend, keenly aware that Xivi had been sitting next to the boy in class and doting on him. Sometimes he joined them for Mando'a studying and practice.

"I do like Kedth, but at least I'll admit it," Xivi snickered, hands planted on her hips as she made a silly, but mocking noise.

"I don't even know him! He's just all broody and quiet," Sena complained, trying to convince Xivi. While she enjoyed her rivalry with Din, because it kept her on her toes, she didn't know much more about him. In fact, she knew less about him than any of her other peers which she'd seen outside of class and trained with - with the exception of Aya.

"The two tops of the class, sitting in a tree, M-U-R-C-Y-"

Sena headbutted Xivi, taking her down to the ground where the girls scrambled in the grass, rolling around like playing pogs. A bit of giggling and squealing ensued as they fought for dominance, which was short-lived when Sena clamped onto her back and attempted to put her into a headlock. Xivi sat up and bashed her into the ground, winding her, before seizing the opportunity to throw her off. Tackling her down, Xivi restrained her, clucking in disappointment.

"You suck at combatives. You'll definitely lose if you fight Aya," Xivi told her as if it were glaringly obvious. "You should get your Ori'vod to teach you better."

"All Paz has to do is poke me and I'll break," Sena laughed.

"More like breathe on you."

"Alright, alright," she squirmed at the insults. Now this was just turning into a roast session. If it had been anyone other than Xivi, she might have taken offense. But from the first day, the two had clicked like a cartridge in a firearm, two bolts to be fired one after another. Finally, she was released and could sit up, frowning at all the grass stuck in her armor. Xivi stood up and wrenched her up to her feet, patting her off. "I'll get you back later. You know that I can sneak up on anyone in the Tribe and they'll never see it coming."

" Jai'galaar ," she brushed the shriek-hawk eyes on Sena's pauldron, painted in white. "Almost like you fly around when you're sneaking."

"One day we'll both fly. Once we get our jetpacks," Sena reminded her. Their Rising Phoenix drills weren't until next year, but everyone was still excited to start them and put all their theories and lessons into practice.

Returning home for the night, she was surprised to find that Paz wasn't lingering around. Instead, it was just her buir , set over the table with a simple dinner. Over the weeks, her tongue had become desensitized toward the spiciness, though nothing had been as hot as the first night where they'd intentionally over done the heat for a laugh. Now, she sort of liked the burn and the way it would clear her sinuses right up.

" Su'cuy buir ," she greeted, pulling her helmet off and going over to the sink to wash her hands. "Where's Ori'vod ?"

"Our for recon this week," Hux replied, waiting patiently for her to sit down with him.

"Oh he must be thrilled," she snickered, aware that Paz wasn't a fan of having to do stealth missions or having to navigate through landscapes and shoot azimuths. "Where did they go? It's not too hard to navigate around here. Unless you're trying to find a load of banthas instead of nerfs."

"Off plant. What are your plans for the weekend?" Hux inquired conversationally.

"Probably train with Xivi." Plans were loose and formed mostly on whim. Prior weekends mingled with a few other peers, but usually it was the same. Hang out, get some work done, talk about their academics, maybe shoot a little banter, but everyone was keen on keeping up with their work and not falling behind. Even young Terri was around often.

"Set in stone?"

" Nayc . Why?"

Hux creased a tempered smile at her, one that set her skin on fire and stood her hair on end. "Well, if you've got a little free time for your buir , I think I might have a few kal'e laying around."

"I'm free. All weekend. Never been freer," Sena informed him, her attempt to not seem hasty thwarted. Xivi wouldn't be upset if she wanted to spend time with her buir . She'd gotten to train with Paz often, trying to get better at her hand to hand combat, but Hux was almost always busy. Often he was gone on hunts to support the Tribe. Since being on the Kote , she hadn't been given another chance to show her buir how far she had come or train with him again. Now he was offering to play with knives with her. They hadn't done much knife combat in class yet, so getting ahead on this would be ideal.

" Jate . 0600 tomorrow morning. How are your classes going?"

The food was surprisingly savory today, mixed with root vegetables and rice. "Academics are easy still. I have learned quite a bit about land nav, which I also like. At least one Vizsla will have a brain cell devoted to reconnaissance."

Hux snorted into his ale, spewing a little. Clearing his throat, he spoke, "Nidak tells me you've been having a little trouble with one of your vod ."

Her spoon froze and she very carefully lifted her head to look at him. Nibak had noticed? How much did she know? Nibak hadn't mentioned anything to her. "We don't get along, but it's alright. When it comes down to the wire, we're still vod ."

"Cut the princess diplomacy out," Hux's voice was hard and stern, drawing her eyes back up. She hadn’t heard this side of him since Anaxes when he had spoken to papa. It was cold, all beskar and blaster fire, and unyielding. "If this vod is insulting you, then you must face her. Ignoring her shows weakness."

" Buir , I can't fight her. She's twice my size. I thought if I was the bigger person she'd stop eventually." But it had been a month. How much longer should she wait before it turned into something that ended up getting her hurt?

"You make Clan Vizsla seem weak by tolerating it. What will you do when you begin hunting and face foes much larger than yourself? You will always be small. Did that stop you when you fought the stormtrooper?"

Her face was heating, eyes glaring down at her food at her buir 's scolding. "But I can't fight her with a knife. If I ask her to duel, then I'll have to do it hand to hand."

"Then do it. What is the worst that happens? You fail, but defended your honor?"

These words hung over the dinner table, pressing a heavy weight on her shoulders, going against what her papa had taught her. Fight? Of course she would if it came down to that, but wouldn't it be a dishonor to lose outright? "Ok," she whispered, washing down the lump in her throat with the mulled juice. "I'll challenge her on Monday."

" Jate ," Hux sat back, lightening considerably. "When you do it, make certain that others can see. Throw your glove at her feet and demand a fight. She can do it there or at a later time. The decision is up to the opponent.

"Do not doubt yourself. Paz tells me you are a better fighter than you give yourself credit for. Confidence helps in fights. If you think you are going to lose, you'll lose before the battle has even begun."

That was easier said than done. For all the skill she had, it could be overwhelmed in an instant if she wasn't careful. Aya was much stronger than her and it'd only take one good throw for Sena to be indisposed for too long. If she fought, she'd have to rely on every ounce of her agility to tire the pink buckethead out. She must've been glaring at her food still, because Hux let out a small sigh.

"You are doing well, ad'ika . You have the promise of a great hunter, but the path is not easy and there will be those who think you weak. If you let those people walk all over you, you shall suffer in the long term. Being a hunter is not only a physical skill, but one regarding respect. You cannot let Aya hold her dominance over you and ignore it."

The more she thought about it, the more she realized she'd let it go on for too long. Trying to be the bigger person, thinking herself so smug in the fact that she ignored Aya... Only to be shocked that it was quite the opposite. Aya was making the fool out of her and Sena hadn't even realized it. Maybe that's why Xivi had brought it up, trying to get Sena to pick a fight without outright telling her that she needed to. Xivi was trying to be a good friend and she appreciated her vod's tactful approach, but her buir had laid it out to bear. Fight Aya or disgrace the aliit further. There was only one choice.

Complicated. Why is everything so opposite here? she wondered quietly, enjoying the rest of the evening with her buir , settling on the couch to watch some holovids and relax. He wasn't papa, but Hux filled the shoes as best as he could. Not once had he made her feel unwelcome and since the adoption ceremony, had called and treated her as his daughter. To outsiders, the affection shared between the both of them over the course of such a brief time might seem odd, but Sena didn't think so. He wasn't like papa at all, but he was the only father she had now and Sena wasn't willing to let him go.

She fell asleep against his shoulder, only waking up when she felt herself being set down in bed. "Alarm clock-" she mumbled.

"I'll wake you up tomorrow, cyar'ika . Go to sleep."

‘Wake you up’ in Mandalorian is never a gentle term. Even if your buir tucks you in and gives you a keldable kiss goodnight, not waking up on your own came with risks. Sena woke up to the sound of an alarm blaring in her room, the high pitched squeal resounding from her buir's vambrace. The noise was as wretched and piercing as nails on a chalkboard. She toppled out of bed, hearing his muffled chortling through his modulator as he stepped out of the room and she groaned into the carpet.

" Vaar'tur !"

"Dank farrik-" she rubbed her ears, which were still ringing, cursing Hux's name beneath her breath. Cursing was developing into a rather bad habit for her, but then again everyone cursed here. Over the weeks, she'd learned how to dress swiftly, how to deftly attach her armor, and lace up her boots with a single, good yank. Tucking her ears away, she plaited her hair and threw her helmet on, blaster in its holster, and trotting out, barely having time to react as he threw her a piece of fruit for breakfast.

Eating fast also came with Mandalorian territory and this meant forsaking all her courtesy lessons. Rubbing the juice off her chin, tossed the core in the trash and ran out the door after her buir. "Where are we going?"

He had a duffle bag over his shoulder, striding out behind the house and toward the plains which were blushed with the sunrise. Slanting shades of amber and pink wrapped the hills in a warm, lovely embrace. She saw it every morning, but had always admired the beauty of nature, even if it was opposite of Anaxes. She wished she could smell it, but resolved to filling her diaphragm with air before wooshing out a wistful sigh, chased quickly with a grin.

"Meeting up with Fos," he retorted.

"Fos-" Before she could ask the next question, she saw the unpolished armor of the mando in question, flanked closely by his ad ; Din Djarin. Groaning quietly, she kept close to her buir, leveling a narrowed glare at the boy. Great. Couldn't even have a weekend together, it had to be with them. She didn’t know Fos very well, but it was obvious that her buir respected him from the subtle posture and leveling of his helmet as the two squared off in an acknowledging greeting.

With a thud, he set down the bag and began opening it, unfurling blankets filled with various daggers, knives, and blades. Her eyes grew round like golden suns beneath her helmet, ogling the arsenal as if it had been made in Manda for just her. A few were for practice, hewn of wood and balanced properly to simulate a regular blade. Until this point, there’d been little blade combat, only getting to use practice ones once since her arrival. “Pick the ones you want.”

Unable to resist, she tilted her helmet toward Din. “You heard him, ladies first.”

Din just leered at her silently, stiff and unmoving.

Fos chuckled, “Definitely your ad .”

She took it as a compliment, straightening slightly, but decided to spare Din and also wanted to pick first. Bending down, she swiped up the two largest, which weren’t quite swords, but also were too slender, curved, and angled to be dirks. One was longer than the other, the smallest half the length. “Shoto and tanto,” Hux told her, making her grin widely beneath her helmet. She already had names in mind if she was allowed to keep them. “Take a practice dagger as well.” Obeying, she took one, holding her prizes as she waited for Din to select his weapons.

He contemplated a little longer than her, which made her chew her lip, wondering if she’d been premature and if there was a cooler weapon than the two blades she took. Eventually, he settled with a long vibro-blade which reminded her of Paz’s Bantha-Sticker. Rather than pit the two kids together, the broke off and her buir began to explain the weapons that she had chosen.

“The shoto and tanto are good weapons for kyramud , which you will make one day when you are a hunter. See the curve of the blades and only one side which is sharpened? … These are made for slicing and while they can penetrate the skin in a stab, they are not used in the same manner as a double edged blade. There are variants on grips, which you know the standard, but showed interest in the reverse grip or icepick grip. For these weapons, a reverse grip would be useful as you can deflect blows with the flat of the blade rather than the edge. It is going to take a considerable amount of practice to know both grips, but it’ll suit your abilities quite well as you’ve proven before that you have talent with assassinations. Image what you could do in close combat with these?”

She leaned into every word, clinging like a life raft in an ocean, as Hux continued to teach her about the purpose, applications, pros and cons of the weapons. Since they were blades, she still had to be careful about positions she put herself in. Given her acrobatic abilities, in tight areas, she would win. A blaster was more difficult to maneuver and if she got the jump, her enemies would almost always fall from a swift addition of a second smile. Eventually, they moved on to apply the grips, the standard coming easily as she’d used knives before and the icepick requiring a bit more finesse. Fortunately, only one side was sharpened, so she wasn’t too worried about cutting herself.

Rotating through different forms, strengthening exercises, and strikes the day listed on and they broke for lunch in the grass. For once, Djarin came and sat beside her as she picked at the grass.

“What did your buir mean you have talent with assassinations?”

Ah, so it wasn’t to have a normal conversation, he’d overheard Hux and was curious. Either way, she supposed he wasn’t being a little shit. “When my aliit found me the Empire was attacking my home. My ori’vod got a little lost-” she chuckled lightly, realizing now he didn’t have the more stellar sense of direction. “-and cornered. I snuck up on a stormtrooper and cut his throat, buying Paz enough time to shoot the others. Wasn’t the most graceful thing, but I’d managed to go unnoticed and launch myself at one like a feral loth-cat. Got right in between the helmet and chestplate.” She marked on her own neck where she’d plunged the blade, skin prickling with a twinge of adrenaline at the memory.

“ You managed to sneak up on a stormtrooper?” he was disbelieving, as if her story had been made up to make herself sound cooler than she was.

Beneath her bucket, she frowned and narrowed her eyes at the boy. “ Yes , I did,” she sneered back haughtily. “You asked what my buir was referring to. That’s it. I know how to use a knife somewhat already.”

Returning to his brooding, she rolled her eyes and set her chin on top of her knees as she gazed out amongst the moors, rolling like green ocean waves. “I’ve not killed anyone yet,” Din muttered, gloves plunging into the grass, tearing handfuls out at the admission.

Oh. That’s what it was about? “It’s nothing to boast about,” she shrugged, but knew she was wrong there. Mandalorians prized battle prowess and the ability to neutralize targets. Sena already had her first kill and it hadn’t been with a blaster, it had been up close and personal. “Anyways, who’s keeping count. Unless… you want to, in which case I’m already winning.” Her trademark, dopey grin unfurled beneath her bucket as the boy jolted up and snapped his visor toward her.

“That’s not fair. You had a headstart-”

“ Not fair ? You’ve been training way longer than I have. Should be easy for you to beat me as soon as we’re allowed to hunt,” she countered airly, puffing her chest up and being as indignant as she could to ruffle his feathers. “I’m only ahead by one.” A macabre game, but one that would happen either way. They’d kill people. Her intention wasn’t to be sociopathic and purposely go looking for folks to murder. No, it would lighten the burden of those they did kill, making it easier to cope with the fact that their hands would spill so much blood. And it amused her that she was technically already beating Din.

“You’ll be ahead by one for a while ,” he pointed out, their training still slated for at least a couple more years before the covert would even consider taking them off planet.

“Fine, if you don’t want to play-”

“I’ll play,” he interrupted tartly.

“Well, as of right now you’re losing,” she announced gleefully.

“You said-”

“Still winning,” she boasted. “Plus, knife kills are way harder. Blaster just takes a trigger pull, does the rest of the job for you. What I did requires finesse, talent, and grace.” Now she was just milking it, seeing how far she could go before Djarin got irritated and just left.

“Considering you can’t use most firearms…” he drew his rebuttal out, making her scoff at him.

“ Hey! One day when I’m bigger I will be able to!”

“Bigger?” he gave her a one over, as if that were out of the question and she’d be as big as a Jawa her entire life.

“ Ne'johaa , Djarin!” she squeaked, giving him a shove that unbalanced him and made him fall over in the grass. “I just have to grow up. I won’t be this tiny all my life.”

Sitting up, he returned the shove, easily sending her flopping to the ground. Quickly, the pushing devolved into an all out brawl, the pair toppling in the grass and scuffling as the adults did nothing but watch on with amusement. “You’ll always be smaller than me!” he grunted between parrying her strikes. There were no rules right now, so anything was fair game. She wasn’t play fighting with Xivi, she wanted to pummel Djarin into the ground.

He flung her off by driving his boot into her belt, jetting his leg up to propel her over his head. Sena adjusted quickly, able to turn in the air to land on her knees. A glove locked around her wrist, but she wasn’t willing to be dragged up so quickly again. She bunched the strength in her knees and headbutted Din’s bucket hard enough that her teeth rattled. Both sprung to their feet, Djarin threw the first open palmed strike, which she ducked beneath. She’d only get a few good chances to land a decent blow and his guard was much better than anyone else she had faced until this point.

Coiled like a serpent, she bided her time, turning blows rather than letting the entire shock of parrying hit her small frame. Paz had taught her that, telling her that parrying would hurt her more than glancing or diverting. Since she was light on her feet, she shouldn’t ever need to parry unless she was injured or cornered. Strike, strike, turn, strike. Then she saw it, the small opening which she could dive through. Jolting for it, she realized in horror that it had been a trick to bring her closer and she didn’t have the time to evade as Din leaned into his feint. Her palm still met his chest, driving a puff of air through his vocoder, but he caught her by the same wrist and threw her right to the ground.

The battle was lost, the impact squeezing every ounce of air from her lungs as she gasped like a fish out of water. Taking the dominant mounting position, he raised his hand in a strike, waiting for her to tap out. She squirmed a few times, but knew she had been beat. “ Fine! ” she relented, glad that he wasn’t putting his full weight on her.

What he did next absolutely surprised her, getting up from the ground and offering her a hand up. She accepted, easily wrenched up to her feet, able to hear the fluttering of her heart in her ears, breathing hard, but elated from the thrill of the battle. Her pride was a little wounded, but it wasn't as if she thought she would win. Din had years of training on her. Despite that, the fact he was top of the class made her want to best him to prove to her buir that she was an asset to Clan Vizsla, not some soft little princess. He was the biggest hurdle to leap, because Paz was way too far off from her capabilities. All her brother had to do was bear hug her and she couldn't lift a finger. Djarin was bigger than her (as were most people) but at least she had the confidence to stand toe to toe with him.

Lunch ended and they picked back up on their lessons for the remainder of the day. She learned quite a bit, but also knew that her skill would require repetition. Nothing could be earned in an instant. Silently, she was debating when she would slot the time after classes to keep her blade training, contemplating doing it after the sun had set and her work with Xivi was finished. After dinner she usually just had her tea, but Paz and Hux wouldn't bother her if she went outside in the back to practice. She could still get plenty of sleep and squeeze in a couple of hours to hone herself. Out of everything she'd done until this point - aside from running and obstacle courses - playing with the knives was her favorite.

"Keep those and maybe one day you'll be able to forge them of beskar," Hux told her, handing her the sheathes for them.

The shoto and tanto were made of durasteel, strong enough to rend some armor, but also requiring sharpening and care. They could be fractured or chipped more easily than beskar. Taking her new toys with her to bed, she took paint to the holsters and wrote their names on them in Mando'a runes; the shoto was Cu'Sith and the tanto Pog-Sticker. The girl was so excited, that she fell asleep with them in her arms, tucked into bed, forgetting to set her alarm again, dreaming about running through the forests of Genmaris.

Shrill screeches thrust her out of bed again, her buir huffing in mild disappointment as she didn't tangle herself in her blankets and fall out of bed. Either way, his icy eyes gave her a hard look before he left the room and she groused underneath her breath. Her disdain was short lived as she dressed up and scampered out of her room, catching the fruit, and scarfing it down before trotting after Hux. She wished every weekend was like this, with the exception of Din Djarin and instead being replaced with her brother. She had found comfortable positions to strap her blades onto her, equipped on her belt, where they would remain permanently. None of the other vod in her class had such amazing kal'e .

By this point, Sena had decided that she wanted to live and breathe everything about knives and blades. Her inability to use a good amount of firearms while she was still so slight led to her predisposition to ask an unrelentless amount of questions. Hux had her work with some throwing knives, the vibro-blades vibrating with power between her fingers as she tried to learn how to toss them, rotating the handle to her pads, and aiming to plunk it into the center of the targets. She wasn't any good at it, which was sort of aggravating, seeing that she wanted to be good at it, but Hux reminded her that perfection took lots and lots of practice.

When school came on Monday, she found herself still so overhyped with her amazing weekend, that the thought that she had to challenge Aya was in the back of her mind. Look at these cool new weapons! No one else had a shoto or tanto! She made certain to show her friends, but was careful not to say the name of her shoto, as it was an animal indigenous to Anaxes. Standing outside at lunch, Kedth, Xivi, Terri, and Oyiin were clustered around her, showing off their own vibro-blades, which all looked like little toothpicks in comparison to her awesome new swords.

"And what are you going to do with those, vaar'ika ?" Aya couldn't contain herself from butting in, drawn in by the comradery of the group - one that she did not share with them. Spiteful and teasing in her tone, the others tilted her helmets up and Sena knew why. By this point, it was no secret that Aya had been picking on her, though Xivi was the only one who had brought it up until the point. The others kept their mouths shut, knowing it wasn't their place to try and tell Sena how to approach the situation.

"Stick pigs," Sena answered darkly, holding her tanto in an icepick grip. "Want to be the first?"

Everyone was astonished by her uncharacteristically menacing words. Sena was typically lighthearted and goofy, mild mannered, and helpful when she could be. She did have a bit of a temper when it came to friendly rivalries with her peers, but she'd always chosen diplomacy over threats until this point. Buir had been right - cut the princess shit out.

Aya was just as taken aback, eventually finding her words as she barked a laugh in an attempt to brush it off. "Got something to say to me, Vizsla?"

" Lek , I do," she shoved her tanto back into its sheath with a loud click, sauntering forward with her shoulders thrown back. Reaching for her right glove, she pulled it off in the slowest, most methodical manner she could - one single finger at a time - before throwing it down at Aya's feet. "I challenge you to a duel for insulting the honor of Clan Vizsla. Name the time and date." Despite the calm voice, her heart was beating erratically and she could have sworn everyone could hear her heavy mouth breathing. She was going to lose, but she couldn't let that show.

Flabbergasted that Sena had finally snapped, Aya's visor just tilted down at the glove. Finally, she laughed again. "Today after class. Out by the obstacle course."

" Koor ," taking her glove, she returned amongst her friends, face billeting with heat beneath her helmet as she tried not to feel absolutely sick. The beat down was coming and even her buir 's words about being more confident didn't change the fact that she was half Aya's size.

Xivi slapped her on the back reassuringly. "Kick her shebs today. Maybe she'll get her head out of there."

"Just tire her out. She might be bigger than you, but she's got no stamina. You could run circles for hours," Kedth added, squeezing her pauldron. "'Bout time. Xivi and I were talking about catching Aya after class one day. Glad you challenged her."

"You were?" Sena blinked a few times, some of her nerves slipping away.

" Lek ! She's been insulting you when you did nothing wrong," Kedth hissed, crossing his arms over his chestplate. "We're all vod . We help each other out. She's been pushing Terri around too."

Terri nodded slowly. "I think she just likes to push those that are a lot smaller than her. Hut'uun. "

She had not been aware of that, but felt her frown deepen beneath her helmet. Beating on Sena was one thing because they were closer in age, but Terri? Terri was 10! All the pity she'd once felt for Aya was gone. Even if there were churning emotions that estranged her from the rest of the group, that didn't give her the right to take it out on the smallest in her class. Empathy could only go so far and the rest of the vod were getting fed up with the behavior. At least, this way, Sena could save Aya the embarrassment of getting her shebs kicked by multiple people.

"If you get the opening, give her a good one right here," Oyiin tilted his head up and pointed to the base of his jaw. "You know how to plant your strikes. That will take her down."

For the remainder of lunch, her friends gave her pointers, which considerably bolstered her confidence. They thought she could win! It was true that Aya was out of shape in comparison to her, so maybe she could just wear her down to the point where one good hit would render the fight. According to the rules of a duel, there was only a loss if one of them was rendered unconscious or forfeited. This meant that bones could be broken and the fight could still continue. Word spread like wildfire, though the mandos in Paz's class were still out on their recon.

By the time class ended and Sena was pumping herself up for the fight, all of her classmates had mustered out by the course. But not only just them. Thak, Nibak, Fos, Hux, Bhone, the Armorer, the Smith, and Rhenx were also in attendance along with Lolli and a few of the children, including Zim. In a moment, all the confidence she had shattered into a million pieces as she comprehended how important this fight actually was. Half of her had been expecting that it was just going to be her 10 peers watching, not their teachers and parents.

"Hey, good luck today," Djarin stopped her before she headed down the hill, giving her a hard look. Those were the nicest words she'd heard from him.

"Gonna kriffing need it," she snorted, wringing her hands together before approaching where she was gonna get her shit kicked in.

Her buir motioned for her to come over, her chest tightening as she trotted up to Hux and gazed up with wide, horrified eyes. He crouched down in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "No matter what happens today, you defended the clan's honor," he reminded her, bumping her helmet with his. "You are not a hut'uun ."

He had to have felt her shaking, the palpable fear rolling off of her, thankful for her bucket to hide her paling face and sagging ears. Removing her weapon belt, she handed it off to him and approached Aya who was waiting between the small crowd that was gathered. Towering over her like a mountain to a hill, Sena stepped up to the plate.

"Can still withdraw your offer, naar'ika ," Aya offered smugly.

"Scared?" Sena spat back indignantly.

"I'm not pulling my punches today," she growled.

They both turned around, walked three paces, faced each other and the fight began. The words of encouragement and tactics her friends had given her were running through her mind. She'd taken down a stormtrooper. Aya wasn't as big as that soldier. Anything was fair game. Patience was not her opponent's virtue and it was obvious the pink buckethead wanted to throttle her into the ground. Light and limber on her feet, Sena darted around her, dodging punches and open palmed strikes like a dragonfly in the wind - impossible to catch, illusive, and swift. There were noises around them, cheers, comments, and taunts. But she heard nothing.

Only the calm buzz in her ears, the hyperfocus as she predicted Aya's clumsy moves. Strength might be on her side, but she did not practice. The months leading up until this point were Sena's advantage as well as the wrath which propelled the other girl forward. Seeing only red when there was much more to observe. The minute plants of Sena's toes as she glided on the grass, once rolling out of the way, another time evading a grab as if she were made of mist. Aya was getting slower, expending too much energy in trying to catch a ghost and each movement Sena observed and calculated. They were done in sloppy rotations, harping upon the forms they would use in class. There was no independent thinking or tactful readjustment. Aya was only using what she had learned, rather than fighting with instinct.

The moment came, the desperation creeping into Aya's weary muscles as she charged at Sena. Bunching her muscles, the Anaxian was coiled like a nexu ready to pounce - and she did. Vaulting, she sprung over Aya as she tried to throw herself down to meet Sena's crouching form. Her left boot planted on the pink bucket like it was a swaying tree branch in Genmaris. The impact unbalanced her opponent, causing her to fall; Sena flipping gracefully like she had after dropping from the pull up bars with Xivi on multiple occasions. Sticking the landing like a loth-cat hopping down from its perch, she rounded and drove with breakneck haste. Aya was stumbling to her feet, a hand placed on her knee as she panted. Her helmet tilted up and Sena saw the exact location Oyiin had told her about.

Sena threw her first punch.

Her fist cracked back after connecting with the exposed jaw of Aya. Pain exploded in her knuckles, but she didn't pull back. Swaying, Aya dropped like a stone, thumping onto the ground, groaning and still choking for air. " Ori'jagyc, " Sena declared, turning around, aware that she had won. She had kriffing won. How the hell was that possible? Her eyes went down to Zim as he squealed in delight, pointing and babbling loudly to Lolli. "Zim’ika, wha-" her words were strangled out of her throat as a bicep curled around her from behind. Lifted entirely off the ground, she kicked futilely as her vision began blurring immediately.

Shouting ensued and she was dropped to the ground, her chest heaving as she drank in the air, confused as to what had just happened. Hux was bent over her, snarling in Mando'a and she saw why. Craning her head, Aya had been thrown to the ground again as she sobbed loudly, being reprimanded by Thak who had peeled her off of Sena.

"You have lost! Attacking an opponent from behind in a duel is cowardly!" he was snarling, the rage that Paz once warned her about, bubbling over. It was true. She had never seen her teacher this furious before, his words lancing into the air with vindication enough for all the spirits in Manda to hear "How dare you! You insult the honor of the Tribe and our ways!"

But rather than listen to him continue to berate her, she felt her attention drawn back up to her buir . " Kandosii! Kandosii !" her repeated, just loud enough for her to hear, but with fervor and insistence. The earnesty and depth of his words tethering her back to reality, grounding her. "I'm so proud, cyar'ika. So proud."

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes at his praise, nodding into his helmet as he squeezed her shoulders. Silently, she let them slip down, her heart still beating rapidly, blinded by the water in her eyes as he continued to mutter to her.

"You will make a great hunter, cyar'ika, " he insisted, bringing her up to her feet, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Everyone had remained, much to her chagrin, and she hoped they hadn't heard her sniffling. She hadn't been crying because she was upset or hurt by Aya's last grab, but because she was utterly overwhelmed by her emotions. Between the shock of her win to her buir 's congratulations, she had brought honor to Clan Vizsla and it almost made her heart explode with pride. For the first time in her life, Sena felt as if she truly belonged. Surrounded by all her vod , by her adopted father, and finally having purpose, she was soaking her face with tears beneath her bucket. Sena had never wanted to be a princess and get married and waste her life away in a gilded cage. She had wanted this. Acknowledging that it had cost all of Anaxes for this to happen - hurt.

"We knew it! We knew you could beat her!" Xivi bowled into her, drawing her out of her buir 's grasp and squeezing the life out of her.

"That was Kandosii! " Terri squealed. "The way you flipped over her! And how you were so evasive! I didn't know you were so agile!"

"She can do all sorts of tricks," Xivi gushed. "I think there's a nexu under that bucket, not a Sephi."

"Nice strike!" Oyiin had trotted over, pretending to plant the punch that had won the fight. "Told ya it'd knock her out."

"Thanks. Thanks all of you," Sena told them with her hoarse, choked up voice. "I honestly thought I was going to lose."

"What?! Why would you think that?" Terri squeaked in astonishment.

"Because she was so much bigger than me-" And Sena had been afraid, so afraid that she'd be broken beneath Aya's strength.

"Size isn't everything," Kedth reminded her. "You just proved that. You brought a lot of honor to Clan Vizsla today. Too bad your ori'vod wasn't here to watch that."

Sena wished Paz had been there, but shrugged her shoulders and grinned beneath her helmet. "There will be many more battles in the future he can witness. Maybe next time I'll actually get to use my kal'e ."

"Djarin's got to watch out now. Sena's gonna be vu'traat . Gonna give everyone a run for their credits," Oyiin jested, eliciting a braw bit of laughter.

"She trains like vu'traat ," Xivi admitted grudgingly. "How many hours a day do you train after school?"

"Until bed, but that's because I had a lot of catching up to do and I'm still smaller than everyone," Sena told them sheepishly. Her win had been a fluke in her mind. Any of her friends could easily best her because they were in much better shape than Aya was. Din had proven that just over the weekend and she wasn't bloated headed enough to think that Aya was a huge accomplishment - though she was preening in the fact that she had actually done it.

She lingered with her friends a bit longer before returning home, where Hux taught her how to make uj'alayi . Instead of normal dinner, they had the cake to celebrate, her buir pointing out what she had done correctly during her fight. Still riding the high from the fight, she went out at dusk to practice her kal'e. Moonlight slanted over the moors, casting a long shadow in front of Sena as she went through her forms; slashing, turning her grips, maintaining proper spacing of her legs.

Slicing moonbeams with durasteel, she bathed in the glow, the wind in the grass tickling the calves of her boots. Turning swiftly, she paused when she saw the ethereal starlight glancing down on unpainted beskar. Lowering her shoto and tanto, she stood like a solemn sentinel in the night, wondering why he was there. Rather than get any answer, only the wind sighing through the grass murmured a repy, punctuated by a nerf's moo.

Peace shattered by the cattle, Din took a step toward her and stuck his hand out. "Want to see something?"

She cocked her head at the invitation, staring at his hand, wondering what it meant. Finally, she sheathed her weapons and took it. Pulling her away from the covert, over the soft rolling hills, and far from the protection of their people they ran. Past the crowds of cattle and toward the moon's face they went. Sena should have been more nervous about going so far away, about getting in trouble with her buir for straying. But she was with a vod , nothing could go wrong, could it? He was top of the class.

Cresting a large hill, she glanced down toward a pool that reflected the stars on a mirror smooth surface. Sliding down the steep sides, they approached the edge of the pond, which shimmered a pale milky white as if it were filled with star dust and moonlight. There was a single tree off to the side, shading part of the water, branches spindling out like knobby fingers flecked with verdant leaves. This was the first tree she'd seen in months.

"I come here sometimes," Din told her, letting go of her hand. "You're from Naboo, so I thought you might like to see water again."

While the water was a welcome sight, she was more enthralled with the tree. No words escaped her lips as her breath pelted against the inside of her helmet. She began walking toward it, her feet quickening until she was running. Colliding with the trunk, she pressed her steel cheek against it and shuddered, wishing that she could feel the kiss of the wood on her face. When her chest had stopped heaving, she glanced up and located the nearest branch. Bunching her muscles, she jumped, gripped the branch and swung herself up and over. Landing neatly on top of it, she began to climb higher and higher, reaching for the moon. At the summit, she stood to her full height, grinning widely beneath her helmet.

Sucking in a deep breath, she let out a howl into the air, like those ones that Cu'Sith would make in the woods. Djarin froze beneath the shadow of the tree, having observed her weave her way up.

His petite vod was baying like some kind of wild animal, the moonlight turning her long dark braid nearly white as it basked her. She had conquered the tree, just as she had defeated Aya. In the way she had fought and the way she had slipped up the tree with feral grace and dexterity unlike any human he'd watched. Din didn't know what a Sephi was other than the fact that they had pointed ears. He'd heard of Naboo, because Gungans lived there and people liked to joke about them. Whatever the Sephi were, they did not move like humans - Senaar did not move like a human.

She howled again, making him flinch. This was his hideaway. His place to calm down and practice if he couldn't sleep. After watching her fight Aya, without so much as being touched, he'd decided he would show her. Now, he was glad that he had, her joy palpable even from where he stood down below. After the third cry, she began to maneuver down and made his heart jump up into his throat when she hung from a high branch, swung back, and then launched herself. The height was enough to break a man's knees upon impact. Senaar listed downward, before colliding with the ground. There was no grunt of pain, nor cracking of bone. Palm against the grass, her legs absorbed the shock of the impact and she remained for a brief moment before standing; unharmed.

"Thank you," she told him, still breathless and his readers picking up on the pure bliss in her modulated voice. "You don't know what this meant to me. To see a tree again, after-" her tone cracked and she glanced back, staring at it.

After whatever that had happened to her had brought her here amongst the Tribe. Din knew the answer, because he'd noticed it in her. The other children in their class had been raised Mandalorian. After hearing her tell the story about killing a stormtrooper, he knew that they were more alike than he cared to admit. War had taken their homes from him and so he had wanted to share this little space away from the rest of the covert.

"You earned it today, vod ," he shrugged, trying not to seem as if he cared too much. The last thing he needed was his rival to think there was more to this than a casual favor between kindred souls.

"We should head back. It's late," Sena pointed out, visor still tilted in the direction of the tree as if she were afraid it would get up and walk away. She offered her hand to him, just as he had done upon entreating her to trust him.

Din's heart fluttered a little before he took it.

10BBY

"Pack up your arsenal," Paz ordered his vod'ika , shining his helmet and the new beskar cuirass that he had set on the table in front of him. They had to look damn good today. It was an important day for her and as her mentor, it would also be pertinent that he looked just as stellar. His eyes trailed fondly toward Senaar, a smile creasing the corners of his lips as she went through her blades. The kriffing brat had so many now. Mostly because their buir kept giving her more, arming her to the teeth. Even if she'd been too small to use rifles and shotguns a few years ago, she'd grown into her skin and hiked up a few inches. Naturally, as an Anaxian, she was light boned and slender, but she was of a more average human height, growing like a weed overnight.

She had repainted her helmet, taking the same dark sherwood green as their buir , framing her visor with shimmering gold paint. Marked upon the crown were golden teardrops, reminiscent of her people's Goddess Marks. Now, her vambraces were also of beskar, inky green and gold, adorned with a hidden blade on the inside of her forearms. Buttons for the Kote , a whipcord launcher, and poison darts. A pistol on her bandolier, framed by her shoto and tanto. Leather had since been replaced with durasteel, painted like her helmet and embroidered with more tears. Her pauldrons had golden Jai'gaalar eyes, which winked at Paz.

His vod'ika was growing up. The young man could've shed a tear for how far she had come and how impressive he thought she was now. All fangs and claws, with kriffing knives tucked in nearly every crany imaginable. She was obsessed , giving each one a stupid name, mostly ending in '-Sticker'. Around her thigh was a band of throwing knives and a ragged, slightly fringed cloak of pine green. While similar to their buir' s, she had told him her inspiration was Anaxes and the forest surrounding Genmaris - an homage to a planet and people that no longer existed.

"Think I've got it all," she told him, her voice not half as squeaky as it had been when they’d met outside the palace gardens.

"Check again. I'm not coming back here because you forgot some kriffing tiny kal ," Paz snorted, loading his heavy blaster and standing up to begin strapping on his armor. " Buir has given us the Kote to do this. I've got the fobs for your hunt."

"That knife wasn't tiny last time! I literally forgot Pog-Sticker," she snarked, crooking a finger in his direction, patting the tanto fondly.

"I don't know how you forgot that one, it's basically your left arm," Paz retorted, bickering with the 16 year old.

"Well if someone didn't insist I take my belt off for hand to hand combat practice-" she returned with just as much bite as him, causing him to roll his eyes at her.

It was all in good nature. Neither of them were often authentically pissy with each other. Sibling banter. To them it was endearing, even if it just seemed like a bunch of hissing. "Will you two shut up? Get out of the house. I need some peace and quiet from you!" Hux poked his head out of his room to grouse at the both of them.

"Why? Have a lady friend coming over?" Sena went right for the kill, Paz trying to hide his chortling behind his hand.

" GET OUT !" Hux thundered, closing his door before his children devolved into malice filled laughter in the karyai .

They both picked up their travel packs, saddling them over their shoulders before heading for the door. Sunlight was quickly filtered by their visors, the village humming with activity as various students in Sena's class were preparing to go out for their First Trial. Each was shadowed by an older mando, be that their buir or an ori'vod like Paz. Fortunately for them, they didn't have to share a ship since Hux owned the Kote . On their way to the landing area, they passed Din and Fos. Paz chuckled as Sena flipped off her friend, which caused Djarin to just stare forlornly, wondering what in Caraya's Soul he had done to deserve that. Sena was just a brat and now had a terrible habit of flipping off all her friends, to include Paz as well.

"So when are the two of you exchanging riduurok ?" he teased, aware that she was sensitive about any subject that encouraged romance.

Sena sputtered underneath her helmet at the suggestion. "Zim’ika will have a heart attack if I marry anyone other than him. Y'know, I promised," she answered, deflecting entirely. The kid loved her to death, the moment he’d set eyes on her bucket, deciding that Sena would forever be the female of his dreams. Paz thought it was amusing, because while it was cute now, Sena had no idea what trouble she was in for when he was actually an adult.

"Come now!" Paz bellowed, hooking an arm around his sister's shoulders and drawing her in as they walked. "You're getting to that age now. The birds and bees-"

She groaned loudly, trying to worm out of his grasp, but he was much too strong and had mastered the ability to keep her from slipping his hold like an eel. "Stooooop. I already hear it enough from Xivi. Not you too!"

"Xivi is clever, that's why. You must've given a few of your brain cells to her over the years," Paz rumbled, pressing his vambrace to lower the dock to the Kote .

"I'm a Vizsla. Everyone knows we each only have one," she retorted glibly, her stupid smile audible in her voice.

"And to think you were so bright-eyed and bushy tailed when you got here," he feigned wist, shaking his head as he clucked.

"You corrupted me, ori'vod . It's all your fault," she blamed as they started up the platform.

"Vizsla!"

Dropping his arm from around Sena's shoulders, the both of them turning to see who'd called their names. At the base of the gangplank stood Hyvhast, one of Paz's peers, in muddy brown armor highlighted by stripes of moss green. " Oya! " he bid with a wave, wishing them a triumphant hunt. Paz was aware that there were ulterior motives, his vod having expressed interest in his little sister. Growling quietly under his breath, he slammed the door shut in his friend’s face.

Humming to herself, Sena trotted off to toss her bag onto a bunk in the crew quarters. Paz used the captain's quarters since he was in charge in their buir 's stead. He was a full hunter now, having passed his Second Trial. Keeping a close eye on his vod'ika , he'd watched her improvement and growing into her own skin. Every Mandalorian was different, which had been hard for her to accept in the beginning. Smaller than her peers, weaker strength wise, to the point where she wasn't allowed to shoot anything more than a pistol on the range - he'd known it had been difficult to swallow at first. Still light boned like a shriek-hawk, she'd passed the most worrying bit of her training.

Understanding where her talents laid, Senaar had dug her heels in and became the unofficial blades specialist of the Tribe. Her love of kal'e the subject of loving teasing amongst the Tribe. Jokes included that any child she had would be born holding daggers. Even if she was disinterested, she was coming of age and becoming the fixation of many available bachelors. Once she passed her First Trial, she would be open for hunting - or as non-Mandalorians considered it - courting. Ironically, none of them knew the exotic creature beneath the helmet, aside from the fact that she was 'Sephi'. She was precious and Paz was keen on protecting her from any unwarranted advances or overinsistent suitors. Most were his age, which made him even more disdainful over the fact that they were interested in at 16 year old like that. But aside from Djarin, she was top of her class and favored by Elder Rhenx the Alor .

He might've teased her about her relationship with her rival and peer, but Paz decided he liked the quiet Djarin better than half the hunters that were asking for his blessing when they returned from the Trial. The other teen was hyper focused and talented and absolutely atrocious at expressing how he felt. Paz had long suspected that Din might like his sister, but the idiot hadn't done anything aside from ask Paz for some hand to hand combat lessons, trying to glean Vizsla life a little better. He knew that Djarin wasn't expecting the copious amount of yelling that occurred in their karyai or the verbal assault he faced from the grouchy head of the clan or from Sena, whose favorite thing to do, was complain about everything . Apparently, she was much more mild mannered in class.

Sena's blatant disinterest in suitors pleased him and Paz might've had something to do with that, telling her she had ages to get married and settle down. She wanted to be a hunter. Her head wasn't filled with romance, it was filled with blood lust. Again, he might've... uhm, helped with that, but he was her ori'vod . To him, no one was worthy of the princess beneath the beskar'gam . Plus, he doubted most of the Tribe could actually handle living with her and were just attracted to her prowess.

"Paaaaaaazzzzz," she shouted for him in the cockpit, her voice echoing throughout the ship.

Leaving the captain's quarters behind, he climbed into the cockpit to see her sitting in the pilot's seat. Her helmet was cocked on the edge of the dash, dark lashes framing vibrant eyes on copper tan skin.

"Where's the Guild we're going to? Planet?"

Ah, right. He'd forgotten that he had stowed the inactive fobs. They would need to check in with the Guild before officially being sent off. To keep from too many members of the Tribe showing up at the same Guild, they had coordinated who would get which planet. "Dadrus."

"Solid," she muttered, starting up the ship, flipping a few switches, before her gloves settled on the controls and they squeaked from the tightening of her fingers. Taking the Kote off the ground, she began moving to get them out of atmo. "Any idea what these bounties are?"

He shook his head. "They're handed out randomly as not to show favoritism toward a specific group," he informed her, plopping down in the co-pilot seat. His job was to step in if needed, but Sena had to fly the ship, navigate them to the right planet, pick up the job, do the job, hand it in, and then return back to the covert with her reward. "Depending on the bounties, they pay more if you bring them in alive. Sometimes they don't care, but we'll throw them into carbonite either way."

Bounties were quite popular right now amidst the war for the galaxy. None of that was their business, but plenty of others had bets levied and people they needed to find. They wouldn't be bothered by the Empire as long as they flashed their fobs and mentioned being on Guild business. Paz hated encountering them, his blood rushing at the thought of what they had done to Anaxes. There was no doubt that Sena felt the same way and wouldn't be opposed to gifting more stormtroopers with second smiles on their gorgets. Such a beautiful planet and culture, erased, because they wouldn't submit to the Empire's will. Were there any other survivors aside from Sena?

Leaving the grassy moors of Vorp'ya, they broke atmo and Sena began plugging in coordinates. She listed through the hyperlanes, mapping the correct coordinates to start for the other Outer Rim planet, frowning at the calculations coming back. It would take them four days to reach Dadrus at the quickest the Kote could move. She attempted to find a swiffer route, to map between lanes, but couldn't pull any quicker numbers.

"Fuck," she grumbled.

"It'll be four days then," he shrugged, wondering why she was so bitter about it. Dadrus wasn't right next to them and it wasn't uncommon that hyperspace might take a few days.

"I made a bet," she continued grumpily.

"With whom?"

Sparing a glance back from her molten gold eyes, he knew. Her rival: Djarin.

"What did you bet?" Paz was actually impressed, but that quickly faded.

"Nothing more than bragging rights," she groaned as if that were the worst thing in the galaxy. Out of all the kriffing things they could have bet, it was just that? Maybe Din thought it was worth it, because Sena had such a huge amount of pride that losing would get under her skin for months - maybe even years.

Idiot, Paz complained silently. "Who knows how long of a trip he's got to make it his destination. Four days isn't that long."

"In addition to wherever we have to go to collect the bounty and then return it to Dadrus. Then we've got four days to return to Vorp'ya," she reminded him astutely. "At the very least, I expect we're going to be out 10 days."

"Then we'll just have to keep ourselves busy, won't we, vod'ika ?"

Punching the hyperdrive with the petulance of a Foundling on the brink of a tantrum, she muttered to herself.

"What, spending some bonding time with your ori'vod that grim of a prospect?" Paz pouted.

The angsty look she threw at him made him laugh. "It might be depending on what the hell you're going to tease me about."

"I'll lay off about Djarin," he promised, but crossed his fingers behind his back. "Come back down to the karyai . I've got a surprise."

Highly suspicious, his little sister followed him out of the cockpit as the ship chugged onward using auto-pilot. Plopping down cross legged onto a pillowed seat at the table, she folded her arms and waited expectantly. Cracking open the cooler, he pulled out growlers of ne'tra gal. She arched a dark brow at him. "Before the mission?"

"We've got four days," Paz pointed out, placing them on the table and retrieving a set of cups. "Let's play a game."

"Of course there's a catch," she narrowed her eyes at him, drawing the offered cup over toward her. "So, what's this game?" Taking a dagger out, she used the hilt to pop the cap off of the growler in front of her, the ale hissed slightly, frothing but not touching the rim of the container.

"Truth or dare," he challenged, opening his growler. " Ni dinu. "

"I've already opened it!"

"Looks like you're playing," Paz shrugged nonchalantly.

" Shebs ," she muttered, pouring herself a cup. "What are the rules then?"

"Truth, you ask a question. If you refuse to answer it, then you have to finish your cup. Dare, you have to do the dare. Again, if you refuse it then you have to finish your cup."

"Then why wouldn't I just do dare everytime?" Sena pointed out.

Paz laughed, but did not elaborate. "Start then."

"Dare."

"I dare you to open the dock."

Sena just leered at him, her bright eyes blinking slowly. "WHAT THE KRIFF! How am I supposed to do that?!" she roared, seizing her cup as she began to chug it.

"You said dare," Paz chortled in his minor victory.

"You're the worst."

"I pick... truth."

"So what's going on with you and Voomri?" she piped, her voice becoming sickly sweet as she inquired about a female mando that Paz, most certainly, did not like. Not that this mattered, because Voomri would spare every moment she had doting on him, all but hanging on him in an attempt to start the hunting cycle with him.

Paz growled, picking up his cup and draining it. "Your turn."

"Dare."

"You know where this is going, vod'ika ."

"DARE."

"I dare you to go for a swim in hyperspace."

The game continued like this, the both of them too stubborn to answer questions or relent in their impossible dares. Smacking his sister much sooner than him, she sagged over the table, a hand on her brow as she propped up her face, eying the other half of her ale dubiously. "Truth," she groaned.

Squirming delightedly in his seat, he placed his elbows on the table, leaning forward to grin at her. "Do you like Djarin?"

She gave him a venomous glare, picking up her drink, considering it for another moment. "Like how? Can I ask questions?"

"Enough to date."

"Why are you going to pummel him if I say yes?" she retorted snidely.

"Answer the question."

"I don't like anyone that way. I'm not interested in relationships like that currently," Sena answered honestly. "He's my friend, so yes, I like him. Not to the extent you're worried about. Although, I give you full permission to kick his shebs because it would be funny."

"Dare," he decided, pleased with the answer he had gotten.

The absolutely malicious glint in her eyes, lighting them like fire, made his stomach twist disconcertingly. "I dare you to run laps around the Kote . 3 of them, in full beskar'gam ."

This was the first dare that either of them could actually participate in and if Paz opted for a drink, he'd be labeled the loser. Curling his lip, he pushed himself up to his feet, swaying slightly, before considering his ale again. He did not want to run at this moment. No, his stomach complained at the idea. Hissing a few expletives beneath his breath he began his laps, the carbonation in the ale making him burp a few times, bile rising in the back of his throat. He finished the laps, the ship wasn't too big, but it still unsettled his insides.

Offering him the prettiest and smuggest smile she could manage, she said, "Truth," again.

"Do you think Djarin likes you? In the aforementioned manner," Paz hissed, holding his rebelling stomach.

Her brows pushed together and she frowned deeply. "How the kriff would I know? He's the quietest person in my class."

"But if you had to guess?"

"Maybe? I really can't say for certain. I've never really thought about it."

"You haven't thought about it?" Paz's voice hitched.

" Lek , I'm not hormone riddled. You humans age differently than Anaxians," she snorted, picking up her ale and taking a few mild swigs.

"What do you mean?"

"Anaxians don't reach maturity until their second decade of life. If you... ahem, catch my drift," she blushed slightly at admitting such a thing to her brother.

Paz's gums flapped and he felt incredibly uncomfortable in that moment. "Didn't need to know that... Really didn't need to know that-" he muttered loud enough for her to hear. Now he couldn't get the images out of his mind, standing up abruptly, picking up his growler and stomping away. He locked himself in the captain's quarters, bringing the ale to his lips as he felt even more disgusted with himself. It had all been in good fun until he realized even he had been sizing up his sister, considering the expansion of their clan. Running his hand over his face, he flopped back onto the bed and groaned.

---

Dadrus was an unimpressive, dustball planet. One of the first she'd been to since becoming Mandalorian and not at all her type of place, which would've been green, blanketed in trees, and with mild weather. Instead, the air was arid, made her skin parched even beneath her helmet, and the suns glared at her as if she had slapped its girl's ass in the cantina and got away with it. It was a small livable area on the gas giant and an even smaller outpost village that sat nestled between the amber and gold canyons. The Guild establishment was settled in a nook in the center of the town, the only thing worth traveling to on Dadrus. Otherwise, the planet might've been empty save for a few souls who were looking not to get captured for some sort of war crime. Place like this, the Empire would never bother with.

The bell on the cantina door tinkled pitifully as the Mandalorians entered. One dark green, shadowed by an impassive and impossibly large dark blue figure. All activity guttered to a halt, heads turning anxiously to look at the pair that were marked with the same Jai'galaar eyes on their pauldrons. Didn't get visitors often, let alone two Mandalorians. Usually they traveled alone, not in pairs. None of them knew that the two were just teenagers, because it was in the way they walked; tall, erect as if they were about to snap to attention, and with feral prowess indicating their years of training. From the visors, eyes then followed to the weapons. The female had an arsenal of knives and blades, whereas the male saddled himself with a heavy blaster and a few other smaller firearms.

He nudged her, motioning toward the back of the room where Jace nearly spat out his spotchka. They were going toward him. Well, he was the official leader for the Guild on Dadrus, so he shouldn't have been too surprised that they'd be bounty hunters looking for pucks. Draining the rest of his cup in his anxiety, he motioned for the bartending droid to bring a double - stat. Interlacing his fingers on the table to keep them from shaking, he listened to the dull metallic ring of each boot's footfall before the Mandalorians were standing at the end of his table.

The female reached into a pouch, all but slamming the unactivated fobs in front of him. "We're here for work," he wasn't expecting the accent. It was crisp, clear, and definitely not from round these parts. Outer Rim folks all had a certain accent, hers was cultured and smooth like velvet, despite the shift in it from the modulator. Jace leaned forward, earning an aggressive leer from the bigger mando. Was nice to hear such a pretty accent, but he wasn't looking to get throttled by the blue guy.

Swiping the fobs, Jace flipped through them and nodded his thanks at the droid who brought over his second spotchka. "These are all claimed," he muttered. "Where did you get these?"

The female glanced over at the male, her head tilted, maybe confused?

"Do you have any other work?" the male's voice was deep like rolling thunder.

"I have a few," Jace sat back and considered them. A pair like this could really be used for anything, not just a small fry job. "Tell you what, mandos, I'm in a gracious mood today. I've got one puck if you're willing to take it, but it's on Tatooine and deals with the Hutts."

"What does it pay?" the female inquired, his heart clenching at the sound of her voice again.

"Well. As long as you bring the bounty in warm. Leaking? That'll be fine. But alive," Jace picked up his spotchka and took a deep swig, eying the green mando while he did so. He saw an obsidian braid swaying and wondered what might be underneath that helmet.

"We'll take it," she didn't deliberate with her partner, holding out a black glove expectantly.

Jace found the puck in his stash and activated it, taking the three fobs they'd had that were no longer any good. Those were pitiful bounties anyways for a set of Mandalorians. They'd be better suited for walking amongst the Hutts and not being bothered. Jabba would probably entertain them, since he liked Mandalorians. Plopping it in her hand, Jace smiled fondly, "Happy hunting."

---

"Why are all these kriffing planets hot as fuck?" Sena complained loudly to her brother as they stepped off the dock into the hangar of Mos Espa. Visor adjusting rapidly to the light to cut the difference from the darkness of the Kote , she glared at anything and everything around her. She liked warm planets, not scalding ones. Despite there being a habitable zone in Tatooine, it was hotter than the devil's armpit and wearing full armor was not comfortable. Dadrus had also been slightly unpleasant, but now she was beginning to think that it was absolute paradise when held next to Tatooine. Plus, the Guild Master had been kind of cute. Ugh, she'd literally just told her brother she wasn't interested in anyone that way and now some random human had garnered her interest?

"The Outer Rim isn't known for being the most favorable place to live," Paz reminded her, but also groused quietly at how hot it was. Tatooine left much to be desired aside from the climate, to include the absolute rabble that littered the planet. They were Mandalorian and wouldn't be bothered, but he disliked the atmosphere here, the casual slavery, and the disdain toward life as if it were something to be taken for granted. This wasn't exactly the place he'd wanted Sena to go for her first hunt, but she'd snatched the puck up before he could stop her and he wasn't going to argue with her in the cantina on Dadrus. Not in front of other people. Any gripes could be taken behind closed doors unless they were life threatening.

"Should be easy. Pick up the quarry, shove him into cryo, then double back," she reasoned, spotting the mechanic who governed the bay they had landed in. "Hey!"

The old man froze beneath the shadow of the Mandalorians, dropping the wrench in his hand and paling. Bending down, Sena picked it up and offered it back to him, the small bit of courtesy confusing him. "W-welcome to Mos Espa," he greeted, taking the wrench and rubbing the accumulated sand off on his coveralls. "What can I help you with today?"

"We're just docking for the day. How much will that cost us?" Sena asked, gesturing back to the Kote.

"If you leave before morning, won't cost you more than 200 credits. "

That seemed like a lot, but then again Sena hadn't really bought anything off planet before. Their allowance was 1,000 for fuel, food, docking and other miscellaneous necessities. If this bounty went without a hitch, then they would be getting a lot more for the scum bag in Hutt palace. Hearing the word palace again was odd, but this place was nothing like her old home.

"Here's half now," she fished the credits out and put them into the mechanic's hand before locking up the Kote with a few buttons on her vambrace. Thinking that it was hot from within the shelter of the hangar, she was immediately dismayed the moment she walked into the sandy streets and felt the sunlight billeting off her dark armor. Sweat pooled beneath her flight suit, against the back of her neck, and rolled down into unpleasant crannies. Holding the fob in her hand, she followed the quiet pinging while her head remained on a swivel.

Everything was earth toned. Despite being a miserable planet, there was actually quite a bit of activity. Folks of multiple races meandered the streets in robed attire, a wave of gritty activity as they plucked along on daily activity. Her eyes noticed the people with collars, eyes cast down, going about their business though they were considerably more demure than most other locals. Slaves. Her lips curled beneath her helmet in disdain, recalling what papa had once told her about those who used slaves rather than paying people for honest work. They were despicable. No one, not even pilfering Jawas, deserved to be treated like a disposable object.

Paz had mentioned that Tatooine was a shitty planet and with each step, she continued to wade into the trash and find things she didn't like about it. From the old durasteel domes that were stained from whipping sandstorms, marred by scars of the sunlight stripping it of its dignity. Everything here was for purpose, not appearance. With water a high commodity, people would typically resort to sonic showers to clean things, which was sort of gross in her opinion. At least, Vorp'ya had its rainy seasons and was never truly parched like Tatooine. Grass had to grow in for the nerfs to graze on, their population growing ever larger.

They cut their way through the crowd like butter, folks shuffling out of their way as if so much as touching the Mandalorians would burn them. Sena wasn't taken aback by this, people were terrified of Mandalorians and eyed the arsenal of weapons each of them were decorated with. Did it make her feel lonely? No, she had the whole Tribe back on Vorp'ya, her friends, her vod, her best friends. There was nothing to be desired and she had a job to do to prove her worth to the Tribe. She wouldn't let her aliit or the Elders down.

The Hutt palace wasn't exactly what she'd call a castle. A big, cylindrical dome with a few black rings toward the top which were windows set inward, strong enough to withstand the storms. While it was quite large, she thought it had a phallic shape to it and was unimpressive and nondescript. No, compared to Genmaris Castle it was a lewd joke, more akin to a run down outpost in the forest than a place where important people should dwell. Through her academics, Sena knew that the Hutt Clan was not a force to be reckoned with lightly. They were slavers and crime lords, with no qualms in dispatching anyone they disliked. Fortunately, they were fond of Mandalorians and their success in retrieving bounties, so Sena was hopeful that they wouldn't run into too many issues.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

Inside the palace. Well, she'd been expecting it, eying the pair of Niktos by the door who gave the two of them brief glares before jerking their heads in approval and letting them through. Smoke buffeted their helmets upon entrance, the haze a swirling combination of whatever the patrons were dragging between lips and a machine near the jazz playing band. Lively music filled the air, but did not disperse the blatant profligacy that filled the cantina chamber to the brim. Slaves were everywhere, identifiable from the metal shock collars around their throats. Servers ferried drinks between tables, some playing sabacc, others engaged in deep conversations, and eyes immediately distinguishing the mandos through the murk, almost as if they weren't truly there, and their eyes were playing tricks on them.

Upon a stone plinth was the ugliest creature that Sena ever had the luxury of laying eyes on. Once that title had belonged to Rathas, but now she'd decided that Jabba the Hutt was a much more suitable champion. A big, lumpy mass of molted green, brown, and tan with piercing orange eyes, slitted pupils blown as he picked up a tiny, live, and miserable creature which squealed for dear life before disappearing into the sticky maw of the Hutt. A shiver lanced down her back, a pair of scantily clad slaves tethered to him by chains. They looked absolutely petrified, as if they might be the next thing to disappear into his gullet.

There were dancing platforms where various female slaves swayed to the music and gripping poles. Clearly, they weren't doing it for pleasure, their collars a little smaller as not to impede them from their work. Lecherous eyes trailed them, some of the customers and guests muttering about what they wanted to do to them and if maybe Jabba would let them if they paid. The absolute filth being translated through her helmet made her want to vomit.

Paz brushed her arm, reminding her to keep moving, and not get distracted. Steadying herself, she placed her palm on Cu'Sith's pommel and felt her heartbeat ease back down to normal. While she wanted to murder everyone in this room, aside from the slaves, and paint a beautifully macabre mosiac with crimson (and whatever other colors of blood there might be) - she knew they couldn't. Not only were they vastly outnumbered, but killing anyone in here without permission would mean turning the Hutt Clan against them and the Tribe. Too much of a risk to free a few slaves. They weren't there to be heroes.

Approaching Jabba, he turned his repugnant eyes toward them, his impressively wide mouth curving up in what could only be described as a slimy smile. A protocol droid stood beside him as he spoke, translating the Huttense, "Welcome Mandalorians. Jabba is most pleased to see you amongst his ranks today. He asks what he can help you with today? Are you looking for work?"

Sena drew out her tracking fob. "We have a quarry that has led us here," she informed him curtly, keeping voice under control and thankful for the modulator to cut the edge off of her bitterness in having to deal with this monster. Pressing the identification button, the silhouette of their charge sputtered in a crystalline holographic view; a Twi'lek male in his early 30s.

Jabba considered it and then wobbled the top of his slug-ness. He didn't really have a neck which could discern what was his head and what was his body, but she supposed it was as much of a nod as she would get. "Jabba says that your quarry is here in one of the back rooms. You are permitted to collect him as long as no one is disturbed."

Sena put the fob back into her pouch and gave a discreet nod, unwilling to thank the creature. Turning away, she trotted along through the back halls and toward the rows of chamber doors. This area was akin to a hotel, where bounty hunters could stay whilst in Jabba's care. Lighting was subpar, yellow like piss, and casting a sickly glow against the rusted walls. Down the hall, she stopped where the fob indicated, glancing to see if there was anyone nearby. A few scampering slaves, who ducked away and ignored them, a passing Nikto, but no one who had any interest in bothering them.

From her pocket, she removed a lock pick, giving Paz the signal to let her handle this on her own. Sena could use her stealth to her advantage, but Paz wasn't gifted in the same talents. He'd trundle right in and give her away. He would post outside whilst she took care of business inside. Didn't take long for her to find the right combination. She'd practiced on Paz's door just to annoy him by putting random bugs in his bed. He hated bugs.

Slipping in like a shadow, she pinned herself to a wall and slowly removed her kal'e from her belt. The lights were off except for one on the nightstand, allowing for her to drink in the surroundings before deciding what she would do. Her head cocked, a strange slapping and wet noise garnering her attention. Creeping forward, her feet rolled heel to toe to prevent any noise. Her light weight allowed for an even more soundless approach as she cut the corner slightly and her stomach dropped into her feet.

Caged in the corner was a young woman who was barely clinging to life as her captor gripped her by her slave collar. Head bent back at an uncomfortable angle, Sena could only watch on in horror as he pummeled into her, each wet slap punctuated by a terrible whimper from the woman’s mouth. The animalistic grunts, the absolute disregard for the slave’s deteriorating health, her skin marked by bruises and lesions, slicked with sweat and blood.

Finally finding her feet, she stepped forward, each rolling of her heel to toes silent. Not that the bastard would have even heard her, fixated in his conquering. She raised the pommel and collided with the back of his head.

The Guild Master had said leaking was fine. Her lip was peeled back in a wolfish snarl that the quarry couldn't see, groaning as blood trickled down the back of his head. A hiss escaped the door for a second time and Paz stomped in to see what the commotion was. Immediately, he went rigid, observing the barely breathing form of the slave as Sena bent over her, chewing her lip as she tried to decide what to do. Maker, she was bleeding everywhere.

"She's not going to make it," he told her.

"Why? Why would anyone do this? What sort of sick pleasure do they get from this?" her voice was hoarse, but crackled with unbridled fury. "Can you hear me? Hello?"

The slave girl's eyes fluttered open for just the briefest of moments, unfocused, pupils blown as she let out the faintest cry of shock. Of course. Two Mandalorians were hunched over her while she was bleeding to death. Gritting her teeth, Sena placed her arms under the slave and lifted her, taking her over to the bed instead of the damp corner she'd been bludgeoned in. Setting her down, dismayed by how much the human weighed, she pulled the blankets up and tenderly wiped away the spittle and other fluids from her face. Continuing to clean up what she could, she sat in the chair beside the female and waited, observing each rattled breath until the slave opened her eyes again.

"What... are you doing?" she asked weakly.

"I'll stay here with you," Sena promised, clutching her knees to keep her hands from shaking as the scenes replayed in her head over and over again. Primal, animalistic, and disgusting.

"P-p-please. Can you finish it? It hurts... so bad... it hurts..."

" Vod , I'll do it-" Paz stepped up.

The slave whimpered at the sight of him and Sena snapped her head up. "Take him out of here. I'll help her. She's afraid of you."

Paz's shoulders sagged slightly, gripping the quarry by the cuffs and dragging his limp body out of the room. When the door snapped shut again, Sena turned back to the young woman and let out a shuddering breath. "Is there... anyone you want me to tell about you? Family? A friend?"

"I've always been a slave. N-n-no one," she answered quietly, closing her eyes against and shuddering. "Be-before you do... Can I see your face? S-so I know?" Know who saved her and put her out of her misery. That was her request.

The question shocked her, shaken to her core by the question to see her face. Aside from her aliit , no one had seen her since she left Genmaris. No living thing could see it or she'd have to kill them. Drawing her blade, she knew what she had to do. Sena was discreet, hiding it on the outside of her thigh as she reached up with a trembling hand and disengaged the seal of her helmet. Setting it down, her eyes rapidly adjusted to the dim room, glowing faintly in the reflection of the lamp.

Eyes widening, the slave sputtered slightly at what she saw, the tanned countenance of a young female. Then she softened, resigned to her death, a faint smile creasing her frothing lips. A secret she would take with her to the grave and the only luxury and honor she'd been spared in her entire life. "Th-thank yo-you," the slave muttered as Sena bent down, almost in the way a mother would crane to her child to kiss their brow before bed time.

Smoothing the mess of hair from the female's face, Sena's eyes burned as she maneuvered the blade carefully, out of sight and mind. "Go to a better place. You will be safe there and no one will harm you, mesh'la ," she promised, sliding the blade up into the girl's ribcage. Her lids snapped back, before a long winded sigh parted her mouth and she eased down into an eternal slumber. Dragging the pads of her fingers down, Sena closed the slave's eyes and withdrew her tanto, wiping the blood off on her pants. Taking her helmet, she placed it back on and cleared her throat, finding it constricting on her as she stared at the girl - who might've been sleeping peacefully if not for the dark scarlet stain in the fabric where her heart had been pierced.

I will remember you, Sena promised, spinning on her heel and storming out of the room to find Paz waiting. The quarry was coming to, eyes still rolling into the back of his head. She'd probably given him a concussion.

" Vod ?" Paz was even toned, entreating her to see how she was faring.

"Let's return to the ship."

The silence between them was thick enough to cut and Paz was worried. While talking outside the privacy of the Kote or their covert was not necessary, he saw the stiffness in her shoulders and the fists she balled her gloves into. He'd only caught what had happened at the end, but had been able to see quite clearly that she had found the quarry torturing the slave. Kriffing Tatooine. Absolute hellhole of a place. This was why he had been worried about coming here. It was no place for a 16 year old and now she'd seen too much.

Sena paid the mechanic in the hangar, following Paz closely as he dragged the charge who was starting to become more lucid. He was about to thrust the bastard into cryo when his sister caught his arm. "No. I'm not done with him," she informed him, preventing him from sealing the Twi'lek in carbonite. Any normal person might've been sickened by the suggestion, the idea that she was going to torture him as he'd tortured the slave. But Mandalorians often abided by the rules of an eye for an eye. The quarry needed to be alive, but they'd never said he couldn't be scarred.

He left her, heading up to the cockpit just as she secured the trembling Twi'lek to a chair and pulled out one of her knives. Just as he closed the door to the cockpit, he heard the first guttural scream, silenced quickly by some article being stuffed into his mouth. The creature deserved it. He deserved every lasting mark that Sena would place on him. Being a master of blades had always encroached on this territory - Paz just wondered how long it would be before she actually wielded them in this manner. He'd been hoping she would be older, but he couldn't change fate. No, he just worried about what his vod'ika had seen.

Translations

Shabuir - motherfucker Buir - parent Vod - comrade/brother/sister Lek - Yeah Ne'johaa! - shut up! Shebs - ass Murcyur - kiss Ori'vod - big sibling Su'cuy - Hi Kal - blade Kal'e - blades (i made the plural up) Nayc - No Jate - Good Ad'ika - daughter/son (affectionate) Aliit - Clan Cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart Vaar'tur! - Morning! Ad - son/daughter Kyramud - assassin Vaar'ika - pipsqueak Koor - Deal Hut'uun - coward (a very heavy weighted insult in Mandalorian) Ori'jagyc - bully; one who picks on someone smaller than themselves Kandosii! - Well done Vu'traat - special forces Riduurok - marriage vows Oya - Stay alive ! Cheers ! Ni dinu - Take it or leave it

---

End Author Note: Dear Readers, absolutely all my resolve has vanished and I am now hopelessly writing a romance fic. Heck.

My original intention was to really drag out growing up, but I like the vein I've traveled down more. The biggest point to take away from this is that Din is very inexperienced (and he's reserved) whereas Sena is very outgoing and popular (with the addition that she's not in an Anaxian's adolescent form yet, so relationships of a sexual nature are still weird to her).

We've got that awkward in between phase in tandem with Sena's distaste for what happened on Tatooine. Our poor little bird isn't gonna be ready for an intimate relationship for a while and Din is hopeless anyways since he doesn't talk.Anyways, I'm really excited to publish the next chapter in a week. There will be a lot of timeskips before getting to present time of Season 1.

Additionally, Paz will eventually also have a love interest in a few chapters. I couldn't forget him completely when Din and Sena's ship sails.

Tags will change once those chapters are published.Publishing day will be Sunday - no specific timeframe.

#big brother paz vizsla #paz vizsla & oc character #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #oc mandalorian #growing up mandalorian #din djarin x oc

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enchanted-prose · 4 years

Text

#12 A Bloody Ballad

and with this fic, I have officially crossed into the 60,000 word count territory. I've also decided that I will finish this ficlet series by July 14th and submit it to Jennifer Nielsen’s fan content competition.

Word count: 5,715

Characters: Jaron, Mott, Jolly (Original character who deserves lute rights), Lord Thomas Row (a babey and original character), Merry (Original character), Commander Regar (Original character), Roden, Tobias, Renlyn (Original character), Princess Amarinda, Imogen (this one’s a reAL party)

Notes: This was creepy even for me to write, so that’s your warning. Edited and ready to be read!

Enjoy!

The sneezing never stopped.

Always sneezing.

And it was all that cat’s fault.

Jaron rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t the cat’s fault, it was his. He should’ve thought about his reaction to the cat when Renlyn managed to sell it to him. Cat hair was everywhere.

But by the Saints, nothing could best the smile Imogen had when she held that kitten on her lap.

He didn’t mind silent suffering if it meant Imogen’s happiness.

Her secret smiles filled his head. The way her hand sought his whenever they were near each other kept his feet planted on solid ground. Jaron knew that Imogen’s mere presence gave him the focus to solve every puzzle at his fingertips.

However, it went deeper than that.

Imogen insisted on looking him over each time he got into trouble. She had no qualm about staying up until the early hours of the morning when memories of Avenia plagued him. Her love came in gentle forms; she brought him deftly spun bracelets, a spoonful of sweet pastry dough, ruffled his hair with flour covered fingers.

He could sneeze for a millennia for her.

With each passing day, his stance seemed more and more likely.

Did the Saints sneeze?

Energy burst through him without a warning. Jaron stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the floor. He snatched the letter he’d been reading and began to pace. King Kippenger was sending a representative to discuss the situation Avenia was in.

There was nothing Jaron wouldn’t do to assist an ally, save abdicating the throne and a few other atrocious acts of course. He was prepared to give aid to Avenia in any shape.

He was prepared to send his best military leaders to action if needed.

His mind instantly began thinking about what news Kippenger’s representative would be bringing. The path he walked was familiar. It gave him space to think outside of his normal routine. To the corner, to the door, to the shelf, back to the desk.

Thomas Row, that was the representative’s name. A farmer raised to nobility after demonstrating his loyalty not only to Avenia, but to Kippenger during the first months of his reign.

Carthya’s harvests over the past four years had been wondrous, and a new push for education thanks to Amarinda and Tobias. Feall was working with Roden, and Jaron was confident that Feall would make a capable temporary replacement should Roden be sent to Avenia.

The pieces were in place. Jaron could play this figurative chess game and win.

He was juggling what would happen if Avenia wouldn’t accept his help and what he would have to do to protect his own people.

Would it really be worth it to keep a Carthyan influence in Avenia if it only forced Avenians even further away from good relations?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

To many outcomes, not enough stable variables.

Think, think, think.

What could he do if Avenian relations soured?

Bymar would come to help, Jaron was certain of it. Mendenwal would likely come as well, and maybe even Gelyn, though the latter would likely have ill intentions. He could always completely withdraw Carthyan aid as a last resort.

A very last resort.

Why, oh why couldn’t Thomas Row be there, knocking at the door?

Jaron rubbed his watering eyes, and returned to his desk. One letter down, countless others to go. He inched his chair backwards, inched his chair forwards, and wished he had a chair that spun in a circle.

Saints, it wasn't even noon and he was already bored.

He’d managed to read through ten letters when somebody finally came to check in on him.

“Mott!” Jaron stood up, this time successfully knocking over his chair. “Thank the Saints, I wanted to ask you if-”

“No, I will not let you use a shield as a sled and ride down the grand staircase,” Mott’s brows lowered into a solid line.

Jaron broke into a wicked grin, “Good idea, but that’s not what I was going to ask. You read Kippenger’s letter, no?”

“Haven’t had much to do but read since the attack.”

“Do you have any- oh.”

During the Avenian war, Mott had received a wound that would’ve killed him if not for Tobias’s skill as a doctor. The wound prevented Mott from fighting his way through a battle.

The wicked grin Jaron sported faded into a deep frown. He wanted to be a good king, a just man who sought out justice rather than revenge.

It was a well kept secret that Mott’s ghost wound flared up. A well kept secret that the fight with the Faola who attacked Feall was responsible for the ghost pains.

But Jaron knew, he knew about Mott’s pain.

And if it weren’t for Imogen and Tobias, he would’ve taught the Faola a lesson they’d never forget.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” muttered Jaron, tossing through the emotions pulsing through his veins.

Anger, grief. Anger, grief. Anger, grief, and frustration.

Did nobody care how hard he was trying? Was that why there was still crime plaguing the streets of Drylliad?

“Not exactly, but I do appreciate the sentiment,” Mott shifted on his feet. “I did read Kippenger’s letter, and I dispatched a series of spies to try to locate his representative.”

“Did you find anything out?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, although the information came from someone who’s not one of ours.”

Oh?

Jaron motioned for Mott to continue, “Is it reliable information?”

“From a friend’s perspective, yes. However, from a ruler’s perspective there’s a series of holes in the story,” explained Mott. “My informant, ah, has a history of lute playing, colorful clothing, and pursuing every vice he can.”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“Jolly is my informant.”

He didn’t mean to snicker. He didn’t mean for that snicker to turn into a fit of laughter. Jaron coughed into his fist, trying his best to mask his grinning, “Jolly is your informant? The man who sings about floral crowns and otherworldly romances?”

Mott was all too serious as he nodded. “Considering that he not only found Thomas Row in Avenia, he also managed to bring him here, I’d give him a bit more credit.”

“Lord Thomas Row is here!? When did he arrive!? Why wasn’t I informed!?”

“He requested to stay at an inn rather than in the castle, said he wanted to be with the army that accompanied him.”

“By the toes of every Saint, I have to meet with him,” Jaron bolted to the door, froze as his hand hovered above the handle, and turned back to face Mott. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Perhaps,” Mott said. “I have several things that require my attention, but I don’t suppose you’d be opposed to helping me with my duties.”

More chores?

More papers to read?

Jaron shrugged, “You can’t tell anyone, otherwise they’ll always come to me to help push papers around. I have duties of my own.”

“As do I.”

“To the Devils’ with duty then, I’m the king, my word is law.”

With a few catches, of course, but Jaron didn’t need to explain that. It would’ve diminished his perfect excuse for abandoning the papers on his desk.

All he needed was a quick stop at his chambers to change his clothing. He’d be able to blend in with the crowd well enough in a pair of shabby trousers. It was a slight miracle that he hadn’t been recognized yet.

He was feeling more comfortable once he’d dressed in a patched shirt and ragged shoes.

Although when he stood next to Mott, who was still dressed plainly according to the royal court’s ridiculous standards, he looked like a pickpocket.

Once a thief, always a thief.

The courtyard was bustling with life. Horses were being led to shadier pastures outside the castle. Sheets and sheets hung on lines as they dried in the sun. Roden was yelling at a group of soldiers.

Everything was as it should be. Jaron was grateful for the false security the routine brought.

He would be a fool not to acknowledge that there was something not quite right anymore.

Like a right shoe being ever so slightly bigger than the left. Like a spoon and fork sharing the same engraved design, only the spoon was missing a line.

Quiet yet obvious once found.

“Tell me about the army Thomas Row brought,” Jaron asked, stepping over a laundress’s large bar of soap.

“It’s a hired army,” Mott wiped his nose. The smell of heavy duty soap wasn’t the sweetest scent. “The army’s lead by a man called Commander Regar, I suspect his men are mostly Bymarian and Gelynian.”

“Ah, mercenary armies. They’re too unpredictable for my taste.”

“One could argue that you’re also too unpredictable for different peoples’ tastes.”

“I don’t give my loyalties to the highest bidder; mercenaries do.”

In fact, Jaron didn’t think the mercenary armies so favored by nobility were worth their cost. The mercenaries were little more than bandits who could play the game of life a little smarter.

It was far better to find men willing to fight for something they loved rather than men who fought for coin.

“Market day should be a success,” Mott noted, gesturing to the various stands that had popped up overnight.

Jaron shrugged, “I’m hoping for a large supply of peaches this time. The peaches at last market day were full of worms.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait two days to see the peaches yourself.”

“Think I should have Roden pray for my peaches and their health?”

“Don’t be sacrilegious.”

Ah, market day was a thief’s dream. Hundreds of vendors came with their goods to sell, and security could only protect so many. Jaron had taken advantage of market days as a child. He rarely returned to Mrs. Turbeldy’s Home for Disadvantaged Boys with his hands empty after market day. Sometimes, he got lucky. Sometimes he was able to steal enough food to feed himself for a few days.

Though the anxiety that constantly tugged at his lungs made him wonder.

Made him think.

Made him realize that maybe this market day would be unlike the others.

Perhaps he should get somebody to pray about it.

Thomas Row was staying at the Traveler’s Inn, which meant a short walk for Jaron and Mott. . . If Thomas was there. And as fate would have it, Thomas wasn’t. He was at the Dragon’s Keep, catching up with a certain brightly colored troubadour.

Jaron could hear the lute playing long before he saw the Dragon’s Keep. Jolly’s clear tenor voice sailed through the tavern’s open windows.

There was blood in the kitchen

And blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

There was no way that tune was Carthyan, Jaron would’ve remembered a ballad that violent.

“After you,” Jaron said, holding the door open for Mott.

“On the contrary, after you Jaron.”

“No, after you.”

It took several more ‘after you!’s before Mott finally conceded and walked into the Dragon’s Keep with Jaron trailing behind him.

Stepping into the Dragon’s Keep was like stepping into a warm cloud.Men and women crammed around almost every table. There was no set uniform among them, although several people wore thick, knee-length skirts with knotted patterns. Jolly was sitting on a table flanked by a man playing a large set of pipes and a woman playing a tin flute. Jolly’s tenor voice took on a thick Bymarian accent; the chords he played turned sour:

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

And blood on her Majesty, Lady Ingrithay

A heart in her right hand, dagger in the other

Ye can’t outrun yer mother

She is yer judgement day

Jaron shivered.

Ye can’t outrun yer mother

She is yer judgement day

“That’s him, Lord Row,” Mott said, gesturing to a man in humble clothes sitting a few tables away from Jolly and the other musicians.

Lord Thomas Row was a plain man, save for his head of wiry, black braids. His white shirt flared down his arms and cinched around his wrists.

Cinched around one of his wrists.

One of his wrists?

Lord Row had a right hand, but the left one ended in an elegant, covered hook.

“Sir Mott! It is good to see you!” Lord Row bellowed, and he lunged to embrace Mott. “It’s been too many years!”

“Yes it has, Tom, yes it has,” Mott clapped Row’s back.

Jaron tried to stop the squirming unease that came when watching a pair of old friends reunite.

Once Row had broken off his embrace, he took a long look at Jaron. “Is this-?”

“It is, no need for names, my friend, I came here to make your acquaintance before rushing into talks of politics,” Jaron said, extending his right hand. “Sometimes they get messy, I’d rather be friends than enemies. And forgive my dress, I find it’s easier to slip through crowds when not wearing a jeweled tunic.”

“There’s no need for forgiveness, I wholeheartedly agree, and I sincerely hope you don’t become my enemy, your Majesty.”

“Please, call me Jaron.”

“I accept your invitation of friendship,” Row bowed his head. “Jaron.”

“By the Saints can he change this ballad?” Mott grumbled as Jolly launched into a new verse.

Ye can run, ye can run

But lady, o’lady

Yer time’s almost done

Sing like a bird, say what you say

O’lady yer the one

To stop dear Ingrithay

Blood in the-

“No! Don’t touch my lute you insufferable imp!” Shouted Jolly as he launched off the table.

Jaron let out a sigh of relief, “Find whoever stole the lute and bring them to me, I’ll give them a knighthood.”

“The ballad isn’t that bad,” muttered a man from Row’s table.

“On the contrary, I think it is.”

“Ignore old Regar, he’s sympathetic for Bymarian ballads,” Row waved his hook at the man who’d spoken.

Regar held up his hand in greeting, but chose to drink the contents of his tankard than say hello.

“It’s not exactly a song for dancing,” Mott pointed out. “It’s Bymarian, you say?”

Row nodded, “I’ve heard it multiple times on my journey here. Regar’s men are mostly from Idunn Craich, it’s been interesting hearing their tales, they’re much bloodier than tales from Bultain.”

“Only recent ones,” Regar said, having finally finished his drink. He dragged his hand across his bearded face and smiled, “Commander Regar, I am honored to be in your presence, Majesty.”

Jaron made a face, but nodded in return.

He hated it when people called him Majesty.

That’s what people called their prettiest mares, Saints be cursed.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jaron said. “Sort of.”

“Thank you, I think.” Regar nodded his head. His eyes were elsewhere, and soon he was sitting again, nursing his tankard.

“See something you don’t like, Commander Regar?”

He didn’t answer.

“Regar isn’t the most spirited at this time, return in a few hours and he’ll be singing with our mutual friend Jolly,” Row said, setting his hook on Jaron’s shoulder. He steered both Jaron and Mott away from the table. “Jaron, may I ask how your day has gone?”

“Oddly average, if I must be honest,” Jaron said, still looking at Regar.

“Ah, I must say the same, as average as riding can be.”

Mott chuckled, “That’s good news, I’d hate to know there were troubles with your travels, Row.”

His head was racing. Put the pieces together, put the pieces together! Regar was several inches taller than Jaron, and from his standpoint, could probably see more than Jaron could. From Regar’s eye-level, he could see the other side of the tavern, which was much emptier.

Bar maids dashed to and fro trying to appease every customer they could.

One of them was serving drinks while keeping a lute free from Jolly’s hands. Green scarf in her bushy hair. Jolly’s ballad echoed through Jaron’s mind.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

Something was staring at him, right in the face.

It plagued him as he sat at the bar, listening to the bloody Bymarian ballads, and trying to weasel his way into Mott’s conversation with Lord Row.

He rubbed his eyes, which had finally stopped burning now that he’d left his cat hair covered office.

Aside from Lord Row and discussing Avenian policies, there were other matters to take care of. Among that never ending list of problems to be solved was the Faola attack on Feall.

It took numerous questions from Feall, Roden, Amarinda, and himself to firmly conclude that the girl who’d been arrested wasn’t responsible. She was simply doing the wrong things, got involved with the wrong people, and got caught at the wrong time.

But Feall had suggested bargaining with her. Bargaining with Ayvar, a criminal.

It wasn’t the worst deal Jaron had to make.

He promised Ayvar her freedom and a pardon for banditry if she was able to help them catch the culprit. She swore on her own false grave in Gelyn that she would keep her word, and was prepared to act immediately if needed.

Ayvar would remain a prisoner but would be moved to a tower room. She would be given ample food, water, and blankets.

All she needed to do was be prepared for when she was needed.

It was a game, and Jaron didn’t mind playing games.

He only hoped that he’d win this time.

Too many times had he gambled and lost, resulting in disastrous consequences and a pile of innocent victims. This time, it would be different. He would catch a Faola, and in the process, drive away all the others.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

Jaron rubbed his eyes. The words to Jolly’s song refused to leave.

It seemed that even thinking of Jolly caused him to appear. “Headache, sir?”

“No, no, I bought a cat from Renlyn Karise, turns out I don’t do well when cats are around,” Jaron confessed.

Jaron didn’t want to admit that he was thankful for Jolly’s company; he didn’t want to admit that Mott was talking to Lord Row much better than he was.

“Ah, Renlyn,” Jolly held a hand over his heart. “The envy of every man and their wives. A beauty and a wickedly intelligent woman.”

“Imogen mentioned that you knew her, how did the pair of you meet?”

Jolly’s blush matched the pink details on his blue jerkin, “Ah, well, I was one of the fools who chased after Ren for her golden curls. I thought I was clever by tricking her into a gambling game. . .”

“And?”

“And I lost everything. She gave it back, of course, but I learned my lesson. Karise is a force to be reckoned with, and a fierce friend. But she’s good at every kind of game.”

Especially the game of How Much Money can Jaron Waste on a Cat?

“And you know Merry, as well,” Jaron noted, gesturing to the girl in question as she dragged a box of dirty dishes to the back room. “How?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Jolly scratched his mass of black hair. “I’m sure you could ask her about it one day, not sure how much luck you have.”

“I’ve heard plenty about her, believe me. Roden, ah, Roden gets easily excited when he’s on the bottle.”

“Yes, yes he does.”

“And how do you know Roden?”

“You know what,” Jolly made a face. “I’m not quite sure, we were speaking in a tavern and he’s always been a friend of mine. Wrote a ballad about him, and a ballad about Renlyn. I have a ballad I’m writing about-”

“Don’t say it’s about me and Imogen.”

“-you and Imogen.”

“By the toes of all the Saints,” Jaron pinched his nose. “At least make it a good one.”

“I can sing it right now!” Jolly bounced away from the bar, swinging his lute into action.

Jaron’s eyes went wide as Jolly began strumming each chord, tuning them all to perfection. He began plucking out the first few notes, which led to a series of slowly strummed chords. Jolly heaved in a breath, preparing to sing, when out of nowhere a pair of hands shot out and stole the lute.

“You’re in timeout!” Merry said, cradling the lute in her arms. “You sang Ingrithay too many times, you’ll lose your voice!”

“Merry, Merry, quite contrary, you tug my- that’s actually a wonderful rhyme,” Jolly made a face, nodding ever so slowly.

In silence, Jaron pressed his hands together and bowed his head, grateful for Merry’s interference. She winked at him in return.

She patted Jolly’s shoulder, “That’s right, my tortured artist, think about your songs, and drink something warm. Can I get anything for you gentlemen?”

“I’ve heard the lemon tarts here are very nice,” Jaron said, exchanging a sneaky grin with Mott.

That wasn’t the only thing they’d heard.

“And for you, Lord Row?” Merry cradled the lute in one arm, and set her free hand on her hip.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Lord Row flashed a smile. “I’ll be certain to call for you should anything change.”

“I’ll do my best to answer that call, sir.”

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

No, no. Not the rhyme again.

He hated not having all the answers. He hated knowing that there was something lurking in his future.

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

“This stuff, really?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the bottle not far from Roden’s reach.

As much as he tried, Lord Thomas Row was more concerned with checking in on Commander Regar’s men, and opted to save their discussion for a few days later.

Meaning Jaron had nothing to do for an entire evening.

His first instinct was to snuggle up to Imogen, or do something silly like cover her eyes and guide her through the castle. However, his attempt to steal her away came too late: Amarinda had commandeered Imogen and Renlyn for an evening ride in the woods with Feall and Mott as chaperones.

His second instinct was to pester Roden into doing something fun, but when he entered Roden’s usually clean office, he knew he was gravely mistaken.

Pieces of fabric and at least one of Roden’s shirts were scattered about the floor. He and Tobias were arguing about something, but the argument came to a grating halt when Jaron walked in.

“Be quiet Tobias, you need loads of spirits to be a seamstress,” Jaron wrinkled his nose. “Let Roden embrace his dreams.”

“I’m not becoming a seamstress!” Roden crossed his arms, his frown rivaling the gargoyles on Drylliad’s biggest cathedral.

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Then why do you have a pair of shears in your hand and fabric on your lap?” Jaron sauntered over to Roden’s desk, sat in his chair, and kicked his heels up. “I can arrange for you to get more pretty things if you’d like.”

Roden perked up, “Really? I mean, no! That’s not what I want!”

“Oh he definitely wants pretty things,” Tobias pointed out. He’d picked up the bottle on Roden’s desk. “This is definitely stronger than what I’m used to trying.”

As Roden curled over his piece of fabric, Jaron looked to Tobias, and both exchanged a snicker.

If he couldn’t convince Roden to ride a shield like a sled down the grand staircase, Jaron would make fun of him till he reacted. That would be worth it.

Tobias looked at Roden, who was cursing his scissors, and made an outline of- of a bell?

Jaron squinted at him, shrugged, and shook his head. What could he do with a bell? What- oh! Tobias was making the outline of a skirt, not a bell. Ah! Jaron could work with skirt jokes.

“You know, I hear Bymarian women wear dresses with slits so they can move,” Jaron rubbed his nose. “I’m sure Amarinda can get you one.”

“No, no, that wouldn’t work,” Roden waved his hand, and didn’t bother looking back.

Looking for reassurance, Jaron looked at Tobias, who was sniffing the contents of Roden’s bottle of spirits. He made a face as the fumes escaped. No reassurance from him.

There had to be a way to upset Roden. “Are you more of a skirt person?”

He paused and straightened. “I suppose I am.”

Once again, Jaron looked to Tobias. This time, Tobias was prepared with a confused shrug.

“Are you- are you being serious?” Jaron leaned forwards. He’d heard of men wearing skirts into battle. By the Devils, even some of Regar’s men wore skirts. He just hadn’t expected Roden to suddenly take a stance on the trend.

“I don’t really mind what a girl wears,” Roden looked back to glare at Jaron. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I was talking about you wearing a dress, you oaf.”

Roden pointed his scissors at Jaron, “No. I’m not playing this game, I’m in a good mood.”

“Good mood? I’d like to change that.”

“Jaron, nothing you could do could change that. I have the evening off and-”

“Are you making dish rags for the kitchen staff?” asked Jaron, now resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on Roden’s desk. “No, Tobias, don’t drink that. I need somebody on my side in case Roden plays dirty.”

Unfortunately, Tobias was looking to do something foolish too. Jaron could hear him draining Roden’s bottle of spirits.

Dear Saints, he was causing a circus.

Good!

“I’m not going to fight y-,” Roden tried, but Jaron was eager to do something incredibly foolish.

“You’re making hair scarves for Merry, aren’t you?”

Aha! He’d hit a nerve!

“So?” Roden grumbled, curling back over his fabric. “I like seeing her ears. One of them has this-”

“Boring!” Jaron jumped to his feet, and walked over to a fine square of red fabric. “You want to know what would make these all prettier? Tobias, you’re going to pass out.”

“I think I deserve a quick nap,” Tobias argued, setting down the now half-empty bottle of spirits. “Jaron, don’t do something stupid, remember what we said about being kind.”

Oh yes, Jaron remembered that deep discussion. Something about being considerate for others and not pestering people until they reacted in a negative way. During the conversation, Tobias pointed out that perhaps Jaron wasn’t used to receiving any verbal or physical attention, which was likely the cause of Jaron’s desire to punch Roden as hard as he could during the most obscure times.

Unfortunately, Tobias’s statements were too close to home. During the next large banquet, Jaron made sure to punch Tobias as hard as he could rather than Roden.

He’d certainly gotten an earful from Imogen after that.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Roden growled, slowly rising to a stance to attack.

Jaron raised his foot above the red square of fabric, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m warning you. Don’t do-”

“What, this?”

His intention was to bring his boot down on the red square of fabric and leave a massive footprint, but he wasn’t sure if he accomplished his goal. Roden had launched himself right at Jaron, sending both of them careening across the floor.

“Hey, hey, hey! I’m a little guy! It’s my birth- hey!” Jaron cried out trying to wriggle out of Roden’s deathgrip.

“I told you not to touch the fabric!” Roden roared.

Jaron felt his feet touch the ground for a split second, and then he was hurled over Roden’s shoulder. Completely unfair. He refused to stand for it. Jaron kicked his legs like a fish, grabbed the back of Roden’s tunic, and tumbled to the ground.

He barely managed to roll away from Roden’s swinging foot.

“Oh, the fabric,” Tobias murmured. “It’s so pretty.”

“Quick-” Jaron dodged a flying fist “-question! What was in the bottle?”

Roden lunged, successfully grabbing Jaron by the left leg and dragging him to the ground. “It’s from Libeth!”

Now that wasn’t good at all. Libeth had some of the wildest alcohol brewers in the entire kingdom. Supposedly, they made a liquor strong enough to remove barnacles from sea vessels.

And how much had Tobias drank?

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped and wiped his eyes. “Roden was making little hair scarves-,” another hiccup. “Making hair scarves for Murry. Little scarves, oh dear Saints, this boy can only wield a sword, bless him in these days as he-”

“Shut up Tobias!” Jaron and Roden yelled.

By the Devils! Roden had the upper hand again! Jaron was all too aware of Roden’s hand holding both of his wrists, which meant only one thing.

“Please, Roden, I beg you, it was just a joke!’ Jaron whimpered, trying to weasel out of his grip.

No, no, no.

The first time Jaron and Roden had gotten into a physical fight ended the same way, with Jaron unable to move and Roden prepared to deliver the finishing blow.

“I just wanted to cut up fabric!” Roden argued. “Tobias and I were doing fine before you barged in!”

“I was bored! Please don’t do this!”

“You could’ve helped with the fabric!”

“I wasn’t that bored!” Jaron squirmed again. “Please, Saints, no. No! Ah!”

The finishing blow was the worst part of the fight. Roden had licked his little finger, and shoved it into Jaron’s ear.

Although, now there was a third party involved.

Tobias flung his arms around both Roden and Jaron, tears streaming down his face. “I love you both with my whole heart, honest to the Saints. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Can you get Roden to take his nasty hands off of my body!?” Jaron bellowed, yanking his head free from Roden’s little finger.

“Does the baby need a nap?” Roden cooed.

Oh, ho, ho, Roden was remembering old exchanged insults. Jaron unsuccessfully tried to escape, but to no avail. Roden hooked his arms beneath Jaron’s knees, and swung him up into his arms, while still keeping a drunken Tobias on his feet.

“Put me down!”

“Not until you apologize!”

“Roden?”

“Yes?”

“Rot with the Devils, you clotpole.”

Tobias’s quiet tears turned into sobs as he wrapped his arms around Jaron and Roden once again. “Little hair scarves.”

It was quite the scene to walk into: Roden holding Jaron like a baby, Tobias sobbing like he’d learned he would die soon, and bits of cut up colorful fabric covered the floor. It just so happened that Amarinda’s night ride finished early.

They didn’t look pleased.

The disappointment in Mott’s eyes was an all too familiar sight.

“I can explain,” Jaron croaked, finally realizing that he’d lost the fight.

A fight that he started.

“It looks like a dress shop in here,” Mott clasped his hands behind his back, Amarinda, Renlyn, and Imogen trailing behind him.

Roden practically dropped Jaron on the floor. “I was trying to make something, and then Jaron showed up.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to hit me,” argued Jaron. He grunted when Tobias set his head on Jaron’s shoulder, and refused to move. “Get off of me!”

The only answer Tobias gave was a new wave of silent tears, and a fresh set of apologies.

Mott’s face didn’t betray a single emotion. “Weren’t you going to meet with Lord Row?”

“He moved the meeting back, and I happened to finish my work this evening, and didn’t want to be alone.”

“So you picked a fight with Roden?”

Jaron scowled, he realized how foolish he’d been in starting the fight. A conversation wouldn’t have been enough for him, there was too much energy bursting through his body.

“These are pretty,” Amarinda held up an opaque piece of yellow fabric.

“Don’t worry, I’m not making myself a skirt,” grunted Roden, his hands full of different fabric squares.

“Were you putting something together?”

“I finished, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped. “He was making tiny, tiny scarves. For Merry, to wear.”

There hadn’t been a time when Tobias had been so drunk before, or at least there hadn’t been a time Jaron could remember.

Amarinda sighed, and transferred Tobias’s head from Jaron’s shoulder to her own.“Oh, darling, what did you do this time?”

“They were fighting, and I’ve had it.”

Amarinda patted the side of Tobias’s head, her eyes boring into Jaron’s very soul. However, she gave no biting remarks, she only wrapped her arm around Tobias’s waist. Together, they inched towards the door.

Her smile was forced. “I’ll be taking him to our chamber, I don’t want him doing something foolish.”

“Is that from Libeth?” Imogen asked, gesturing to the bottle on Roden’s desk.

However, before anyone could give a clear answer, Renlyn took a large swig from the bottle, set it down, and frowned. “That batch was weak.”

“You know what?” Jaron crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to know. Jolly told me about your tendencies.”

“Is that an invitation for me to take over the kingdom through a gambling match?”

“Absolutely not, I’ve been warned, and I won’t ever concede to your money games again.”

“That’s what they all say.”

By the Saints! Jaron scowled at Renlyn, who had the audacity to remain completely placid. He knew deep in his heart that he’d have to do something worse than terrorize Roden to get a reaction out of the notorious Renlyn Karise.

Imogen raised her hands, “Ah, we should take the energy down a notch, don’t you think?”

“Jaron started it!”

“I know Roden, I usually start things, unlike you.”

“Jaron!” Everyone chorused, followed by Tobias’s slurred agreement.

“What!?” Jaron crossed his arms, screwing his face into the fiercest scowl he could.

He’d rather be lectured than think of those cursed lyrics.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Jaron would rather hear complaints and be tossed around like a child’s doll than consider what fate had in store for him.

He wasn’t ready yet.

He just wasn’t ready.

#fic friday #prince jaron #roden #tobias #mott #princess amarinda #imogen #ocs #so many ocs #the ascendance series #fic friday except its saturday #also this was #too creepy #but so fun #the false prince #the runaway king #the shadow throne

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sasorikigai · 3 years

Note

👂🍵😶 ( for modern Hanryou plz, since you asked to send more :^) )

RELATIONSHIP BUILDING || @sonxflight || accepting

Send 👂 to overhear my muse talking about yours.

💥 || Stars are the luckiest; for they get gentle and unhurried wishes, requests for guidance and love and adventure. All the effulgently positive aspects he had lost in the torrential merciless devouring of irreplaceable loss and deaths. His sharp, unyielding intensity softened by the intoxicated delirium, somewhere between distant oblivion of dream and mellowed attentiveness, Hanzo Hasashi’s most dire and desperate wishes are placed not on them, but on the old neon signs that beckon wanderers like him through blizzards and ocean ice of his helplessness. A lost soul’s last hope to get home, to find shelter, a blinking light in a hazy night and a prayer for something, anything - a song of sorrow or frantic pleading.

If Harumi Hasashi’s presence had been the red superstar glistening, breaching through the onyx oblivion of his depression akin to the solar flare, Ryou Sakai’s own was the undying shining star that would fuel the diminishing embers licking the surface of his heart. Perhaps they were not made to give the same love, to grant the same wishes, to hold the same hearts - and Ryou Sakai is a supernova, shining his light on everyone, as his tender love would behold humanity’s gentle souls.

"You were the one who cared the most, my love, deeply and devoted. You gave and took in equal measure, a balancing act of perfect grace. You held a dignified nobility that so many long for, but a very few attain. You are a star, my beloved, and I am a neon sign; old, blinking in and out of life, a ticking clock waiting for the day that a static hum ceases, and that a fuse shorts or a tube cracks and at last, such strenuously existing remnants of my meager light would go out.”

How he would hang above dilapidated bars and back alleys, for Hanzo Hasashi is never meant for the pure of heart, nor the noble or the great, for the young or the lovers. He thinks he’s not made for goodness, but he cares - he fucking cares with all that he has, and would take every part of his being to shine like he did once - in love, despite the looming moribund darkness, for Hanzo sees all the want and the need in his utter desperation. 💥 ||

Send 🍵 and my muse will reveal one of their biggest regrets involving yours.

💥 || Hanzo Hasashi’s own story is all in the telling, and its absence. For stories are compasses and architecture; he navigates by them, he builds his sanctuaries and his prisons out of them, and to be without a story is to be forever lost in the vast expanse of the world that spreads in all directions. To love someone is to put himself in their place, which is to put himself in their story, or figure out how to tell himself their story. Commander Hasashi is often too demanding and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of him entirely; for no one had fathomed to know him or love him completely, and after Harumi’s gruesome parting as she had been robbed from his tenacious grasp, it has been harder and harder to let his lips drip with unsung passionate praises of an individual, with a promising voice of genuine love and unconditional affection, as the depths of his fire-fueled heart will continue to burn ablaze.

How the unadmitted mantras of his affection and devotion refused to pour out each one unto Ryou Sakai - how he wished to sing them to now his beloved - but back then, he remained silent and listening, perhaps too passive for his liking. Even as he would often lay in silence for hours in the early morning, and he would stifle the onslaught of surging tears enough to make the blueprint of their being shake and tremble, he would think, why is it letting go so fucking difficult even when it feels right?

Hanzo had run out of apologies, bled himself so dry of them that he is perpetually exhausted. The one sorry that he still can’t even say, not now, not ever, stuck between the last kiss and the last time Ryou let Hanzo inside him. 💥 ||

Send 😶 and my muse will confess to something they wish they didn’t do that affected your muse.

💥 || His silence is always an issue; yet in Hanzo Hasashi’s head, he finds himself constantly talking of his beloved. His thoughts are comprised of all the mundanity, but significant things, such as the way Ryou claims his side of the bed as soon as he happens to fall asleep beneath him as his obsidian eyes would no longer gaze deep into his grief, which still looks back at his. For so much of his pain of loneliness has to do with concealment, with feeling compelled to hide vulnerability, to tuck ugliness away, to cover up scars as if they are literally repulsive. But why hide? What’s so shameful about wanting, about desire, about having failed to achieve satisfaction in life, and about experiencing unhappiness? Why this need to constantly inhabit zenith states, or to be comfortably sealed inside gnawing melancholia, turned inward from the world at large?

“The art of being alone has governed both my conscience and subconscious for too long, as my ambition, or my consolation has been to understand life has been deterred significantly due to the stagnancy of my mind’s betterment. Now I want simply to learn to live with it, and be reborn with our love, continually developing.” 💥 ||

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#(relationships; samurai jack)#(I hope I gave you enough feels as I promised XD)#sonxflight

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screamingatanemptyroom · 5 years

Text

I Can’t Eat Love pt 30

Okay, next part. This one’s a doozy, guys.

Master post linked here (I swear I’ll update it) :)

Enjoy!

________________________

“The King made his move.” Rig frowned as he spoke, staring around the shop with a grim expression.

Hallers, Lia, and Marile, who had just arrived to be present for the store’s grand opening, looked at each other with dismay. I leaned back in my chair, setting down the financial reports Henry had asked me to glance over and studied Rig closely.

“What happened?” My voice was cold. I clenched my fists in my lap, remembering the King’s expression the day of the Queen’s birthday.

“Bandits broke into the Duchy’s main residence. They ransacked a few rooms, stealing a few paintings and such, but the worst of the damage was in your room.” Rig’s gaze was filled with anger. “The objects they stole weren’t even worth much, they obviously weren’t thieves.”

“He sent men to kill me.” It wasn’t a question. I felt a moment of relief. We hadn’t announced that I had left for Tilendria yet, instead reporting that I was ill and stuck in bed. It seemed that our deception had worked in my favor.

Rig nodded. “I just received word, but it happened the night I left, likely before word from the Tilendrian court reached him.”

“I’m sure he knows where you are now.” Marile looked worried, grabbing my hand and holding it tightly. “He’s not going to be happy with your presence here.”

“He never would have been happy, unless I was under his control.” I muttered. Seeing all of their concerned faces, I couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. At least I have the whole team here now.” I laughed lightly. “Moving all my staff, people would think I’m moving to Tilendria permanently. How silly is that?”

“…” Everyone in the room stared at me with an odd expression. From upstairs I could hear Erica shouting angrily, as her husband tried to calm her down.

Ignoring that, I went over the intelligence reports with Rig, the issues with our other store branches with Marile and the upcoming schedule and social plans with Hallers and Lia. The meeting was proceeding well, but as we moved the discussion to the Tilendrian nobility, Rig interrupted, looking uncomfortable.

“There’s one more thing… A rumor is going around in the Tilenderian court.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A rumor? How shocking.”

Rig sighed. “They’re saying that you’re a thief, girl.”

“A THIEF?!” Hallers burst out, enraged. “Preposterous!”

I held up a hand, and he stopped speaking. “What are they claiming I stole?” My voice was quiet.

“The dress you wore at the welcoming party.” Rig shook his head. “They claimed that you could never afford it, and so you must have stolen it.”

“I designed that dress for this girl myself!” Marile looked indignant. “Do they want to start a fight?! Because I’ll give it to them!”

Hallers nodded in agreement with a grim smile. To my surprise even the shy and quiet Lia was cracking her knuckles as if waiting to punch someone. Seeing their protective appearance, I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing.

“Leave it for now.” I answered once I caught my breath.

Marile looked unhappy. “But…?”

“The truth will be clear in just a few days.” Smiling I dismissed everyone except Rig.

“Do you have something else to say?” I asked, having recognized his expression at the end of the meeting.

He sighed. “How do you catch little things like this and remain so dense in others?” Sitting down again, closer, he spoke quietly. “I worry about the origin of the rumors.”

“Isn’t it just Lady Rose?” I was surprised.

“She was involved, but there’s someone else behind the scenes. The rumors had just a bit too much truth in them. About the financial state of the Duchy. About your past actions as a young woman.” Rig looked embarrassed.

“You mean when I was a starry eyed idiot who chased the prince.”

He flinched at my annoyed words. “Whoever is helping Lady Rose seems to know you well, but doesn’t have very current information. They obviously don’t know about some of the financial reforms in the duchy, or your thriving business.”

“Hmm…” A few suspicions flashed through my mind, but I put them aside. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Rig started to move, but I waved him back to his seat. “We need to have a plan for the future. Otherwise we’ll die at the King’s hand.”

He stared at me, obviously shocked by my cold tone. “What’s the plan?”

I silently started writing a list for him, and as he read it his face turned pale. “Lenora… this…?”

“I know what I’m asking for, Rig. Can you get it?”

He shook his head slowly, but it wasn’t a denial. “If we do this… we can’t go back.”

“Only use people who are willing. Compensate them well and ensure their safety. This isn’t my first choice, either. But if he pushes me too hard... “ I sneered. “Then he’ll regret it.”

Rig smiled. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” He paused. “Speaking of… are you still mad at the young prince?”

I flinched, feeling embarrassed. “I’m not mad at Nate.”

“Really? It sounds like you’ve been trying to avoid him since the party?” His voice was skeptical and I looked around, not wanting to meet his gaze.

“It’s nothing.” My voice had no strength behind it.

The truth was, since the party, I had felt very confused. The sight of Nate, a bright smile on his face that was still stained with tears as he kissed my hand was burned into my brain. My chest hurt every time I thought of it, a familiar yet foreign emotion plaguing me day and night.

I need to stay away from him. I felt terrified, down to my very core. Something deep inside me screamed that if I spent too much more time around him, I would untangle the confusion surrounding my heart at these thoughts, and know clearly what was going on.

I didn’t want to know the truth.

It had taken much more effort than I expected to avoid him. The morning after the party he had tried to visit me, but I left before he could arrive. Instead, Hallers caught him. I heard rumors that the butler had lectured the prince for several hours before letting him go. I would have thought that would diminish his determination to see me, but if anything he looked for me more, causing me to spend more and more time out of the palace these past few days.

Even though my plans had been so far successful, though, I didn’t feel any sense of victory or accomplishment. I felt worse than ever, the pain in my chest worse. I didn’t think about him less even when I was away. Instead, he was in my thoughts more than ever before.

I didn’t know what to do.

Some of my desperation must have shown on my face, because Rig’s face relaxed, and he patted me on the shoulder.

“Figure these things out at your own pace, girl. But try not to be too hard on the boy, he’s a good kid who’s trying his best.”

I nodded silently, unsure of what to say.

________________________

The days before the store’s grand opening passed quickly. The rumors intensified around the nobility, growing more and more outrageous. Some said that I stole money from the royal family and that was why my previous engagement was canceled. Or That I had bullied my servants, casting out my personal maid because I couldn’t afford her. OrThat I had embezzled funds from the Duchy to fund my private affairs.

Even some of the palace maids were giving me uncomfortable looks as I walked down the hallway, with the exception of the two I scolded after having caught them talking about Nate my first night here. For some reason they staunchly supported me, claiming all the rumors were definitely nonsense.

Confused, I asked them why they were so confident, one of them simply replied with a smile and a curtsey “Milady is much too terrifying to perform a simple crime as stealing!

The other maid nodded, “Exactly! All the mistress would have to do is smile, and many would simply had out money out of fear! As for sending away servants, why would that happen? Obviously they were too faint hearted to stand at your side!”

Both of them smiled with guile, obviously happy to explain.

“…” I felt as though they were trying to compliment me, but it was simply too bizarre. I smiled uncomfortably and thanked them for their efforts.

________________________

A few days before the grand opening of Prosperity, I received a message from Erica that I was urgently needed at the store.

I took Hallers along, my mind racing as I thought about what could have possibly gone wrong. There was no answer when I knocked at the door, so I simply opened it. However, just as I was about to enter the shop, Erica rushed out and pushed me in alone, locking the door behind me.

Shocked, I looked through the small window pane in the door.

“What is going on?!” I tried to open the door, but it was blocked.

Erica grinned. “You’re not coming out until you two talk!”

Two? Looking around, I saw Nate sitting in the shop.

I pounded on the door. “Hallers! Let me out!”

Hallers stepped closer, but Erica jumped him, tackling the butler to the gorund. “DON’T YOU DARE WASTE ALL OUR CAREFUL PLANNING!”

Looking up from where she had placed poor Hallers in a headlock, she laughed. “You have no choice, Lenora! You have to talk about emotions!” Her laugh sounded slightly deranged.

Sighing, I stepped away from the door, sitting down at the table across from Nate.

“Did you arrange this?” My voice was neutral, but inside my heart was pounding with anxiety.

Nate shook his head slowly. “I’ve been stopping by every day, trying to make sure you were doing alright with all these rumors going about, but Hallers and Rig won’t let me see you without you agreeing.” He sighed. “Even Lia is fiercely protective of you! But today they kidnapped me, and brought me here without explanation.”

I felt a sting of guilt. “I’m sorry, they were rude.”

“Don’t be.” He smiled at me, and my heart skipped a beat at the sight. “I’m glad you’re well protected, even if it’s from me.”

“…” I didn’t know what to say. I still hadn’t untangled my feelings from the party, and the longer I was near him, the more uncomfortable I felt.

“I’m sorry, Lenora.” His quiet apology broke me from my thoughts.

I looked up at him, surprised that he seemed so downcast. “What do you have to apologize for?”

“I offended you the night of the party right?” He groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I don’t remember all the details, but I must have been rude or inappropriate or…”

“No!” I reached out and touched his arm reassuringly, only to draw it back as touching him made me feel even more awkward. “It was nothing you did! You were a perfect gentleman, even drunk!”

I laughed, trying to reassure him, but if anything he looked even more depressed. “But then why are you avoiding me?” He thought for a few moments, and then looked up to meet my eyes. I flinched at the pain I saw there, my chest hurting. “I remember you said you didn’t hate me… even after…” Nate paused, running a hand through his hair. “Did you change your mind?”

“You think I’m avoiding you because of what happened to your brother?” Panicked I shook my head back and forth. “NO! I promise that’s not it!”

“Then why?” I expected him to raise his voice, but instead, the question was a broken whisper. The sound made me want to cry.

“I… I don’t know.” I reached out and grabbed his hand, ignoring the furious beating of my heart. “I’m sorry. It was not your fault. I’m just confused.”

He tilted his head. “Confused?”

“I…” I hesitated, but continued, feeling I owed him the truth. “I’ve not been myself around you, I felt strange and I’m not sure why. It made me uncomfortable, so I avoided you.”

I hung my head, thinking that my words would upset him.

“Really?” To my shock, his voice sounded really upbeat. I looked up, only to see his beaming expression.

“Yes?” My answer came out as a question, but he simply looked up at the ceiling, laughing for a few moments. I watched him, concerned. “Nate?”

He waved his free hand, the other still tightly clutching my own. “I’m fine. I’m just so very relieved.”

He reached out, tucking a free strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve been feeling anxious about this, right? Well, for now, don’t worry about it too much, Lenora. Figure things out at your own pace. I’ll be waiting.”

With that, he stood up, knocking on the door. “We’re finished talking, Erica.”

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” Her shout came through the door, frustrated.

He laughed, the happy and relaxed expression on his face catching my attention, causing me to be dazed for a few moments. “Nothing good happens quickly or easily.”

“FINE!” Erica unlocked the door, her glaring expression causing me to laugh. “Keep laughing, oh mighty dense master! We’ll see who’s laughing in the end!”

I looked at her, shaking my head slightly. “Aren’t I your boss?”

She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, you need all the help you can get.”

________________________

The day of the grand opening arrived.

I stood off to the side, admiring the large crowd that gathered outside the store. The street was packed with people, all chatting excitedly. Some children ran up and were peeking in the windows. Women of all ages dominated the crowd, each with a eager expression as they stared up at the closed door. Streamers waved in the wind, making the sight particular festive.

This should be a success. I smiled as I watched, feeling satisfied.

“Good crowd.” Someone spoke in my ear, startling me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw it was Nate, a happy grin on his face as he stood just behind me.

I felt myself blush, and frustrated, I turned back towards the store. “Could always be better.”

He laughed at my disgruntled tone. “You still have a little while before the opening, don’t worry. More people will arrive.”

I just nodded in response and we stood together in silence. Ever since our forced talk, we had been spending time together again. I still felt uneasy at my own complicated reactions to him, but if anything he seemed even more enthused. He held my hand constantly, bringing me around the town. He was always standing near me, saying silly things to make me smile. Every night he would bring me to the kitchens and cook a new meal, asking for my opinion. When I told him I could simply order my food from the kitchen staff, and he didn’t’ need to bother, he frowned, pouting.

“Don’t you like my food better?”

I did, and felt I couldn’t argue further. Even as I worked through my own confusion, though, I felt more relaxed being near him than I ever did avoiding him. I smiled to myself and continued watching the crowd, my eyes slipping up to the nearby platform where the king and queen sat.

“Nice of your parents to show up to an event like this.”

“They wanted to support you.” He chuckled. “They like you.”

“That’s nice, royalty typically don’t.” I joked back, but he simply sighed loudly.

“What are you talking about? Queen Amerande loves you like a daughter.”

“Yeah but…”

“And I…” He paused, his face turning bright red.”I...”

“Prince Nathaniel! You shouldn’t stand so close to a thief! She might pick your pockets!” A mocking voice interrupted him, and we both turned to see Lady Rose, who stood nearby with an arrogant expression.

From nearby I heard Erica’s strangled scream of outrage from nearby. “HOW DARE SHE RUIN THE MOMENT?!”

I glanced over to see her hiding behind a pillar we had been standing near with a furious expression, Robert pulling her back as she cursed loudly, glaring at the noblewoman.

Nate frowned at Rose, “You shouldn’t accuse people randomly.”

She stepped back, her eyes filling with fake tears. “Your Highness, don’t be fooled by that lying girl! She is really an embarrassment to the nobility!”

Her voice was loud and theatrical, and I smiled as I watched, curious as to the extent of her acting skills.

“Don’t be foolish!” Nate snapped, his anger surprising me. “She’s not an embarrassment to anyone! If anything she’s an example of what you should strive to be!”

“You’ve been deceived!” Rose shook her head, “I’ve learned all about her! Her family squandered all their money, gathering huge debts!”

I smiled. “They’ve long since been paid off.”

“She chased relentlessly after a man, trying to gain his affection!” Rose pointed at me dramatically, as if expecting a large reaction. I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

“Are you accusing me of spending time with someone who was my fiancé?

“Well, you…” She hesitated, then continued with a confident expression after a moment of thought. “You were so terrible that even he broke the engagement.”

“He was of loose moral character, the Queen declared her completely innocent in this matter.” Nate interrupted, looking frustrated. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

“Well what about her dresses?!” She pointed at my gown, frantically. “With all her debt there’s no way she could afford it! She must have stolen something, or done something immoral!”

I stared at her, my amusement slowly turning to boredom. Rig was right, she’s only someone else’s pawn. Lady Rose might be a vicious girl, who wanted to be queen, but she was the type to attack head on, with very little thought behind it. She couldn’t even be compared to Edith, who attacked from behind while wearing a perfect smile.

Thinking of Edith, I shuddered slightly, glad I had left her far behind. Hopefully now that she had gotten what she wanted, her and my path could never intersect again.

Lady Rose saw the movement, and her eyes lit up. “Look, Your Highness… She looks so guilty!”

Nate rubbed his head. “I’ve tried to be polite, but I’ve reached the end of my rope.” He sighed. “You’re an idiot, Lady Rose. “

Her eyes widened in shock. “What…?”

“Please refrain from speaking to me in the future.” He looked away from her, as if ignoring her presence.

Stunned, Rose turned towards me, her face enraged. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOU THIEF!” She launched herself at me, but I stepped to the right, avoiding her, and she fell onto the ground between us. The crowd that had gathered around our argument laughed, and her face turned bright red.

In a way, I felt slightly sorry for her. She was a terrible person, but someone else had obviously fed her lies and sent her off to do their dirty work. Not that I was inclined to help her too much. She opened her mouth again, but before she could say anything else, someone else spoke up.

“EVERYONE, it’s time for the grand opening of Prosperity!” Erica stood up on the temporary stage outside the building with a smile. “We thank you for coming out to see our shop!!”

There was an excited buzz from the crowd, and Erica clapped her hands. “But before we officially open, I would like to invite the owner of the Prosperity business to come and say a few words.”

The noise from the crowd grew even louder. It was common knowledge that there was a noble owner of Prosperity that had never appeared publically. Their identity was a source of great speculation among the nobility. Part of the reason the crowd was so large for the event today was in fact because I had asked Rig to spread rumors that the owner would appear for the first time at this event.

Smiling at their excitement, I stepped forward towards the stage. I stopped, however, as someone grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING, LENORA?!” Lady Rose shrieked. “I’M NOT DONE WITH YOU YET!”

I laughed. “Sorry, Rosey! They called for me.”

Shaking off her hand, I stepped onto the stage next to Erica, and the crowd slowly silenced, shocked.

I gave a formal curtsey. “As the owner, I thank you all for coming today, and hope you enjoy our wonderful gowns and jewelry.”

“…” The crowd stared, soft whispers breaking out throughout.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the Queen’s laugh. “Very good, girl! How funny those rumors are! They called you a thief for wearing a nice gown?” She chuckled. “You could buy every dress in this kingdom and still have money leftover!”

I curtsied again, my silence all the affirmation needed.

“IT CAN’T BE!” Rose’s belligerent scream was ignored, and I had Erica open the doors and start to serve the customers.

The rest of the event was performed without issue, Lady Rose, shocked into silence, had been brought home by her servants, and the rest of the nobility were apologetic for any distress I might have suffered.

________________________

As things were winding down, Nate and I were approached by the King and Queen who smiled brightly at me.

“Good work!” Nate’s Father shook my hand enthusiastically. “You have some wonderful business sense!”

I smiled back. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I must arrange to have you talk with our advisory team, your understanding of the current economic situation would be greatly appreciated!”

His words struck me as slightly odd, and I glanced over at Nate who was wearing a polite smile. “Well, if you want someone to advise on that, you have an expert standing right next to me.”

Nate’s eyes widened for a moment, and he looked at me, his smile turning genuine. “Don’t flatter me, I couldn’t match up to you.”

“Who helped me in the beginning stages of the business?” I shook my head. “I’m not saying I’m not talented.” I grinned. “Because I am. But Nate is a fantastic resource.”

The King frowned, obviously not expecting the conversation to turn in this direction.

The Queen spoke up. “Well I thought you did a wonderful job. Especially the way you handled Lady Rose.” She sighed. “I once thought she was a nice girl, who knew she could be so underhanded. I can’t believe we actually were going to let George marry her!”

At the word “George” Nate flinched slightly, his smile disappearing. I felt my chest start to hurt, anger building at his obvious discomfort.

“Honestly, I wish you two could have met… you would be perfect…”

I couldn’t take it anymore, I grabbed both of the monarchs hands and pulled them away.

“WE NEED TO TALK!”

The guards stepped forward at my actions, but fortunately the Queen waved them away, allowing me to drag them to a more isolated spot away from Nate.

________________________

“What’s going on?”The Queen asked

“You need to stop hurting Nate.” My tone was stern as I stared them both down.

The King’s frown deepened. “How dare you insinuate that we would hurt our son?”

“Really?” I laughed, a cold sound. “Have you looked at him lately? If you had maybe you would see his heart breaking at being ignored by his parents, treated as if you wished that he was the one who died instead of his brother!”

“What…?” He tried to speak up again, but I ignored him, too furious to let him speak.

“Do you know that he blames himself for George’s death? That even though he has done everything you’ve ever asked of him and more that he thinks he’s not worthy of your affection?” I stomped my feet, shoving a finger in the king’s face. “Your son is a genius when it comes to political theory and economics, but refuses to show off because he doesn’t think he’s good enough! He’s kind, generous, gives everything he has for his people, and refuses to blame you too no matter how OBTUSE and HURTFUL your words are!”

I paused, trying to catch my breath, surprised to feel tears gathering in my eyes. “He’s a little too serious sometimes, and has a tendency to blame himself, but he’s a good man. One of the best. And you two are so wrapped up in the son that you lost, that you don’t even realizing that you’re slowly killing the one you have left!!!!”

“…” The couple was silent as I finished. The only sound was my own ragged breaths as I tried to get my emotions under control.

“We didn’t… I don’t… we couldn’t…” The king sputtered out a few times, and then fell silent, his expression thoughtful.

The Queen let out a long sigh. “We’ve hurt him.”

“Yes.” I nodded, wiping my eyes.

She sighed again. “We’ve been grieving for what we lost so long. “ Looking over at the King she added. “We’ve lost sight of what we still have.”

Nate’s father stared silently, before reluctantly nodding his head. “Perhaps you’re right.”

She turned to me. “I was wrong. You and George wouldn’t have been perfect together.” She smiled. “Nate is fortunate to have such a wonderful person who loves him so much.”

Loves.

I stepped back, feeling the blood drain from my face. “No. I- I don’t…”

The Queen’s expression was confused. “You don’t? You seem to care about him very much, though. Why would you go so far out of your way for his happiness?”

I shook my head, taking a few more steps back. “Ex-excuse me.” Turning, I walked away, my mind racing.

No. No NO. NO. The word repeated in my head over and over. I didn’t, I couldn’t love him! Love was hopeless. Love would betray you.

________________________

“I love him so much!” I smiled, looking over at Edith who was watching me with a serious expression. “I’m going to marry him and be the best bride ever! I’ve worked so hard to learn how to be a good Queen, I’ll make him happy every day!”

Edith’s face didn’t change throughout my speech. “You really love him?”

“REALLY REALLY LOVE HIM!” I laughed, spinning around. I was a young girl, filled with hope, seeing only a bright future ahead of me.

Edith smiled slowly. “Good. That’s good.”

________________________

Had I suffered through the previous life for nothing? I had thought I loved Ronan more than anyone, tried my best to make him happy, and was abandoned by him immediately for someone else. My life spun out of control, my family abandoned me, and I died, starving on the streets.

Had I gone though all that just to fall in love with a different prince?!

I had thought i was safe. Even though Nate and I were close, i had even refused to call him my friend. It wasn’t the first time someone had suggested that i had feelings for him, but I had always denied even the possibility. But given everything that had happened in the past few weeks, could I still say that confidently?

I thought of all the time we had spent together. When had this started? How could I have been so careless?

Maybe this is different. I felt desperate, grasping at straws. He is so kind, he treats me so well. It was different from Ronan’s indifference, right? I was a different person, and so was he...

You thought the Queen cared for you too. The insidious thought wormed it’s way in. Thought she would always love you. But she abandoned you.

I shook my head. This life was different. She still cared. She hadn’t abandoned me!

But this time…. I’m rich, I’m more powerful. Maybe I’m just useful?

What if one day Nate turned against me? I thought of his smiling face, imagining the look of disgust Ronan had shown me that day on his face.

________________________

“BUT I LOVE YOU!”

Ronan laughed at my tears. “Does that mean I have to love you back?”

He turned away, leaving me to cry alone. “I have to return to the party and find my true fiancé. I suggest you leave quietly.”

________________________

I was crying now, feeling despair. It was even worse than my pain in the last life. Back then I was shocked, I had naively thought love was a simple thing. That if I tried my best, and loved him enough, he would love me back.

But now I knew. I was never meant to be loved. A different life, a different future, but still I had idiotically followed the same path, as if nothing had changed.

I was a fool.

Should I run away?

Before I could examine that too closely, I had returned to the main street in front of the store. Nate was standing there, his eyes concerned as he looked around the surrounding area, but his posture seemed… frustrated.

His eyes fell on me, and he smiled, although the expression was strained. “LENORA! I’m glad you’re safe! I was looking for you!”

He stepped closer, and I backed away unconsciously, unsure of how to face him.

“Are you okay…?” He started to ask, his hand reaching out towards me, but his arm was stopped by a slender, feminine grasp.

“Lenora.” The soft voice made me shudder, as I looked up as saw the last person I wanted to see right now. I felt my chest tighten, my heart freezing in my chest as I coldly studied the girl who was grabbing Nate. Her smile was kind, but it only made me feel more trapped. “I’m so glad to see you again!”

I stared at her, wishing I was somewhere else. Anywhere else but here.

“Hello, Edith.”

#writing #i can't eat love #nate and lenora development #it's here #i'm sorry

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crystalsexarch · 5 years

Text

orogenesis

It happened that her return to the Source came ten nights and eleven days later. Eager as she was to spend more time with her new lover, she could not abandon certain responsibilities to wither away one lustful evening at a time.

Last chapter of What We Already Know, but can be read as Heavensward angst, which I know we never get tired of around these parts...post-Shadowbringers.

A Warrior once betrothed to a certain knight returns to Ishgard in search of closure.

More writing here.

She did not stop at the Rising Stones, nor Camp Dragonhead. When she came upon Ishgard proper, the hour was late, but still she traveled past the Forgotten Knight, past the Brume, and into the Pillars anyway.

By that time, stars had blinked into the sky. Each one reminded her of someone she had avoided on her trek to the Last Vigil - Tataru, Emmanellain, others. But she made her way towards one she had avoided far longer. Far too long.

When she could see her destination, she slowed her pace and tried to control her breathing. Sweat pooled beneath her mail, sweat that cooled her a bit too much now that she was going slower. The streets were nigh empty. A few guards meandered from point to point of interest, and one in particular stood where he always had, waiting for her and hers.

She wasn’t trying to catch his attention - quite the opposite - but his head darted to her nonetheless. Even from beneath his helmet, she could see his eyes grow wide with recognition and shock. He couldn’t see her face, but there was only one of that stature and build who donned a Drachen armet like hers.

Her horns also hinted at her identity.

“M-milady!” He stumbled forward, caught between a bow and a salute. He nearly ended up with a kneel.

She waved him down and grimaced, knowing she would enter the manor wet with sweat after all, unannounced and her lungs burning from the cold.

“Ishgard’s savior, and the world’s besides,” the guard said. “Are you come to see - “

“The old lord, if he’s yet awake.”

The guard cocked his head. “You speak of Lord Edmont?”

“Aye.”

He nodded slowly at first, but faster as his lips opened. “Tis like he yet lingers in his study. I can...have you escorted.”

She clicked her helmet off and exhaled, watching her breath dance from her mouth into the atmosphere. “I can find my own way.”

Often she had left her helmet in the sitting room, but it didn’t feel right under her current circumstances. An empty spot in the parlor beckoned her sense of nostalgia - you can just set it here, it isn’t a bother - but she hadn’t just returned from the Aery or the Vault or Azys Lla. She would rest her head elsewhere. Sweat on other sheets. Cry into another pillow, if it came to that.

The warmth of the house was the only thing that kept its halls from looking, from feeling empty. Somewhere a fire burned, its buzz suggesting a lord sipping tea and flipping to the next page of a grand old tale. The Warrior swallowed and stepped deeper into the half-lit manor, like she was exploring a liminal space.

The door to Edmont’s study was open. He appeared before her sudden and grand, dark brows framing blue eyes set upon his book. Though she made no effort to conceal herself - indeed, she thought her nerves would have rendered a more silent approach nigh impossible - he never broke his concentration. Whatever he was reading made him smile. She thought it likely he mistook her approaching footsteps for those of a manservant or maid working into the evening.

Once she reached his door, he realized no maid clinks as loud as she.

The smile stayed painted on his face even as he raised his head to see what manner of knight trudged about the Manor Fortemps. The Warrior’s lips shook when surprise forced his mouth open. With the fireplace at his back, a new light colored him, a colder one, but the twinkle in his eye remained.

He spoke her name like it alone could light the manor.

“Lord Edmont,” she said, her cheeks full with a wide-brimmed smile, one she knew the right combination of words could shatter like glass. “I pray you forgive my coming unannounced.”

The Count rose from his seat, arms wide. She nearly expected to embrace him, but soon he raised his hands in a gesture not unlike one she’d seen his late son make many times. Palms upward, face beaming; it was perhaps the most like Haurchefant she had ever seen him. “The Warrior of Light is welcome in my house at any and all hours. That shall ever be as true as night and day.”

She had no desire to tell him how she’d come to know those concepts as a bit less set in stone than he presumed. “I should...come more often.”

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a second chair not far from the fireplace.

She stepped into the room, but shook her head. “I...I don’t mean to trouble you long.”

“You are no trouble.”

“I know, but - “

Firm hand on her shoulder. “You are no trouble. Sit.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. Finding the chair, she set her helm at her feet and clasped her hands over her knees. Despite Edmont’s warmth and declarations of praise, she had never quite grown close to him, felt comfortable speaking as an equal in his presence. Unlike Emmanellain and even Artoirel, Edmont had an air of deep lineage about him. He was perhaps the only noble whose nobility she had no choice but to respect.

He sat and set his elbows on the armrests, fingers together. “I hear you have made a name for yourself as a liberator.”

She smiled and looked to the flames.

“Doma, Ala Mhigo...but not before you freed Ishgard from a legacy of bloodshed and deceit.”

“None of that would have transpired were it not for your hospitality.”

He chuckled. “Opening our hearts and home to adventurers of your ilk was no difficult task, child.”

Of course, it would have been harder without a certain knight’s endorsement.

The Warrior sat on that thought, listening to the fire. Edmont shifted and tapped a finger at his lips.

“I am no fool,” he said after a while. “You wear a grim countenance beneath your smile. Had sorrow not befallen us, I’d be less surprised to see you come to Ishgard more often.”

Her shoulders drooped. “I love this city well,” she said, halfway hypnotized by the dancing flames. “This house and this family. That is why I…”

A log broke. A flurry of sparks puffed from the fireplace and faded into gray. The Warrior turned to Edmont, lips yet searching for the proper explanation.

“You need make no excuse,” he said, shaking his head. “There are days I question whether I would leave, had I the option. Or at least the proper walking shoes.”

She smiled and wiped her eyes out of habit, though she had yet to shed a single tear.

“I am glad you have come.” He turned to the fire and held his hands together once more. “It does me well to spend time with one whom I know loved my son as much as I.”

The Warrior clenched her eyes shut and bent forward, hoping he couldn’t see her, hoping her pain hadn’t sent a ripple through the aether itself. “There is...something I must tell you. Something he...Haurchefant wanted to tell you...yet I…”

He didn’t respond for a while, but she kept her eyes closed. She wanted to rub her hands together, to curl her legs to her chest, but she couldn’t rely on ticks to get her through this conversation.

So much silence passed - she had no choice but to speak. A gasp broke her eyes open.

“I can’t find the words,” she said. “Words will not do him justice, I...I can only show you what he showed me.”

Edmont’s eyes were heavy. Ready. “Show me, child.”

She held her lips tight to keep them from trembling and reached into her bag. Finding the tiny wooden box was easy. For weeks it had been slipping into her hands when she sought other things. But it remained with her nonetheless. Once she had it, she held it in one palm and set the other at its lid, turning to Edmont before prying it open.

As he saw the ring, she knew it was one he recognized. A familial piece. Perhaps something he’d given Haurchefant upon knighthood and searched his effects for after his passing. That ring, he may have wondered. Had he given it to someone after all? The expression he wore was one of agonized acceptance, not at the choice his son had made, but at the choice on which his son had been unable to follow through.

“I am sorry,” the Warrior said through tears. “I kept this from you. He had wanted to tell you himself, and since he didn’t get - I just kept it to myself, thinking it would - I never thought to - “

“I would have no other,” he started, deep voice bearing the role of his heritage, “wear this ring.”

“I should have returned it, or informed you otherwise.”

“It is yours to keep. And to wear.”

Her arms grew weak. “How can I?”

“My dear child.” His voice betrayed the sorrow he had tried to wield without breaking. “Grief does not diminish best when hidden away in a wooden box. Nay, it grows stronger.”

“Edmont, I - “

He stood and took the box. The flames cast half his towering body in orange. “Your gauntlet.”

She sniffled and worked the metal from her left hand as best she could, feeling like a child. Edmont knelt before her, so close she could see his tears even in shadow. Armor in her lap, he steadied her wrist with his free hand. The ring hugged her calloused finger, but not so much that it hurt.

As soon as the Count had completed the task, they both stared at the bejeweled silver piece on her finger. Instead of questioning whether it looked or felt right, she wondered what Edmont thought of it? If he regretted insisting she put it on? One pain that kept her from Ishgard was the pain that forced her to fear disappointing this man - the one who could have been her father by law.

At the same time, she and Edmont looked up, eyes locked and all water. And then, laughing through tears like fools, they embraced until they could once again wear smiles worthy of Haurchefant’s final words.

#haurchefant #ffxiv fanfic #ff14 fanfic #did you guys order more haurchefant pain??? no??? why does this keep getting delivered then #i'm calling customer service #mywriting

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connan-l · 5 years

Text

Those Left Behind

Fandom: The House in Fata Morgana Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Georges Bollinger & Giselle’s Family Summary: Years after his brothers’ deaths, Georges decides to go visit the family of the young woman who had supposedly lived at the cursed mansion with Michel. Why though, he is not sure himself.

Content Warning: Discussion about grief and death. Vague allusions to Michel's past abuse, Giselle's sexual assaults and all the bad stuffs in general that took place in Door 7.

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Link on Archive Of Our Own

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Notes: I've always been a little disappointed that we know almost nothing about Giselle’s family. I wish we'd been given a bit more information about them... I mean, we don't even know their names. If you named that asshole Amédée, you could've named Giselle's mom and sister too, Novec. I understand that they didn't have as much importance in the narrative as Michel's family, but I feel they still would've been great to flesh out Giselle's character even more. She is the main heroine, after all.

But in any case, I wrote this because I’ve been curious about what must’ve become of them after Giselle took on the role of the Maid. Her mother and sister spending the rest of their lives without ever knowing what truly happened to her is pretty sad…

It was also interesting to write Georges in the aftermath of Michel's death. I made him a lot more... mellow in it, which might seem a bit out of character, but I was thinking that it'd make sense, with him being older and having to deal with his brothers' deaths and his remorses.

There is brief mentions of the short stories The Painting's Ramblings and III. Boy Meets Girl.

Also, this takes place in 1106, so Georges is fourty and it is two years before his own death, and six years after Michel's death.

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The streets were pretty empty. There were a few middle-aged women here, some kids playing with a ball there, but otherwise, they seemed almost completely devoid of people. Devoid of sounds. Maybe it was because of the gray sky and the thick clouds that threatened to break down in a heavy rain at any seconds now. It certainly wasn’t a beautiful day at all; not a day anyone’d choose to randomly stroll the capital's streets. Yet, Georges had felt the need to go out now — felt it had to be today, otherwise he’d never do it.

It was a day where he didn't have much to do, anyway. Although, if he was being honest... he had been relatively free since more than a decade already. He still had some work as a painter, of course, but this had diminished with the years, and albeit the fact he was still officially the head of the Bollinger family, it had been a long time since he had actually bothered himself with any business related to it. Instead it was his wife, the beautiful Aimée and her eternal smile, who took care of it — and she had done so ever since they got married about eighteen years ago now. It had been a gradual thing. At first, she would only bring him drinks and give him some advices here and there; then when things started to get too hard or frustrating for him, she'd told him to go sleep and to leave it to her; and before he even knew it, Aimée had the entire control of their family's affairs. Obviously Georges had been reluctant about this at the beginning — he had tried more than once to get things back in his hands, but every time Aimée would assure him that everything was perfectly fine, that she could absolutely handle all of that by herself. And, well, to say the truth... she was right.

Georges may not be the kingdom's brightest person, but he still could easily see how extremely intelligent and clever his wife was. Never had the Bollinger family been as rich and influent than now under her leadership. She was more than capable to be in charge of everything; be it finances, politics or otherwise — Georges would even say she seemed to have been born for that. She was infinitely more skilled and smart than he could ever hope to be — infinitely more than even his father or grandfather had been in her place before her. She had a gift to rule and manipulate people, and if he was being honest, it was a little scary. The only thing holding her back was her gender — and Georges could only imagine how much more terrifying she would have been had she been born a man.

So, after a while he ended up letting her do as she pleased — even if it wasn't actually to the taste of everyone. Although he was technically the face of the Bollinger household, nearly all of the nobility was aware of who was truly pulling the strings, and a lot of them didn't like that. That was only to be expected — a man leaving all of the truly important work to his wife was unthinkable, outrageous. People openly looked down on them sometimes. Georges couldn't even remember the number of inappropriate remarks Aimée had gotten, both subtly and unsubtly telling her she would be better off at home taking care of their children. But Aimée never seemed to mind it — she only smiled politely, and continued to do as usual as if nothing happened.

Georges didn't care much about the condescension either. He had never liked doing all of those boring and annoying family business — always thought Dee would have been a better head for the house, or hell, even Michel. He'd rather concentrate on his one true passion: painting. Which was exactly what he had done for the last twenty years or so. Even if truthfully, painting had actually taken a back seat in the order of his priorities since the birth of his two sons, Séverin and Dieudonné.

Georges had never imagined himself as a father. He always thought the task to be way too hard — here again, both of his brothers would've been much better dads than him. But the day his first boy was born, it had been as if his entire world had been turned upside down. Suddenly, all of his prime concerns became completely dedicated to his children's lives — about what was their needs, their education, their tastes and hobbies.

The day Dieudonné, only three years old, had excitedly showed him his first ever painting — an abstract landscape with all the colors of the rainbow — Georges didn't think he'd ever felt as happy and proud in his entire life, and he had actually started bawling right on the spot while his tiny son had just stared at him curiously.

The boys both had pretty differing personalities — the oldest, Séverin, was a tough adventurous little guy — he loved spending most of his time outside, with a soft spot for animals, and was an outstanding equestrian, despite being only seventeen. The other one, Dieudonné, was one year younger than his brother and had a more gentle personality — while he also loved playing outside, he had taken more after his father, being instead more interested in art. The two of them were pretty close — Georges had made sure that no matter what might happen between them, they always knew they had each other's back. Made sure that they don't make the same mistakes he had made with his own brothers.

In general he spent a lot of time with his kids — maybe it was, in a way, to really set him apart from his own father, who had always been extremely distant and too taken by work to allow himself a lot of time with his children. Aimée wasn't really fond of this, however — she had told him in mutiple occasions that she thought he spoiled them too much, that he was too easy on them — but Georges would honestly rather be close to his sons and "spoils them too much" than the opposite. Even if, lately, he had... some sort of tension with Sév. The boy had started to be quite rebellious and to spend more time with his mother rather than him. Georges wasn't very worried about this, though; he missed his son and the time where he had no difficulty getting along with him sometimes, yes, but he just thought it was something normal. Sév was a young man who was just on the cusp of adulthood, so there was nothing odd about him wanting to get away from his dad.

Georges sighed, his eyes surveying his surroundings. The more he walked through the shopping streets of Paris, the more the sky seemed to get grayer. He honestly worried that at this point it was going to rain soon. He hoped he'd be able to find what he was looking for before, though. Or rather, to find the people he was looking for. He was aware he actually had very little chance to find them — hell, for all he knew they could have moved out of the city a long time ago. From what he had heard, they did have money troubles, after all.

Still, he wanted to talk to them no matter what, so he continued to do his best searching by asking around, talking to all the shopkeepers he saw. He didn't have much chance, until he found an old man with a rough face and two small eyes as gray as the sky.

"Um, hi," Georges greeted him. "Is that okay if I ask you some questions?"

The man first eyed him strangely — probably because of his expansive-looking clothes, which wasn't really something the people here could afford. Georges grinned at him.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he continued. "But do you know if a merchant family lives around here?"

"You'll have to be a bit more precise, my good sir, 'cause that's kind of almost half the families from the area."

Right. It was a shopping street, after all, so of course. "Yeah, um. I think they used to be a family of three ladies: a mother and her two children. One of the daughters was named Giselle."

As soon as Georges pronounced that name, the man's eyes brightened. "Ahh! Are you talking 'bout Margot's daughter?"

"Uh... maybe?"

"That's the only family that fit I can think of. Margot's husband died from a plague almost thirty years ago now, so she raised her two girls alone. She never remarried. The youngest's name was indeed Giselle."

"Oh. Then that must be them, yeah."

"I remember her well, Giselle. A sweet girl, always peppy and smiling. A shame, what happened to her."

Georges raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what happened to her?"

"What? Ya don't know?" The man asked, then scratched his head. "Well, one day she started working for some noble's house and... disappeared. There was a lot of... unsavory rumors about her that spread around a while after that... To tell you the truth, it's a bit unclear what happened to her exactly... Some say she was killed, other that she ran away. In any case, she just never came back home."

As Georges had expected, the man didn't give him much more information than what he already knew, but he still thought it had been worth trying.

"Her mom and big sis live over there, two streets below in a small house," the man said while gesturing to the left. "It's just the two of them ever since Giselle's gone."

He crossed his arms and sighed. "The eldest was supposed to marry some rich guy at one point, but in the end the wedding was cancelled. They both loved each other, but she was just a poor merchant lass and didn't have enough money for the marriage to go through... and with the rumors about her sister... Sad story, really."

"I... see," Georges simply said, as he wasn't sure what to answer to that. "Well then, thanks. Good bye."

He waved at the man, then turned around and started walking again, following the instructions he had been given. He made his way through the city's streets, eyeing the rare passerbys and the modest houses with a kind of nostalgia. It had been a while since he had just strolled through Paris like that — especially since he had stopped taking as much work as before. And even then, the people who commissioned him were mostly just nobles or rich bourgeois, so he very rarely adventured himself in the poorer districts. This part of town was far from being the slums — but it was still a lot less wealthy than what he was usually accustomed to.

In fact, he thought that the last time he came around here was... that afternoon when he was still just a teen and where he had taken Michel outside dressed like a boy, without telling it to anyone, not even to Dee. Georges vividly remembered that day because of the heart attack he almost had when he lost Michel for a few hours. Now that he thought about it, that had been... probably the only time where Michel had went into the city like that, as their mother always refused to let him out of the house. The only other time he had been outside after that was for... going to that mansion. Even though there had been so many other things Georges had wished to show him...

But this peculiar trail of thought tended to send him spiralling into interminable sadness and self-hatred, so he decided to stop thinking about his brother altogether for now.

As he kept walking, the road became more and more narrow, until finally, he managed to reach a house that fitted the description he had been given. Just like the man had told him, it was a small, humble house — not old or decrepit or anything, but certainly far from being a wealthy residence. He thought it looked a little bit cramped to live here for what had initially been a family of four... even though they had only been two for a few years now.

Lost in thoughts, it took him some times to notice he wasn't actually alone here and that there was another presence not far.

A woman was on the porch. She seemed to be at least a decade younger than him — in her early thirties, probably. She had long, wavy black hair tied in a pony tail. She was currently extending the laundry on a small drying rack, plunging in and out of the basket in rhythmic, meticulous movements. Although Georges was only a few meters away from her, she didn't seem to have remarked him at all, being instead too focused on the wet clothes.

Georges watched her for a moment silently. He knew that he should try to talk to her... but he was hesitating.

The reason he was here in front of a strangers' house was because of something that had happened a few months ago. He was with Sév, helping him out with his studies, until he decided to go search an old mathematics book that was in his former father's room to teach his son something. After Antonin's death, Aimée had been the one to take care of his belongings, and she had almost thrown and given away everything. Her cold attitude regarding this had surprised Georges, as she had always seemed close to the head of the Bollinger family. He and Dee had still managed to save a few things, and since then Antonin's room have been left empty, pretty much abandonned. It was only used to stock some things from time to time.

When Georges entered in the dim and dusty bedroom, he started to tamper with his dad's things unceremoniously and inadvertently made an ancient stack of papers fell on the floor. All while swearing, he gathered the pages... and then one of them caught his eyes. It was... a sort of old official document, describing the firing of some maid who had worked for their family because of a mistake she had made. She had been exiled to a mansion to expiate said fault... This didn't interested Georges in the slightest, until he noticed which mansion this maid had been send off to.

It was the same place where Michel himself had been exiled.

A chill ran through Georges' back as he intently continued to read the document. The maid's name was Giselle, and she was a young woman who came from a relatively poor merchant family — unusual thing, as normally the maids working for their family were abigails who themselves came from pretty well-off households. Why would their family employ some run-of-the-mill town lady? There was something off about all of this, but as Georges kept reading, suddenly he remembered.

He didn't think he had ever actually met in person this woman, but he certainly had heard her name a few times before. It had been about seven years ago, maybe — some sort of scandal had blow up within their family. Their father apparently had an affair with a maid. This had been kind of a shock to Georges at the time — even if, retrospectively, it shouldn't have. His parents' relationship had degenerated more and more over the years, until they almost didn't even talk to each other — things having been made even worse with Lydie's illness eating away at her. Rumors of the maid having seduced the head of the Bollinger house while seeking his richesses and status spread around, and so the woman was quickly condemned for adultery — but then Antonin intervened. Instead, she was just sent into exile, at the same mansion were Michel lived — though, of course, that had been something their father ignored.

Georges recalled Dee panicked a little upon learning this, and in the end he told him he had secretly sent a letter to the young woman so that she'd take care of Michel as his servant. And then, none of them heard any more about it — that was, of course, until Antonin died, and that... Michel was sentenced to death. Which Georges only heard all about after everything had been settled. He had learnt about the letter Michel had sent to their mother, the assault on the mansion and finally his brother's death only afterwards.

He hadn't even been able to read that letter — the last letter his little brother had written — until a long, long time after Dee's death. Because everything... was just too painful. He still had it now; carefully folded in a small box in his room, that not even Aimée or his sons had the right to touch. And he had memorized every word drafted on it — Michel's determined claim of his identity, his demand of being accepted as such by them... and him announcing that he was in love with a woman.

He hadn't mentioned the name or any more detail about his beloved, but there was only one woman who Michel could have fallen for — the only other human being who had been sent in exile with him. So it wasn't a stretch to assume that this maid Giselle... had been the one he was talking about.

Georges now remembered the smile that had unconsciously sprout on his face upon reading this, and then the overwhelming sorrow that had followed. His little bro being in love should have been something special; something worth celebrating — and in normal circumstances, Georges would have definitely spent days teasing Michel about it and would have done and said things pretty embarrassing to him. But when he finally read that letter, Michel had already been dead since a long time ago. So instead the only emotions left in him were sadness and guilt. His thoughts then had been full of conflicted feelings and mostly about his brothers, thus that maid had completely faded from Georges' grieving mind.

He didn't think Dee said anything about a woman when he attacked the old mansion with the other knights. He didn't say much about anything, actually — which, given how Georges kept hurling insults at him and practically jumped at his throat, wasn't surprising. But, then...

What had happened to her? Did she ran away somehow? Did she came back home, to the capital? Or did she die there in the mansion with Michel?

For some reason, these questions wouldn't leave Georges' mind. He kept obsessing over this woman — his brother's lover, the last person who had been at his side before his death. So, he decided to make some research about her. He asked the old servants of the house, and when he questioned the head maid who had served them for about ten years now, she grimaced. Manifestly, this wasn't a story she looked back on fondly. Still, she told him what she recalled of this Giselle — about how she was an upbeat and hardworker person, albeit being inexperienced and a bit clumsy. She didn't know what happened to her after her departure, but in any case, it seemed she never came back to Paris. She mentioned that her family kept harrassing the Bollinger house for months afterwards, wanting to know what had happened to Giselle, and they were only given the explanation that she had been exiled for a mistake she made. Although Antonin kept sending some money to her family even after her exile — maybe out of guilt. But they ended up refusing and cut off all ties to the Bollingers, so he still stopped shortly after.

In other words, there was no concrete answers to what had happened to her. It was as if... she had just vanished. Stopped existing. It was kind of a scary thought. But the more Georges learnt about her, the more he wanted to know. He didn't know why exactly he was drawn to her like that. Maybe it was because... he felt that if he could know more about this woman, maybe he could know more about Michel. Maybe he could know more about the life of the brother he neglected for more than ten years.

A part of him thought that he shouldn't do that. That he didn't even had that right.

You abandonned him. You did that to him.

But his curiosity was stronger than that.

And it was how, in this ugly day, he had decided to survey the shopping streets of Paris in search of this mysterious young woman's family. However, he hadn't been able to find much about them; only that they were composed of her mother and older sister, and that they were merchants.

Now, against all odds, he had actually managed to do it. He had been able to find the house of his brother's beloved. And now, what? What was he supposed to do? Talk to the woman on the porch? How? To be honest, he hadn't actually thought that far ahead. He started thinking this had been a bad idea, that he should get back home — but at this moment, the lady raised her head.

As she did, two bright, beautiful jade eyes pierced him.

"Hello?" She said hesitantly.

She was obviously very perplexed by this unknown man who had been staring at her from afar quietly. The last thing Georges wanted was for her to think he was a creep, so he hurried to grin in the most friendly way he could.

"Uh, hi!" He greeted her while scratching his head. "Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I'm Georges."

The woman — who he guessed was probably Giselle's big sister — cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Okay...?"

"Uh, right. Don't worry, I'm not a bad guy or anything."

"Sounds like something a bad guy would say," she replied without missing a beat.

"I-I'm really not! I just wanted to know... are you, uh, the daughter of a merchant lady named Margot...?"

She still looked intensely dubious and on the fence, but nodded despite it. "Yeah, Margot's my mother's name. What is this all about, Georges?"

"Well... uh..."

Georges sighed. What was that all about? That was a good question. To be honest, he wasn't sure himself. What did he expect to see, coming here? What did he expect to learn? Did he think knowing more about that maid would... give him some closure regarding Michel? Regarding Dee? After all these years, all these mistakes?

How ridiculous. Then again, him being an idiot wasn't something new.

The woman's frown in front of him deepened the more he stayed silent, so he finally started talking again while giving her an awkward smile. "I, um... it's gonna sound a bit weird, maybe, but... I am here because I wanted... needed to know more about someone. Someone... you used to know."

After hearing this, her expression kind of softened and she looked a little less hostile — instead, there was a clear curiosity and surprise shining in her green eyes. She was a really beautiful lady. Georges wondered how much her sister had looked like her. Did she have black hair too? The same pretty emerald eyes? Unfortunately, he doubted he would ever be able to answer these questions.

"Someone I knew?"

"About... seven years ago, I think, there was a young woman who worked as a maid where I live," he continued. "Her name was Giselle."

This time again, the woman's expression changed. But it was a way more radical change — her entire body tensed up visibly, her face lost its colors and her eyes widened.

"How do you know my sister's name?" She exclaimed.

"So she really was your little sister?"

"Of course she was! Th-That's not the point, how do you— Oh, wait... you said she worked as a maid to your place... No way... could it be you're from the Bollinger family?"

She almost spat the name with disgust, and Georges felt a disagreeable feeling engulf him. She was clearly angry — and so for a moment, he thought about denying it. Denying his identity, throwing away his name, running away from this angry, hurt woman who glared at him, getting as far away as he could from Aimée, from his house full of bad memories, from his dead brothers, from the guilt and the self-hatred, from his entire past and life as Georges Bollinger—

But as he continued to stare at the person in front of him, he felt as if her jade eyes pinned him on the spot and gave him no escape.

"I... am," he finally admitted.

It was obvious Giselle's sister already knew the answer before he even said it, but her face still contorted in cold rage.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said in such an icy tone that it sent shivers in Georges' back. "Go away."

She turned around, highlighting her message, and while Georges maybe kind of understood her reaction, he just... couldn't let it end at that.

"W-Wait a minute, please!" He said, grabbing her arm, but the woman brusquely released herself from his grip and glared at him once again.

"Don't you dare to touch me! I don't have to spare a single second for you."

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to touch you," Georges apologized, and he meant it — he always had a tendency to act before thinking. "I just— I just want to talk with you. I won't take a lot of your time, I promise, just a few minutes—"

"Do you not understand what "no" means? I'm a busy woman, and I don't want to associate with you or your family in any shape or form anymore. So scram!"

"I... understand that... But please, at least hear me out first."

The woman's face became red with rage. Her eyes were not only angry now, they were outright hateful, and Georges honestly thought she was going to slap him. It wouldn't have been the first time he got slapped. Or punched. Albeit generally, Dee always interfered before things get too bad, even if he really didn't want to.

Dee wasn't here to save his ass anymore, though.

"I can't believe the gall you have!" She screamed. "Do you realize what you're asking me? You said you weren't a "bad guy," but you randomly show up at my house, want to force me to talk about my sister who disappeared years ago, and for whose disappearance your family is directly responsible! The Bollinger family is the one who took Giselle away from us, so if anything, you should tell us about her! So no, you have no right to ask anything from me, or even to put a single foot into our house!"

Georges felt frozen in place. Her words resonated in his mind, stuck in his brain. None of them were wrong, he knew that. They certainly were the ones who had exiled that maid because of a "mistake," and then made her "disappear" because Michel became inconvenient to them. Although her sister probably didn't know the last part, it wasn't wrong of her to assume the Bollingers were the cause of Giselle's misfortune...

“Clémence? Is everything all right?”

Suddenly, a voice called out from inside the house. Giselle's sister — "Clémence," it seemed — winced, then turned around to exclaim: “Yeah, it’s fine, Mom! Don’t worry!”

She then sighed, glared once more at Georges, and started talking again, this time in a quieter tone in order to not alarm her mother inside. "Now leave. Mom's old and she has a poor health, so the last thing I want is for some fool to stress her out."

Georges stared at her silently. He knew he should listen to her, that he should go. He knew that his family had irremediably hurt these people. That because of them that person had lost a sister. The words of the man he had met earlier came back to his mind, and he realized that she had also probably lost her fiancé too because of all of this. So he was aware that even if he never actually hurt them directly, or never even intended to hurt this woman or her family — the only fact of him being involved with the Bollinger house made him guilty by association.

But, even so...

"I'm sorry," he said.

Clémence blinked, incredulous. "What?"

"I'm sorry... for what my family did to you. For what... we did to your sister."

"And you think some half-assed apologies will make anything better?"

He chuckled lightly. "No, of course not... I know I can't do much to repair the wrong that has been done to you... I can't give you back your sister... but I... still wanted to apologize."

He paused. He didn't really know what he was saying, honestly; he just tried to bare his heart to her as much as he could.

"I had... a younger sibling too. And I made... a lot of mistakes, and did a lot of hurtful things to him... but I was never able to apologize to him for that..." He swallowed loudly. "Nor will I ever be able to."

Clémence looked at him. She was still wary and angry, but looked a bit calmer now.

"So... I'm not saying you have to forgive me or my family... I wasn't expecting it. I just... wanted to apologize. Sincerely."

She kept staring at him in the eyes, her expression unreadable. The cowardly part of me him wanted to look away, but he couldn't bring himself to. It would have felt... rude. Then finally, after some time, Clémence sighed and ran a hand in her black hair.

"They didn't even told us anything."

"Huh...?"

"When Gigi... got exiled. No one came to tell us anything." She snorted. "I guess some lowly merchants like us don't even register in rich nobles' minds, so why would they even bother?"

The resentment in her voice was palpable — and it hurts. She obviously didn't seem to want to tell him all of that, but she kept on talking anyway.

"When she began to work there, we already barely heard from her at all. But she was supposed to come see us during winter towards the end of the year. So when she didn't show up... we got really worried. I came all on my own at your house, and I almost had to fight for anyone to give me any answers as to what happened... and then finally a servant came to me. And you know what he told me?"

Georges didn't, but he could easily guess. Because he had heard all of the rumors that had been propagated about Giselle back then, even if he had paid no mind to it.

"That my sister was a "greedy whore" who "seduced" the head of the family. That she had been "rightly punished" and sent away in a place far away to atone for her "sins"."

She glared at him yet again so fiercely it was as if she was looking at that servant who had told her those things.

"What a load of bullshit! Gigi would have never done something like that. She was such a stupid airhead, never on earth she would've been able to "seduce" anyone! And the guy was going on and on about how he couldn't even tell me where she had been sent, or how I should just be happy that she was even alive at all!"

She was starting to get very worked up, and realizing this, she stopped for a moment, plunged her face in her hands and took a deep breath.

"Mom and I couldn't just leave it at that, though. So we kept coming there every time we could, asking for more answers. But every time we were just met by the same rubbish. Until one day..." Her voice trailed. "One day, about a year later, another guy came to me saying that, apparently, my sister had just... disappeared from the place she had been sent. That she would never come back anymore."

She laughed out loud. "Ridiculous, right? They were the ones who exiled Gigi, and yet they had lost trace of her somehow? They had— lost her? Don't make me laugh!"

Georges recalled the head maid mentioning something like that to him. However, he himself had never heard about merchant women going to visit the household frequently before... Though he guessed that maybe Aimée knew, and that she had just judged it unimportant to tell him, as she so often did...

“Do you know what it’s like?” Clémence asked bitterly. “To have a sister who just… just suddenly disappear? Not dead, not runaway, just… disappear. Gone. Without any explanation.”

He felt his throat tighten even more. He had the reflex to want to reply he knew, actually — that he knew what it was like to lose a sibling. To have a younger brother disappear on him — and an older one too. But he also knew that his situation and Clémence’s were radically different, and he had no right to compare his to hers.

She never actually let her little sister rot locked up in a room for two whole years. She never exiled her all alone in a mansion and then just forgets about her for a decade.

She never indirectly (killed her) caused her death.

“I’ve always known Gigi shouldn’t have gone work there.”

“What?”

“To your freaking household. I knew there was something shady about it. I just felt it,” she said. “I mean, who would propose a job as an abigail to some poor merchant’s daughter? It never made sense. Mom and I were against it at first. But Gigi, she… she was so enthusiastic about it. She kept repeating that it was an ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’ That ‘with the money she’ll make there, she’ll solve all of our problems’…”

She snorted. “‘Solve all of our problems,’ my ass. She was such an idiot…”

Clémence sniffled and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Despite her harsh words, there was no anger in them, only… sadness. Maybe a bit of resentment, but it was decidedly not aimed at her sister.

In fact, she seemed almost about to cry.

"So, yeah," she continued. "If you ask me if I forgive you, then no, I don't. And I don't care much about your apologies, either. You can keep them."

Georges looked at her sadly. He had already guessed as much already. He realized now that this attempt at genuine apology had problably come off as incredibly self-centered from her persepctive, even though it had never been his intention at all. Georges always ended up hurting others without meaning to, even now that he was a middle-aged man, it seemed...

"Clém, what on earth is taking you so long? Oh..."

Finally, another woman appeared on the porch — the mother, Margot, Georges guessed. She was a small, plump lady who was clearly a lot older; her round face smeared with wrinkles and the few black locks that escaped from under her headscarf had some obvious silver streaks, but otherwise her eyes were of the exact same beautiful jade shade as her daughter’s.

Clémence bit her lower lip and looked annoyed — she manifestly had not wished for her mother to see Georges.

"Oh my... Who is this man, Clém?"

"No one. Just some lost guy. He was going to leave," she said, while glaring at Georges and making him very much understand that his presence was not wanted anymore. "Right now."

And Georges had no intention to protest anymore. He didn't know if he had gotten what he wanted. Probably not. But he felt like if he stayed any longer, it would only add salt to the wound. However, just as he was about to turn around, a hand grabbed his arm.

"Wait a minute, please," Margot said, at the surprise of both Georges and her daughter. "I cannot just let you leave like that... Who are you?"

Georges felt stuck. He threw a desperate look at Clémence, who instantly put a gentle hand on her mother's shoulder.

"I told you, Mom, it's no one. He was just lost."

"Clémence, please. I may not be all that young anymore, but I am not senile either. You've been talking with this man for a moment now, so he can't just be someone asking for his way."

Clémence sighed, understanding that she wouldn't be able to get her way out of this. The older woman looked at Georges and smiled sweetly — and she looked so adorable and charming that he was sure she was the kind of person who could win anyone's trust.

"I'm sorry if my daughter said anything rude to you, she tends to have a bad character with strangers."

"Mom!" Clémence exclaimed, offended, but her mother paid her no mind.

"My name is Margot," she continued in a warm voice. "And you are?"

"I..." Georges looked over at Clémence, as if he was waiting for some kind of permission. But she said nothing, only looking away in annoyance, so he had no other choice. "I am Georges Bollinger."

Margot didn't seem surprised or upset at all upon hearing his name. Maybe she had already overheard them talking before — which wouldn't be surprising given how loud they had argued up until now. But he was still nonplussed that not even her friendly smile seemed unfazed — it was especially jarring considering Clémence's extremely hostile attitude.

"Oh my, is that so," she simply said instead. "I am honored to receive the visit of such a noble person. That is very unusual."

Georges grinned back at her, as her smile was contagious, but in a more reserved way. He wondered if maybe she was being sarcastic, but there didn't seem to have any trace of bad faith in her words.

"So what could bring you here, Lord Bollinger?"

"That's, um..." Yet again, Georges looked at Clémence for some assistance on how to answer, but the woman seemed utterly determined to not helping him out at all.

"I was... I just wanted... to know a bit more about... one of the maids that worked for us some years ago..."

Finally, Margot's smile slipped away from her face and a more complicated expression formed in its stead.

"About Giselle...?"

Her face was painful to look at. She didn't seem... sad, per se. More like wistful. Nostalgic. But something in her green eyes was just hard to watch — it was the eyes of someone who had an old, horrible wound that had just been slowly reopened.

The eyes of a parent who had lost their child and tried to come to term with it, he realized.

This made Georges suddenly think about his boys. About Sév who loved animals so much and spent most of his time riding his favorite horse. About his little Dieudonné whose pale blue eyes shined like jewels whenever his dad would teach him about a new painting technique.

What if, one day… one of them were to get snatched away from him? If one of them were to die, or to just… disappear, like this young woman Giselle? To just vanish without any explanation?

The pain he felt at the idea was indescribable. If something like that were to truly happen, he didn’t think he'd be able to bear it. He loved his kids way too much — the simple fact of imagining them hurt was a sickening thought to him.

Never on earth would he be able to understand the awful way his parents had treated Michel.

Of course he didn’t understand it before either, but now that he was a parent himself, it was even less comprehensible. Yes, there were times where his kids could be annoying brats or act like true little demons, but even then Georges never had the impulse to do anything to cause them pain. How come someone could even imagine wanting to hurt their own child — want to kill them — was beyond him.

And he didn’t think anything could change that. Even if one of his sons were to suddenly tell him he wasn’t a boy, or that they were to do something truly atrocious like murder a person. He just couldn’t imagine stop loving them.

(Though, then again… he did hurt both of his brothers, even though he had never meant to…)

And yet, this was something that had happened to this woman. Seven years ago, her child had been snatched away from her without she had a say in the matter, and she didn't even know what had happened to her. If she was even still alive or dead. The more he looked at her, the more he felt an overwhelming guilt opress him, and the more he felt angry at his father. At himself, too, for never even having heard or dared to learn about this whole ordeal concerning that maid.

Margot's face was hard to look at for all sorts of reasons — but on the other hand, she didn't seem to have any troubles looking at him, as she kept on staring straight into his eyes with an odd persistence — as if she was trying to see something in there Georges didn't know existed. After some time, though, she turned around towards her daughter and smiled gently at her.

"Clémence, honey," she said in a sweet voice. "Could you please give us some moments alone? I'd like to talk a little with Lord Bollinger."

"What?" Clémence almost screamed, her eyes as wide as saucers. "Why would you talk to him?"

"Well, he said he wanted to learn more about Gigi, so I want to tell him about her," her mother answered innocently.

"Mom! He is from the Bollinger family!"

"I am aware."

"And you— you...!"

Georges thought for a minute Clémence was going to punch a wall in frustration — but instead, she just stomped her feet on the floor.

"Sure! Why not! Go talk to the asshole rich boy, whatever!" She yelled, before going inside her house and slamming the door behind her.

"Um," Georges muttered, uncomfortable. "I, uh..."

Margot turned toward Georges and smiled again. "I promise you she is not always like that. Usually she is a very sweet and bright lady, but she tends to get a bit defensive when her sister is concerned."

"I... I see..."

"Now, Lord Bollinger... Would you mind taking a little walk with me?"

Margot extended her hand towards Georges, all while smiling lovingly. Despite feeling a bit awkward and guilty, he still accepted it and offered her his arm.

________________________________________________________________

"Over here."

While elegantly holding his arm, Margot walked in a slow, tranquil pace, her steps soft but firm, and she brought Georges a few streets away from her house. They arrived at a large, clear square, where a small fountain flowed in the middle. It was a pretty ordinary, modest spot, and yet there was a kind of charming, cozy aura to it.

"I used to bring the girls here often when they were children," Margot continued. "I would sat on this bench, and watch them play around the fountain. They always ended up completely soaked at the end of the day!" She laughed softly. "And oh dear, there was even that one time where Clém completely pushed her sister into the basin. Gigi sulked and didn't talk to her for two weeks. It sure was something."

Georges didn't know what to say as the older woman reminisced the past, so he just silently listened to her. She went to sit on the bench she was talking about, and he imitated her.

"Tell me, Lord Bollinger..."

"You can just call me Georges," he instantly told her. He had never liked formality, even less being called "Lord."

Margot smiled. "All right then, Georges. Tell me... Do you have children?"

"Ah... yes, I do. I have two sons. Though... they're soon gonna be grown adults in very little time."

"Is that so... I've always thought being a parent was such a strange experience," Margot mused. "It makes your world suddenly revolve all around these tiny human beings. It's wonderful, but at the same time it can give you so much worry..."

Georges could absolutely relate to this. Becoming a father hadn't really changed his personality per say, but it had certainly shifted his entire life... For a moment, Margot stayed quiet, her gaze fixated on the small fountain. It seemed as if she was lost in her memories, when her daughters were still only young children, he supposed.

"When Hugues... my husband died, at first it was as if the entire world had died with him."

Her voice was suddenly at lot softer. She was almost whispering, but thankfully there was no other noise around and they were the only two people here, so Georges had no problem hearing her.

"My parents died when I was a teenager, and Hugues didn't have any family either, so after he passed away, there was only me. It's funny how when he was by my side, I had almost no anxiety at all as a mother, but as soon as I was left alone, it didn't feel like I'd be able to be a parent anymore. These girls were so young — only six and three years old — so how was I supposed to raise them on my own? How could I feed them and give them a roof over their heads? How could I protect these little girls against this world? It didn't seem feasible. But..."

She took a deep breath. "But then, I still remember it so vividly — that day Hugues died, I turned around and looked at them, and they were both here, standing and holding hands and watching me, and then I understood I wasn't actually alone. I was all they had now too, so I couldn't fail them. I had to manage something, somehow. So I worked as hard as I could, just so they could have a future. So they could live the life they wanted as best as they could."

Her gaze fell on her knees. Georges could only imagined how hard it must have been for a single mother to raise her two daughters alone. As someone who had been born into a rich and noble family and had been blessed his entire life, her situation seemed so far away from his own.

"But at some point, you know, these little girls started to grow up... and I had to realize and accept that it is impossible for me to protect them against everything. That I had to let go of them. This is something every parent have to do, right? It is normal. But even so..."

She swallowed. "Even so, it kills me to know I wasn't able to protect my own child. When I realized I would never see Giselle again... I felt like I had to go through what I lived with Hugues' death once more, but a lot worse. Because this time... it was this person I had raised on my own, that depended so much on me, that I had failed. It is so painful to come to term with the fact... that I wasn't able... to give her that happy life I so wanted her to have..."

Georges looked away, towards the fountain — which was a lot less harder to contemplate than the bereaved woman next to him. He couldn't do or say anything to console her, after all. He never even met the child she had lost. Didn't even knew about her until...

Suddenly, the letter Michel had sent to their mother just before his mansion was raided by the knigts came back to his mind. The last letter his brother had written. Georges still remembered the kind serenity that had emanated from it. Michel's writing had seemed as if... he was at peace with himself. A bit anxious, maybe. But nonetheless determined, sure of his own self, hopeful about his future. Of course, Georges hadn't been able to see him in person so he couldn't really confirm it, but while reading his words... he felt it was the first time he had felt his brother as open and comfortable with himself. And the principal change for that was probably...

The woman he loved he mentioned in the letter. Georges was only making assumptions here, of course; he couldn't assert all of this with certainty — hell, he couldn't even assert that the woman his brother mentioned loving was Giselle. But... it was what made the more sense, and what his heart was telling him too.

He looked over at Margot once again. She was still staring at the fountain, her eyes unfocused. He thought... that if her daughter had truly been Michel's lover before his death... then that it was something that he should tell her. Michel and everything surrounding him had become a taboo no one should mention in his house, and Aimée certainly wouldn't approve of him talking about it. He could still remember the stern talk she had given him when he had started talking to his sons about their late uncles in her presence. But Margot deserved to know — and honestly, at this very moment, he considered this older woman as a lot more important than his wife.

"Margot," he called her softly. "I need to confess something to you."

The woman raised her head and looked at him curiously. "Yes?"

"I... I had a brother," he began. "Heh, heh, well, I had two, actually. An older brother, and a little brother a lot younger than me. We were... kinda close, the three of us." His throat felt tight — but he still forced the words out of his mouth. "But, um... my little bro — Michel, his name was Michel — he was, uh... a bit special. Our parents didn't like that, and so because of this, when he was sixteen, we had to... send him away in a mansion."

Margot looked at him intently. She probably wondered why he was telling her all of this, and Georges couldn't really blame her for being perplexed.

"He lived here in exile for... about ten years," Georges continued.

"For ten years? All alone?" Margot inquired, a manifest concern in her voice.

"Yes," Georges admitted. "Well, that was, until seven years ago... when your daughter, Giselle, was also sent there."

"Ah... I see..." Margot brought a hand to her mouth. "So she had been sent to a mansion... They always refused to tell us where she was..."

"They... lived about a year together in that mansion. And... after our father's death, Michel sent us a letter... saying he wished to come back home. And that he..." Georges looked straight into Margot's eyes. "That he wanted to go home with his lover... a woman he had fell in love with."

Margot gasped upon hearing this, and her eyes widened. "Oh dear... You don't mean..."

"He never mentioned the woman's name, but... I do believe he was talking about your daughter, yes..." He stopped for a moment, hesitating, and after remebering the letter he finally added:

"And I do believe... he loved her dearly."

Maybe it was a bit presumptuous to say this as he had never seen the two of them with his own two eyes... but it was just his gut feeling. Margot didn't reply anything, she just stared at him with wide astonished eyes... and as much as he dreaded this, Georges choose to continue talking.

"However... like I said, Michel was... a bit different. Our mother considered him to be... an hindrance... so instead of accepting their return at the capital, they... we..."

Georges paused a moment, then took a deep breath.

"It was decided to send knights at the mansion to execute Michel."

This admission of the truth still hurts, even after all these years. Georges didn't think it'll ever stop hurting. He could be on his deathbed and still feel his heart ache whenever thinking about this.

Of course, he left Michel's gender issues out of the picture — he felt it would be rude to his brother to talk about it without his permission, and it wasn't a very important detail to mention in this very moment. He also choose to left out Dee's involvement in this — how he had actually been the one to kill Michel — for the same reason.

"I don't know... what happened to Giselle after that," Georges admitted. "According to... the knights who were there, they didn't find any women in the mansion... So maybe she escaped... but it seems more likely that she's also..."

He couldn't bring himself to end his sentence. Margot stayed a moment in silence. Georges wondered if maybe he shouldn't have said that after all, that maybe he had made her pain only worse...

Until he heard a soft laugh.

"Oh... Oh my, I see! So even in this situation... she still managed to find love..." She laughed again, but this time he heard a small hiccup at the same time. "Thank goodness!"

Georges felt lost. He was expecting her to be devastated at those news, but... instead, she seemed... relieved.

"Thank goodness...?" He repeated.

"I always..." Margot sniffled, some tears shining in the corner of her wrinkled eyes. "I always worried about what must've happened to Giselle after she was sent away from the Bollinger house... Wondering if she spent the rest of her life in pain... if she was being mistreated in some way... if she died all alone and miserable..."

She looked up at Georges. Despite the tears in her eyes, she was smiling.

"But you just told me she had a lover, right? If she was able to fall in love with someone, then that mean that even if she went through some hardships... she was still able to find joy. She was still able to find peace and be happy. This is..."

Margot closed her eyes, and brought her hands to her chest.

"This is a lot more than I could've asked for..."

Georges could sort of understand why she reacted this way. It must've indeed be a relief to learn that at least her daughter had been in love and happy at some point. But still, to him... something about this felt off. He didn't comprehend how she could still see all of this in such a positive light. He didn't comprehend why she seemed to have such a good time talking with him... despite him having indirectly caused so much damage to her and her family.

“I… don’t understand,” Georges admitted. “Are you not... angry at me? I just told you that Giselle... had likely been killed because of our family problems... and I am… I mean, I am from the Bollinger household…”

I am one of the people who took your daughter away from you, is what he didn’t have the courage to say out loud.

Margot looked at him and smiled sadly. There was a natural, genuine kindness in her eyes, something so gentle that it could melt his heart.

He felt like crying.

“I do not have the energy to be angry anymore,” she simply answered. “Clém is angry; this is how she copes. I don’t know if one day she’ll stop being angry. But to me, anger would accomplish nothing. I am still hurt, of course. I am still so sorry about what happened to Giselle... and about what happened to your brother, too... I still miss my little girl every day. But…”

She stood up, and looked over at the fountain. As if drawn to her, Georges did the same unconsciously.

"Instead of being angry or mournful, I just want to spend the rest of my days thinking that at least my children had a happy life. And what you just told me about Giselle... that was what I'd hoped hearing for the last seven years."

Margot once again turned towards him... and tenderly, she cupped his cheek in her hand; her smile wide and fond.

"So thank you."

Georges was pretty sure he was going to cry now; but for some odd reason, no tears actually came. He didn't know what kind of expression he had at this moment, but Margot stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down into a hug.

So he gently returned her embrace in silence.

________________________________________________________________

When he came back home at the Bollinger house, it was late in the afternoon. The sky was just as gray as it had been when he had left; yet there was still no rain. After their weird awkward hug, Georges had escorted Margot back to her home. The woman kept talking about her girls, and she also asked some questions about Michel — Georges assumed she was very curious about what kind of man her youngest child had fallen in love with.

He got another glare from Clémence before leaving, but they didn't exchange any words. She was still very clearly defensive towards him, though Georges didn't blame her at all. He supposed Margot was going to relate to her what he had just told her, and he hoped this would at least bring her some closure. The old woman also insisted for him to come back visit them sometimes. Georges didn't know if he would — but a part of him had already decided he'd try to help them out a bit by giving them some money. He was pretty sure Clémence was going to refuse any money coming from the Bollingers, but he still felt the need to do something for them, or at least try to.

Upon entering his house, he was greeted by a few servants, but saw no traces of his wife or his sons. He had no idea where Aimée could be at this hour, but his kids were probably in their rooms — or at least Dieudonné was. And sure enough, the boy was there, crouched down on the floor with a myriad of colorful paint cans all around him.

"Oh, Dad! Welcome back!"

As soon as he saw his father, Dieudonné smiled and run up to him.

"Where were you?" The teenager continued. "You suddenly disappeared without telling anyone. I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to you!"

Georges grinned and ruffled his boy's hair. "Sorry about that, buddy. I'm fine, I was just out in town. Are you alone here? Where's Sév?"

"With Mother. As usual," Dieudonné said, shrugging.

"I see..."

It was pretty normal for Sév to rotated around his mother lately, so it wasn't surprising at all. But for some reason, this time that worried Georges a bit — though he quickly dismissed these thoughts.

His mind was full of way too many things to concern himself about this for now. He couldn't stop thinking about his brothers, about his parents, about all the mistakes he had made, about this maid he had never met and who he didn't even know the appearance of, about Clémence's bitter glare and Margot's sad, gentle words.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

Dieudonné softly tugged at his sleeve, tilting his head curiously. Georges looked at him. The tiny human being he had raised himself.

And then, just like Margot had done earlier, he wrapped his arms around his kid and hugged him tightly.

"Wow! Hey, what are you doing, Dad?"

The boy seemed startled at first, and tried to get himself out of the embrace. Dieudonné wasn't as repulsed by physical affection as Sév was, but he still was very much a teenage boy and thus was often embarrassed when Georges did things like that. However, he stopped struggling when he noticed his father's shoulders were shaking slightly.

"Dad...? Are you... Are you crying?"

Georges didn't answer anything — instead he just burried his head further in his son's neck. The tears that had threatened to roll during the entire afternoon finally escaped him now. His thoughts went to Michel. To Dee. To the two women he had just met today.

Then an odd thought crossed his mind. What would have happened if, back then, he had learned his mother's intention to kill Michel and had managed to stop Dee? If Michel had came back home with Giselle like intended?

He could have met her in person, he thought. Michel could have met his nephews. He could have married the woman he loved. That meant Georges could have met Clémence and Margot in actual happy circumstances. All of them could have been a family.

Or maybe things wouldn't have gone as well as this. Maybe there would have been other obstacles on the way.

But Georges would never knew, because his brother had died in that mansion and couldn't come back to life. Because his stupid mistakes had also indirectly caused the pain of an entire other family. Because there was no way to go back in time and fix this, because there was even no way for him to just apologize.

Because he had no other choice than to bear the weight of his own sins for the rest of his life.

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